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A Bushranger at Bay · Stingaree

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  Chapter four of Stingery by E. W. Horning. This LibriVox recording is
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  in the public domain. Read by Beeswax Scandal A bush ranger at Bay,
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  the honorable guy Kentish was trotting the globe, an exercise foreign to his habit,
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  when he went on to Australia for a reason racy of his blood.
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  He wished to witness a certain game of cricket between the full strength of Australia
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  and an English team which included one or two young men of his acquaintance.
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  It was no part of his original scheme to see anything at the country.
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  One of the Australian cricketers put that idea into his head, and it was
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  under inward protest that mister Kentish found himself smoking his chronic cigar on the Glen
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  Ranold in clear corner coach one scorching morning in the month of February. He
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  thought he had never seen such a howling desert in his life, and it
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  is to be feared that in his heart he applied the same epithet to his
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  two fellow passage. The one outside was chatting horribly with the driver, the
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  other had tried to chaff the honorable guy, and had repaired in some disorder
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  to the company of the mail bags. Inside. Kentish wondered whether these were
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  the types he might expect to encounter upon the station to which he had reluctantly
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  accepted an officious introduction. He wished himself out of that absurd little two horse
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  coach, out of an expedition whose absurdity was on a larger scale, and
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  back on the shady side of the two or three streets where he lived his
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  normal life. The fair at wayside inns made thought of his club a positive
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  pain, and these pangs were at their sharpest when Stingery cantered out of the
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  scrub on his lily mare a blessed bolt from the blue. Mister Kendish watched
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  the little operation of sticking up without a word, but with revived interest in
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  life. He noted the pusillanimous pallor of the dry and his friend, and
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  felt personally indebted to the desperado who had put a stop to their unpleasant conversation.
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  The inside passenger made a yet more obsequious surrender, not that the trio
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  was set any better example by their noble ally, who began by smiling at
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  the whole affair, and was content to the last in taking an observant interest
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  in the bushrangers methods. These were simple and in a sense humane. There
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  was no personal robbery at all. The mail bags were sufficient for Stingery,
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  who on this occasion worked alone, but led a pack horse, to which
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  the driver and the inside passenger were compelled to strap the long canvas bags under
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  his eye glass and his long revolver. Few words were spoken from first to
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  last. The on guy never put in his at all, but he watched
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  the outlaw like a lynx, without betraying an undue attention, And when all
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  was over he gave a sigh. So that's stinger Ee, he said,
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  more to himself than to his comrades and humiliation. But the bushranger had cantered
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  back into the scrub, and his name opened the floodgates of a profanity which
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  made Kentish WinCE. For all his knowledge of the world. Do you never
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  swear at him till he is gone? He asked, when he had a
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  chance. The driver leant across the legs of his friend. Nor unless we
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  want a bullet through our scowls, he answered, in bourished derision, and
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  the man between them, laughed harshly. I thought he had never been known
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  to shield. That's just in mister. We don't want him to begin on
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  us. Why didn't you give him bid of your mind? The man in
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  the middle inquired of Kentish. Oh, I never heard you open your gills,
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  and we expected to see some pluck from the old country, added the
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  driver, wreaking vengeance with his lash. Mister Kentish produced a cigar case with
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  an insensitive smile, and after a moment's deliberation, handed it for the first
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  time to his uncoth companions. Do you want those mail bags back? He
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  asked, quite casually, when the three cigars were and BLAST want them?
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  Of course I want them. But what must be my boss, said the
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  driver gloomily. I'm not so sure, said Kentish. When does the next
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  coach pass this way midnight and I drive it or turn back when I get
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  to clear corner? You see, then look out for me about this spot.
