The Ballad of Desmond Kale Read Online Free PDF Page B

unfolded himself from the ground, dusting his knees, doffed his top hat and stood fairly straight, he shone, you might say, shimmered, and you could see he was ready to get going, that he was a travelling man. He was forced by necessity to become a travelling man since being shipped to Botany Bay for the term of his natural life — and given few choices in working up a legitimate trade.
    Joe walked ahead of Stanton taking long strides.
    â€˜You have a lot of chattels here,’ said Stanton.
    â€˜Less than I did, since our governor took my best quart pots off of me. They all nested into each other, a proper bush man’s kitchen.’
    â€˜Was that a governor’s man come over to nab them, the rider who left?’
    â€˜And never paid me,’ said Joe, ‘except in promises.’
    â€˜Who was it?’
    â€˜Captain Tom Rankine.’
    â€˜Never heard of him. Rankine, you say?’
    â€˜Ugly Tom Rankine they calls him, he is our governor’s boon companion. Rode off with them quart pots swinging from his elbows. They have a nitpick on the creek tomorrow, the swells, and must have the best ironmongery.’
    â€˜A picnic, you mean.’
    â€˜I stand corrected,’ said Joe, putting his hand to his head, and leering intelligently at the minister.
    Stanton mentally consulted his list of officers, over which he stood poised ready to strike off names, or else to double underline them. He considered the name Rankine, then struck it off after asking:
    â€˜Are any more of these items to be his — the camp ovens, the bluestone, the gin? Does Ugly Tom Rankine want them?’
    â€˜If he does, he’s not asked me.’
    â€˜Who’s are they to be, then, Joe?’
    â€˜All are mine, still, at present,’ said Joe. ‘They are my stock in trade, my inventory. They are not orders of anyone’s in particular. They are available, my friend, first come first served to settlers in the bush. This here is a travelling store. When on the road, we make our house under one end of the waggon, Mick at the other. We shall get to your homestead by and by, but remember: the farrer out I travel, the greater the percentages I put on. One per cent each mile is a fairly good rule I am working up to my customers, a little less to my friends. So, before I gets too far out your way, cast your eyes over some pots and pans, gardening tools, dried peas by the loose weight, fish hooks, Batavian hatchets, flints, or if it’s castor oil you wants … What is it you wants, now, less the twenty-four per cent I am entitled add for your twenty-four miles of road?’
    â€˜I think you know.’
    â€˜Not a new rake, is it?’ said Joe.
    â€˜I have my good one. It is repaired since Kale broke it.’
    â€˜Mine are better made.’
    â€˜I have no doubt of it.’
    â€˜But as you mention that name, Kale,’ said Joe.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Then I think — believe — it’s a crystal ball you wants.’
    â€˜So,’ said Stanton, lowering his voice disappointedly. ‘You’ve heard nothing?’
    â€˜Nothing. Or nothing much. But I do have something for us to look at, after we’ve eaten our supper.’
    â€˜Must it wait?’ said Stanton, taking Joe by the wrist and squeezing hard.
    â€˜Ouch! Where is that woman?’ said Joe. ‘Oi! Marfa! Give the man dinner!’
    Inside the tent was a bench and a plain plank table. Stanton was told to put a hat on his head, and look foolish while Joe said a prayer over a cup of sweet wine. They munched on bread sprinkled with salt, to remind them of the bitterness of life.
    At last their plates were wiped clean of chicken fat. The daughter, Leah, served them honeycakes, and the boy, Arthur, played the violin. A frenzied tune, then a sad one. The youngest boy, Solly, danced a sailor’s dance on the dusty spot.
    When all such rites were complete, Stanton took Joe by the elbow and