every day of the week, at fall of dark, i grope my way here into my tent at surprise, light the hurricane lamp, hook it to the beam overhead, find paper and pen, and spur myself to the telling of a page more of this story. sometimes a timid breeze comes through the doorway to cool the rising temper of the night; oftener the tent walls droop on their wooden framework; and neither pipe nor cigarette will bring me cheer.

the night wears on; the mosquito sharpens his appetite, and a fringe of the great army of flying things which moves abroad in the dark, flutters, jumps and creeps in at the doorway to the light. by half-past eight the attack has begun. crickets in sober grey coats, black-banded on the legs, lead the advance; large crickets and small crickets. great green grasshoppers follow; long and narrow grasshoppers, broad and deep-chested grasshoppers. purple grasshoppers arrive on their heels; and now they[pg 160] come, large and small and in all habits. at nine o'clock they cover the ceiling, staring at the lamp with big stupid eyes; and strange moths and flies and flying ants have begun the dance of death about the globe.

tilt back the chair; find the towel; neck and ears must be covered for the rest of the sitting. when the clock shows half-past nine, pack up the papers again, and step to the doorway awhile that contemplation may bring better humour. then to bed.

at last my story is well begun, and a few days must wear out at surprise and kaloona before the tale moves much forward again. the cook puts the pot to boil. little is to show when the lid first is lifted but the water is heating nevertheless.

power came riding into surprise now and again, and little he seemed altered, unless his temper had grown crotchety. the camp endured at pelican pool. maud neville went about the day's work as before and, if she was troubled ever so little so that she rose in the morning with a faint clutch at her heart—well, few at surprise are without their crosses. mr. horrington, clambering off his stretcher, rather rocky in the morning, finds his eye filled with the wood-heap at the back door and a blunt axe standing by the wall, and hears mrs. horrington, clinking a billycan, crunch behind him along the path to the goat pen. few would believe how unwell a man can feel at half-past six in the morning with a poor night's sleep behind him, and a wood-heap at his elbow.

come morning then, come night; come laughter, come sorrow—the day's work goes forward. saturday brings the coach bumping from morning springs. monday, eight o'clock, hears the whistle beginning again the week. shabby little camp set down in the wilderness, yours is the soul of the drudge, who finds brief time for singing at her labour, who finds still less time for tears.

on monday mornings they do the washing at surprise. mrs. bullock, brisk and brawny, sitting up in bed to rub her eyes, nudges bullock from his last ten minutes' sleep.

"don't forget the copper, dad. yer left me with two sticks last time. yer don't expect a woman to swing an axe as well as wash and bake and run after you from morning to night."

mrs. niven, dyspeptic and dolorous, wakes niven with her high-pitched tones.

"is it going to be the same this week? what does it worry you if a woman kills herself at the tub while you snore there all day? look at boulder, bloxham and bullock bin up half-an-hour, i reckon, runnin' round for their wives.[pg 162] and women come to me and say—'my! mrs. niven, you looks very poorly lately,—and i got to say the heat has took me dreadful, but it's runnin' after you, lifting tubs of water, and scratching on a wood-heap for wood that isn't there that done it."

boulder, bloxham and johnson are rising up elsewhere.

through the morning is great bustle and to-do, a filling of pitchers, a lifting of buckets, a running in and out of the sun to open-air fireplaces, a prodding of clothes in coppers with sticks, wringings, beatings, rinsings, re-wringings. the morning is gone as soon as begun.

by noonday whistle the clothes are spread on line and bush and fallen log; and mrs. bullock, mrs. niven and mrs. boulder, rather short of breath, and distinctly short of speech, are dishing up the dinner a minute or two late. coming home from the mine it is well to be discreet. sitting down to lunch at mrs. simpson's bush boarding-house i talk very small on these occasions.

the wash dries early at surprise and by three o'clock mrs. bullock, mrs. niven and mrs. boulder are abroad again plucking the strange things down. when the whistle blows at five o'clock the irons are put by and the heaviest day of the week is over.

on mondays they wash, and on mondays by another law, the men go forth in clean clothes. if you are one to notice such things, you can tell the week in the month by the shirts going to work. mr. carroll, timekeeper, is especially regular this way. first and third mondays bring him to the office in blue tie and white trousers with an iron mould in the seat; second and fourth mondays show him in spotted tie and blue trousers weary at the knees. simpson, the butcher, clips his moustache every first sunday in the month, and changes from a man of walrus appearance to a brigand with shabby brown teeth.