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  I am going to ask you to put me down, put you down
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  if you don't mind pulling up. I'm not going on at present, but
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  I'll go back with you to glenn Ranold instead, if you'll keep a look
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  out for me to night. Instinctively, the driver put his foot upon the
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  brake, for the request had been made with that quiet authority which the silent
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  passenger had suddenly assumed. Yet it seemed to them such a mad demand that
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  his compaons looked at Kentish as they had not looked before. His face bore
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  a close inspection. It was one of those which burned red, and in
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  the redness twinkled hazel eyes that toned agreeably with a fair beard and a fairer
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  mustache. The former he had grown upon his travels. But the trail of
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  the West End tailor, whose shooting jacket is as distinctive as his frock coat,
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  was upon guy Kentish from head to heel. As they watched him,
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  he took an open envelope from his pocket, scribbled a few words on a
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  card, put that in and stuck down the flap here said, he is
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  my letter of introduction to the good people of the Mazeppa station higher up.
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  If I don't turn up to night, see that they get it, even
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  if the costs you a bit of this, And putting a sovereign in a
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  startled palm, he jumped to the ground. But what you going to do,
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  sir, cried the driver in alarm. Recover your mail bags if I
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  can, what after you've just been stuck up exactly, I hope to stick
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  up Stingery. Then you were armed all the time, mister Kentish smiled as
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  he shook his head. That's my affair, I imagine. But even so
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  I am not fool enough to tackle such a fellow with his own weapons.
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  You'll leave it to me, and don't be anxious. But I must be
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  off if I am to stalk him before he goes through the letters. No,
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  I know what I am doing, and I shall do better alone till
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  to night. Then, and he was in the scrub ere, they decided
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  to take him at his mad cap word and let his blood be on the
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  chuckle head of the new chummiest new chum that ever came out after the rain.
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  Was it pluck or all pretense? It was rather plucky, even to
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  pretend in such proximity to the terrible stingery on the whole. The coaching trio
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  were disposed to concede a certain amount of unequivocal courage, and the driver,
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  with Kentish's sovereign in his pocket, went so far to declare that duty alone
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  nailed him to the box. Meantime, the honorable guy had skirted the road
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  until he came to double horse tracks, striking back into the wash. These
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  he followed with the wary stealth of one who had spent his autumns at least
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  in the right place. They led him through belts of scrub, in which
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  he trod like a cat without disturbing an avoidable branch, and over treeless spaces
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  that he crossed at a run bent double. But always as he followed the
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  trail, his shadow fell at one consistent angle, showing how the bush ranger
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  rode through his natural element as the crow might have flown overhead. At last,
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  Kentish found himself in a sandy gully bristling with pines, through which the
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  sunlight dripped like melted gold, And in the fine warp and woof of high
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  light and sharp shadow, the bush rangers horses stood lashing at the flies with
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  their long tails. The bushranger himself was nowhere to be seen. But at
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  last Kentish descried a white and brown litter on either side of the thickest trunk
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  in sight, from whose further side floated intermittent puffs of thin blue smoke.