but every day of the month the single boot-last of surprise is in demand, as one or other person sits down with a pair of half-soles from the store to patch his boots against the ill-humours of the stones.

now and then of a morning, between breakfast wash-up and the midday cooking, mrs. bullock, mrs. niven and mrs. simpson slip across to the store for a packet of this or that, and any news that may be running round. it happens often that luck chooses them the same ten minutes; and mrs. boulder and mrs. bloxham may be passing by just then. mr. wells, storeman, agile and anxious, very quick at a piece of news, very slow at totting up an account,[pg 164] puts hands wide on the counter and gives a brisk "good morning. turned dreadful hot, mrs. simpson. looks like summer come at last."

"it do," says mrs. simpson, casting an eye about the place.

mrs. bullock, leaning far across the counter, takes a look behind the scenes; and mrs. niven, standing a little out of the press, lifts her hat upon her head, drops it down again and makes speech.

"i was took bad agen last night before bed. this is no place for a woman, i tell you that short. i'll take another box of pills, same as last."

"all gone, mrs. niven," says mr. wells, bringing his hands off the counter with a jump and shaking his head. "not a box or bottle of medicine nearer than morning springs. the last lot was very popular. there'll be something else with the next team sure."

"you never do have a thing in when it's wanted; that's speaking straight," joins in mrs. boulder, leaning farther over the counter. "i'll have that packet of spices down there. it's the last there is, i dare say, and a pound of tea and two of matches, and that's all."

"good morning, mrs. bloxham. good morning, mrs. boulder."

"good morning. good morning. good morning."

"i was took bad agen last night before bed," says mrs. niven, "and now i come here and find not a dose of anything in the store. this is no land for a woman, i say, and i've said it before, and i wouldn't be surprised if i say it again."

"well, mrs. boulder," says mrs. simpson, "is it true mr. regan won't give kerrisk any bread since they had the row two day back? i heard something about it, but couldn't make a story of it. seeing that you came across that way, i thought you might have heard."

"small things don't worry me," says mrs. boulder, of stately and severe aspect. "live and let live when you're out these ways is what's to do. i heard something last night of someone here that would be a shame to repeat."

"mrs. boulder?" comes the chorus.

"mr. wells, when it comes to my turn i'll have five of sugar and a pair of bootlaces, and see that it's a better pair than last. they didn't stay whole two days," continues mrs. boulder.

"mrs. boulder, what was that you heard tell?"

"it would do better with keeping, mrs. simpson. mr. wells, that was a beautiful tune you played last night. yes, mrs. simpson, my news would do better with keeping, but we're all friends here. well i heard say mr. king over at the office there was doing a deal too much running up and down to the river lately. it don't take much guessing to know what that means."

"quite likely, mrs. boulder. and he isn't the only one, i dare say. leaving him, what do you reckon brought them two at the house up to these parts for? selwyn the name is. come from melbourne, i hear. i heard say he was one of the heads of the company, though i wouldn't go much on him doing a day's work."

"no need, mrs. simpson. that sort only wear white collars and sit round a table and talk big. mrs. nankervis, the cook up there, told me he and mrs. don't hit it off, not a bit. she says it's a fact."

"when is the girl and mr. power from kaloona comin' to a point? he's kept her waiting long enough."

"they say he's not too keen, but she's keeping him to it."

"there's no telling, mrs. bloxham. the old man would find a change looking after himself. i wouldn't be surprised if he looked round on his own account then. they say he was pretty gay thirty year back. back for home agen, mrs. boulder? good morning to you. my turn now, mr. wells."

they open up the office between eight and[pg 167] nine of a morning, and mr. king, accountant, pushes up the window before finding his seat behind the table at the far end; while mr. carroll, timekeeper, a mild elderly man, takes the broom from behind the door and meekly strokes the floor from end to end. he, too, then finds his seat. the day's work begins pleasantly, with not undue wear and tear, as is the genial custom at surprise. the satisfying swish of ledger pages and the scratch of pens are all the sounds to wake the spiders in their webs in the high corners.

but ruder sounds will break that cloistral peace. old neville, stick in hand, the first pipe of the day in his clutch, steps down that way from breakfast on most mornings of the week as a start on the daily round.