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  Kentosh looked and looked again before advancing. But the tall pine, through such
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  a shadows should easily swallow his own, and in another minute he was peeping
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  round the bowl. The litter on either side was, of course, the
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  shower of miscellaneous postal matter from the mail bags, and in its midst sat
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  stingerily against the tree. Enjoying his pipe and a copy of Punch, of
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  which the wrapper lay upon his knees. Kentosh peered for torn envelopes in gaping
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  packets. There were no more. The bush ranger had evidently started with punch,
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  and was still curiously absorbed in its contents. The notorious eye glass dangled
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  against that kindred vanity. The spotless white jacket, which he affected in summer
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  time atentive face, even as Kentish saw it in less than profile, was
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  thus purged to the sinister aspect which such an appendage can impart to the most
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  innocent, and a somewhat passive amusement was its unmistakable note. Nevertheless, the
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  long revolver, which had once more done its nefarious work, still lay ready
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  to his hand. Indeed, the honorable guy could have stooped and whipped it
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  up, had he been so minded. It was absorbed, however, in
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  the absorption of Stingaree, And as he peered audaciously over the other's shoulder,
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  he put himself in the outlaw's place. An old friend would have lurked in
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  every cut, a friend whom that might well be a painful pleasure to meet
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  again. There were the oval face and the short upper lip of one imperishable
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  type. On the next page, one of Puncture's fancy portraits, with lines
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  underneath, which set Stingerly incongruously humming a stave from HMS Pinafore. Mister Kentish
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  smiled without surprise. The common folk and the omnibus opposite were the common folk
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  of an inveterate master. There was a matter for a homesick sigh and his
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  hint of streaming streets, and Kentish thought he heard one as he held his
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  breath. The page after that detained the reader some minutes. The illustrations proclaimed
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  it an article on the New Savoy Opera, and Stingery confirmed the impression by
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  humming more Pinafore. When he came to the end, Kentish left him at
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  it and creeping away as silently as he had come, described a circle and
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  came noisily on the bush Ranger from the front. The result was that Stingery
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  was not startled into firing, but stopped the intruder at due distance with his
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  revolver leveled across the open copy of Punch. I heard you singing Pinafore,
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  cried Kentish cheerily. And I find you reading Punch. Now? Dare you
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  find me? Demanded the bush ranger, black with passion, I thought you
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  wouldn't mind. I'm perfectly innocuous, look and divesting himself with his shooting coat,
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  he tossed it across the other's inspection. He wore neither weistcoat nor hip
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  pocket, and his innocence of arms was manifest when he had turned round slowly
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  where he stood. Now, may I not come a little nearer? Asked
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  the honorable guy. No, keep your distance and tell me why you have
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  come so far the truth, mind, or you'll be shot very well,
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  said Kendish. They were dreadful people on the coach. Are they waiting for
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  you, thundered Stingery. No, they've gone on and they think me mad,
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  so you are. We shall see meanwhile, I prefer your company to
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  theirs. Mean to enjoy it up to the moment of my murder. For
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  an instant Stingaree seeming on the brink of a smile, and his dark face
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  hardened, and he tapped the long barrel and rest between his knees. You
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  may call it murder if you like, said he That will not prevent me
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  from shooting you dead unless you speak the truth. You have come for something.
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  What is it? May have told you already I was bored and disgusted.
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  That is the truth, but not the whole truth, cried Stingery.
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  You had some other reason. Kentish looked down without speaking. He heard the
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  revolver cocked. Come let us have it, or I'll shoot you like the
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  spy I believe you are. You may shoot me for telling you, said
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  Kentish, with a quiet laugh and shrug. No I shall not, unless
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  it turns out that you were ground baked for the police. That I am
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  not, said Kentish, growing serious in his turn. But since you insist,
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  I have come to persuade you to give up every one of these letters,
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  which you have no earthly right to touch. Their eyes met stingerre is
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  with the wider open and in an instant less stern. He dropped his revolver
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  with a laugh, until its old place at his side. Mad Or saying
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  said he, I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of leaving you rather securely
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  tied to one of these trees. I don't believe you will returned Kentish without
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  losing a shade of his rich coloring. But in any case, I suppose
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  we may have a chat. Thirst I give you my word that you are
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  safe from further intrusion, to the level best of my knowledge and belief.
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  May I sit down instead of standing you? May we are a good many
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  yards apart, you may reduce them by half. There, I thank you,
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  said Kentysh, seating himself tailorwise with an arm's length of stingery spurs.
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  Now, if you will feel in the breast pocket of my coat, you
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  will find a case of very fine cigars. J. S. Maurius not
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  too strong. I should be oddered if you will help yourself and throw me
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  one. Stingerrey took the one and handed the case with no ungraceful acknowledgment to
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  its owner. But before mister Kentish could return the courtesy by proffering his cigar
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  cutter. The bush ranger had produced his rays of from a pocket of the
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  white jacket and sliced off the end with that. So you shave every day
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  in the wilds, remarked the other, handing his match box instead. And
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  I gave it up on my voyage. No, I alter myself from time
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  to time, said Stingery, as he struck a light. It must be
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  a wonderful life. But Stingery lit up without a word, and Kentish had
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  the wit to do the same. They smoked in silence for some minutes.