"hey!" cries he, waving his stick in at the doorway of a sudden, "what sawn timber have we on hand?"

mr. king, at his ledger at the far end, thinks a long moment and makes answer. "they had the last from the store a week ago. there's nothing on the place until the next waggon is in."

half-way down, mr. carroll, at his time sheets, feels his chin and deprecates the whole affair.

"there's not a team due for three week. someone is a fool on the lease, and he'll not be far from here. you'd have the place stuck up between the lot of you."

"i made a memo we were running out a month back," says mr. king, very even tempered, and twisting his moustache a little. "they have got through that last lot very soon."

"robson is a fool," breaks in the old man, wagging his head and coming into the office. "i'll put him to the right-about pretty quick one of these mornings. goodness! look under the shelf there. you've a colony of white ants come. ye'd have the place eaten down. carroll, get the kerosene, and give it them right away. are you on anything that won't keep, king? i'm going underground in a few minutes. ye might come along and see what's become of that sawn timber. you'll find mrs. robson has told robson to board her kitchen with it. i'll have it up agen, if i handle the crowbar myself. i may be wrong, huh! huh!"

"it gets hot early in the morning now," says mr. king, rising slowly, and leaning across to the wall for his hat.

when you take the left-hand pathway at the office door, which leads towards the poppet-legs standing up stiff half-a-mile away, and the firewood stacks near the engine-house—when you take this path, you begin to pass by much of interest. mrs. boulder camps here, and stands at her doorway to remark who goes down the red path. beyond her camp two bachelors, beneath a sheet of calico on poles. two stretchers stand there, two boxes for seats, and among some ashes outside is a forked stick thrust into the ground on which a billy hangs.

farther on—and on the right hand—mr. pericles smith, travelling schoolmaster, occasionally pitches his tent for his monthly stay. by six or seven o'clock of an evening, after tea has been cleared away, he sits in the first tent for all the world to see, getting forward with his monumental work on the aboriginal languages of australia. sometimes, indeed, he is otherwise employed.

"did you remember about the currants when you came by the store?" says a woman's voice.

"that must be indeed delightful, dear," murmurs mr. smith, turning over the page.

"you might listen sometimes. i said, did you——"

"instantly, dear."

"i said, did you——"

mr. smith leaps from his seat on the box. "what is it? what is it? what is it? goat in or out? kettle on or off the boil? wood chopped or wood not chopped? here i am. what was it? what is it? what will it be? let us do it all now before i sit down again."

"you are so disagreeable lately, dear. i hardly dare speak to you."

mr. smith closes his eyes. "what is it?"

"i said, did you remember the currants?"

"a bar of soap, a packet of candles, three pounds of rice, and currants if they have them. no, dear, i forgot, but i shall do so shortly." he finds his seat again, wearily. "i was at the most important place in the chapter. now i must find the threads again."

silence falls. "i think from the look of the sky there's going to be another hot day to-morrow, dear."

"i have done so, i am doing so, and i am about to do so again," murmurs mr. smith, putting out a hand for mathew on "eaglehawk and crow."

farther yet along the road there stands a house of hessian roof and walls—of a moulting appearance, and yet faintly genteel as houses are considered out this way. it stands a little apart and a little up the hill as though it has not grown used to the vulgar neighbours of the hollow. within are two rooms with floors of earth beaten flat; but the path, beginning at the doorway, is paved with red stones. there is a pen built of wooden palings at the back, where a goat despairs out loud all night, and near it the[pg 171] clothes-line sags from tree to tree waiting for the throat of the foolish. they hang the washing at the back of this house, lest philistine eyes spy upon it.

morning by morning, about nine o'clock, mr. horrington, general agent of surprise, may be found on the red stone path in his shirt sleeves, blinking eyes in the sunlight. it would seem he finds the new day less depressing thus begun. an ungracious liver, a treacherous purse, an invalid wife and surprise to look on through the year—these things are not pleasant to reflect on when a man has left fifty behind some years ago.

every morning mr. horrington stands here blinking in the sunlight while the weakly tread of mrs. horrington in the kitchen jars unkindly on reflection. every evening he stands here while the sun goes down, a little melancholy, it may be also a little muddled in thought. to hear once more the shuffling of mrs. horrington must surely not sooth a spirit on edge. if women can spin out work through a whole day, is it good taste insisting a man should know it?

he stands on the red steps when mr. neville and mr. king go by at nine o'clock of the morning, blinking, very drooped at the moustache, hunting up a full pipe of tobacco from the corners of a pouch.