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  A gray ash had grown on each cigar before Kentish demanded an opinion of the
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  brand. Drly the truth, said Stingery. And I have smoked strong trash
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  for so many years, and I can scarcely taste it. When he peered
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  rather pathetically through his glass, didn't the same apply to punch? No,
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  I have always read the papers when I could, said Stingery, and suddenly
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  he was smiling. That's one reason why I make a specialty of sticking up
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  the mail, he explained. Mister Kenish was not to be drawn into a
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  second deliverance on the bush ranging career. Is it a good number, he
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  asked, nodding toward the copy of Punch. The bush ranger picked it up.
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  Good enough for me. What date ninth of December, nearly three months
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  ago? I was in London, then, remarked Kentish, in a reflective
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  tone. Really cried Stingery under his breath. His voice was as soft as
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  the other's, but there was suppressed interest in his manner. His dark eyes
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  were only less at light than the red cigar he took from his teeth as
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  he spoke, and he held it like a connoisseur between finger and thumb.
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  For all his ruined palliate, I was repeated, Kentish, I didn't sail
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  to the middle of the month. Think you were in town till nearly Christmas.
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  Stingery gazed, Enviously, you must be hard to realize, he added,
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  in some haste, Other things, replied Kentish are harder. And I
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  gather from the Punch cartoon that the new law courts are in use at last.
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  I was at the opening, and you may have seen this opera that
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  I have been reading about. Kindisch asked what it was, although he knew
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  ill anthe rather I was there the first night the Deuce you were, cried
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  Stingery, And for the next quarter of an hour, this armed scoundrel,
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  the terror of a district as large as England and Wales, talked of nothing
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  else to the man whom he was about to bind into a tree. Was
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  the new opera equal to its predecessors? Which were the best numbers to punch
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  to a justice? Or was there some jealousy in that rival hot bed of
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  Whitton wisdom? Unfortunately, Guy Kenish had no ear for music, but he
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  made a clear report of the plot, could repeat some of the Lord Chancellor's
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  quips, and was in decided disagreement with the captious banter, from which he
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  was given more than one extract and a default of one of the new years.
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  Stingery rounded off the subject by dropping once more into For he might have
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  been a Rusian, a French, or Turk, or Prohusian, or perhapsiity
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  Lion, or perhapsidy Lion, But in spite of fore temptations to belong to
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  other nations, he remains an Englishman. He remains any glish Man. I
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  understand that might be said of both of us, remarked Kentish, looking the
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  outlaw boldly in the eyes. But from all accounts. I should have thought
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  you were out here before the days of Gilbert and Sullivan. So I was
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  replied stingery, without frowned or hesitation, which you might have heard, that
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  I am font of music any I can get my only opportunities as a rule,
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  the bush ranger continued, smiling mischievously at a cigar, and go on
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  the stations. I have occasion to visit from time to time. On one
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  a good lady played and sang Pinafore of the Pirates of Penzance to me from
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  dewy eve to dawn. I'm bound to say I sang some of it at
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  sight myself, and I flatter myself. It helped to pass an embarrassing night
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  rather pleasantly for all concerned. We had all hands on the place for our
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  audience, And when I left, I was formerly presented with both scores,
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  for I had simply called for horses, and horses were all I took.
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  Only the other day I had the luck to confiscate a musical box which plays
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  selections from the pirates. Ought to have had it with me in my swag,
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  And even charming was the quiet voice, so evident the appreciation of the
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  last inch of the cigar, which had thawed a frozen palet, and so
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  conceivable a further softening that guy Kentish made bolder than before. He knew what
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  he meant to do, he knew how he meant to do it. Yet
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  it seemed just possible. There might be a gentle a way. You don't
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  always take things. I believe, he hazarded, you mean after sticking up.
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  Yes, generally, I fear it's the whole meaning of the act,
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  confessed Stingery, still the dandy in turn and phrase. But there have been
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  exceptions, exactly, quoth Kentish. Then there's going to be enough of this
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  afternoon. Stingery hurled the stump of his cigar into the scrub without a word.
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  The villain was born again, with his hard eyes, his harder mouth,
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  his sinister scowl, his crag of a chin. So you come back
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  to that, he cried harshly. I thought you had more sense. You
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  will make me tie you up before your time. You may do exactly what
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  you like, retorted kendysh a galling scorn in his unaltered voice. Only before
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  you do it, bears will know who I am, My good sir,
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  Do you suppose I care who you are, said Stingery with an angry laugh,
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  and his anger is the rarest thing in all his annals. I am
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  quite sure you don't, responded Kentish. But you mayors won't know my name,
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  even though you have never heard it before, and he gave it with
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  a touch of triumph, not for one moment to be confounded with a natural
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  pride. The bush Ranger stared him steadily in the eyes. His hand had
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  dropped once more upon the butt of his revolver. No, I never did
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  hear it before, he said, I'm not surprised, replied the other I
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  was a new member when you were turned out of the club. Stingery's hand
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  closed, his eyes were terrible, and yet continued Kenich. The moment I
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  saw you at close quarters in the road, I recognized you as Stingery,
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  cried the Bushranger in a rich and vibrant note. Let the other name pass
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  your lips even here, and it's the last word that ever will very well,
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  said mister Kentish with his unaffected shrug. But you see, I know
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  all about you. You're the only man who does in all Australia, exclaimed
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  the outlaw hoarsely. At present. I sha'n't be the only man long,
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  you will, said Stingarey through teeth and mustache, and he leaned over,
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  revolver in hand. You'll be the only man ever, because instead of tying
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  you up, I'm going to shoot you. Kentoch threw up his head in
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  sharp contempt. What said he sitting? Stingarey sprang to his feet in a
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  fury. No I have a brace, he cried, catching the pack horse.
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  You shall have the other if it makes you happy, but you'll be
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  a dead man all the same. I can handle these things, and I
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  shall shoot to kill. Let us all up with you, said Kentish,
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  rising slowly in his turn, All up with me? What the devil do
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  you mean? Unless I am at a certain place by a certain time,
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  with or without those letters that are not yours, another letter will be opened.
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  Stingery's stare gradually changed into a smile, A little vague, said he.
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  Don't you think it should be as plain as you please? The letter
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  I mean, was scribbled on the coach before I got down. Twill only
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  be opened if I don't return. It contains the name you can't bear to
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  hear. There was a pause. The afternoon's sun was sinking with southern precipitancy,
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  and Kentish had got his back to it by cool intent. He studied
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  the play suppressed mortification and strenuous philosophy in the swarthy face warmed by the reddening
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  light, and admired the arduous triumph of judgment over instinct, even as a
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  certain admiration dawned through the monocle which insensibly focused his attention. I suppose,
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  said Stingery. Suppose you return empty as you came, contemptuous kick sent a
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  pack of letters spinning, I should feel under no obligation to keep your secret.
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  Would you think I would trust you to keep it? Otherwise? If
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  I gave you my word, said Kentish, I know you would. Stingery
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  made no immediate answer, but he gazed in the sun flayed face without suspicion.
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  You wouldn't give me your word, he said at last, Oh yes,
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  I would. That you would die without letting that name pass your lips
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  unless I died delirious with all my heart, I have as much respect for
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  it as you as much, echoed the bushranger, in a strange blend of
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  bitterness and obligation. But how could you explain the bags? How could you
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  have taken them from me? Kent has shrugged once more. You left them.