"hey, horrington, no business this morning?"[pg 172] and mr. horrington, waking, finds his hat and stick and joins the walkers at the road.

"you are along early to-day, mr. neville, and you too, mr. king. i discover i have run a bit short of tobacco until i can find the time to get down to the store. how about a pipeful? thanks, mr. king. it is a pleasure to taste again the stuff you smoke. what they sell here comes hard on a trained palate."

old neville brings his head round to listen.

"it's an extraordinary thing about women," goes on mr. horrington, planting his stick in the dust as he marches, and keeping his eyes on the toes of his boots which lean up in sympathy. "it's an extraordinary thing, which you must have noticed, that a woman will give you a hammer and a couple of odd-sized nails, send you to the wood-heap and say—'produce me saint paul's cathedral.'"

"did you ever do it for them?" says the old man. "how's your wife? is she standing the heat better this year? maud will be along this afternoon, she was saying."

"my wife will be glad to see her. she gets too lonely there with me engaged away all day. i don't think she is going to be a bit better this year than last. every day she finds a new complaint. last night she had a pain in the back brought on by the washing. mrs. niven gave[pg 173] her some iodine, and i painted her before bed. this morning she says she can taste the iodine. really, i have sympathized myself to a standstill."

you reach the first of the firewood stacks, and as you shun it on the right, a path leans to the left hand to the main path and wanders a little downhill and across the flat to the hotel. along this path mr. horrington branches every morning.

mr. robson, underground manager, stands by the engine shed, scratching his chest reflectingly with a slow, lank hand. he is tall and narrow and dreary-looking, with a big round hat like a halo on his head, and a lean tuft of beard at his chin. he comes to life with a jerk as mr. neville and mr. king round the corner of the firewood stack.

"mr. king says you had the last of the sawn timber a week back, and there's not another foot of it on the place. what have ye done with it, man?" shouts neville from the distance.

mr. robson grows taller and leaner, and jerks his body at many angles and plucks his beard, and nearly stirs himself to anger and immediately grows meek again. "that's gone re-timbering the bottom of the shaft. there's a lot of work done there, and there wasn't much timber."

"there was timber, i tell you. mr. king says so too. you let the men take it from you to build their camps with. you are a fool. you'll have to wake up. look at that feller in the engine house! if he goes on spilling grease like that he'll have the company bankrupt."

"mr. king," says mr. robson, as the old man trots round the engine house wall, "i won't be spoken to like that. i've stood enough of it, i have. mr. neville will have to choose his words better from now on, or things will be doing. one more word like the last from him and——"

"hi, robson, what's this? gracious, man, were you born with eyes shut?"

"coming, mr. neville," cries mr. robson, crumpling up into a run.

and so the day wears on at surprise; and the seven days go round and make the week; the four weeks add up into the month. seven summer months and five months of winter walk in close procession until the year has turned a circle. the cry of the new-born child may startle the camp, and mrs. bullock, mrs. boulder and mrs. niven will repair to the scene with kind hearts and right good will, that pangs may be lessened in the hour of trial. the dead man may be laid in his red grave among the saplings on the hill, and the clock will stop an hour that brief blessing may be read. the birds[pg 175] sing and love make in their season. fever comes with burning hand in its season. and thus and thus the days spin out.

little lonely camp, set down to war with the wilderness, not much longer must you keep guard unaided. presently across the plain the first thin railway line will come, and with it will arrive timid spirits who dared not leave such things behind. they shall make and re-make, hammer and twist you, giving you food to grow out and out. your roofs shall glint in the sun, your streets shall be set with gardens; the hum of traffic shall be your voice going up to the wide skies. little shabby camp, swelling presently into a great city, in the long years which wait for you, when you have grown great and weary and sick, it may be you will peer back into the past and covet forgotten days.