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  I found them. You were sleeping, but I was unarmed. You
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  would lie like that to save my name and a man whom I remember perfectly.
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  Stingery heard no more. He was down on his knees, collecting the
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  letters into heaps and shoveling them into the bags. Even the copy of Punch
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  and the loose wrapper went in with the rest. You can't carry them,
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  he said, when none remained outside, I'll take them for you and dump
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  them on the track. I have to pass the time till midnight. I
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  can manage them in two journeys. But Stingery insisted, presently stood ready to
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  mount his mare. You give me your word, Kentish, my word of
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  honor. It is something to have one to give. I shall not come
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  back this way. We shall have the clear corner police on our tracks by
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  moonlight, and the more they have to choose from the better. So I
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  must go. You have given me your word, you wouldn't care to give
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  me. But his hand went out a little as he spoke, and Kentishes
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  met at seven eighths of the way give this up. Man, it's a
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  poor game. When all's said, do give it up, urged the man
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  of the world, with the warmth of a lad come back to England.
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  And but the hand he had detained was wrenched from his and in the pink
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  sunset sifted through the pines, Stingery vaulted into his saddle with an oath.
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  With a price on my skin, he cried, and galloped from the gully
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  with a bitter laugh. And in the moonlight, sure enough came bobbing horsemen
• 25:45
  with fluttering puggarees and short tunics with silver buttons. But they saw nothing of
• 25:51
  the missing passenger, who had carried the bag some distance down the road,
• 25:55
  and had found them quite a comfortable couch and a certain box clump commanding a
• 25:59
  sufficient view of the road. Nevertheless, when the little coach came swaying on
• 26:03
  its leathern springs, its scarlet and animal stain black as ink in the moonshine,
• 26:07
  he was on the spot to stop it with uplifted arms. Don't shoot,
• 26:12
  he cried, I'm the passenger you'll put down this afternoon. The driver
• 26:18
  nearly tumbled from his perch. What about my mail bags? He recovered,
• 26:22
  himself enough to ask. But it was perfectly plain that the pretentiously intrepid passenger
• 26:27
  had been skulking all day in the scrub, scared by the terrors of the
• 26:32
  road. Dare in that clump, replied mister Kentish, And you can get
• 26:37
  them yourself, or send some one else for them, For I have carried
• 26:40
  them far enough that be blowed for a yarn, cried the driver forgetting his
• 26:47
  benefits in the virtuous indignation of the moment. I don't wonder at your thinking
• 26:52
  at one, returned the other mildly, for I never had such absolute luck
• 26:56
  in all my life, and he went on to amplify his first lie like
• 27:00
  a man. But when the bags were really back in the coach piled ruth
• 27:06
  high on those of the downward mail, then it was worse fun for guy
• 27:10
  Kentish outside than even he had anticipated. Question followed question, compliment, capped
• 27:15
  compliment, and a certain unsteady undercurrent of incredulity by no means lessened his embarrassment.
• 27:22
  Had he but told the truth, he felt he could have borne the
• 27:26
  praise, and indeed enjoyed it, for he'd done far better than anybody was
• 27:30
  likely to suppose, and already it was irritating to have to keep that circumstance
• 27:34
  a secret. Yet one thing he was able to say from his soul before
• 27:38
  the coach drew up at the next stage. You should have a spell here,
• 27:44
  the driver had suggested. Let me pick you up again on my way
• 27:47
  back. You'd soon lie hands on the bird himself. If you can put
• 27:49
  salt on as tail as you've done, and no one else can. We
• 27:53
  want a few more chums like you, I dare say, And the new
• 27:59
  charm's tone bore its own significance. You don't mean, cried the driver to
• 28:04
  go and tell me you will hurry home after this, only by the first
• 28:10
  steamer, said Guy Kentish, and he kept that word as well. End
• 28:15
  of chapter four