Coolgardie was booming, diggers who had struck it rich were as common as sand flies; money was easy to come by and even easier to lose. If you wanted to part with what you had in a hurry, ‘Hughie the Baker’ or ‘Handsome Jack Wilson’, the towns leading professional gamblers would assist you in your desire in a moment’s notice. There was no false pride in either Hughie or Jack. You only had to say the word and produce the ‘metal’ and they would find a place to gamble in. If all the rooms in a hotel were too crowded for a quiet game, they would calmly drop into a stable, up end a packing case and stick candles in champagne bottles with some whiskey cases for seats. They would light their cigars and ask you to name your game. If you said cards, Handsome Jack would throw down two or three packs and ask you to pick. They could keep playing for 48 hours, if the gambling was good.
Perhaps while the game was going, some fellow would stroll in and casually mention that some well know digger was down with fever in his tent, out of health and out of luck. ‘Hughie’ would look at Jack, the pair would club a good roll of notes together, and one of them would pass it to the messenger. “Give this to the poor devil”, was the usual formula, for although they were sinners they understood the greatest of all virtues, the virtue of charity. Gamblers they were to the marrow of their bones, yet I, who knew them well and saw may a deed of kindness done by them when they thought no eye was upon them, incline to the opinion that in the last day, when the cards are shuffled for the last time, and the great dealer gives each man his ‘Hand’, Hughie and Jack will hold more hands than and a smug faced deacon. Not that I think the ‘trumps’ will be much good to them unless they alter, for they will sit down on the doorsteps of the Eternal City and stake their wings against some cherubs harp if they can catch a cherub ready for a gamble.
Oh the tales that I could tell of them in the happy, hardworking, rollicking, roaring days when Coolgardie was young and where
there wasn’t a white shirt or a toothbrush within two hundred miles of the Wardens tent.
I have an evening in my mind’s eye. In the street the red dust is being kicked up by the boots of a thousand diggers wandering from one hotel to the other. The full moon looks dim and distant though the haze. A mine manager just out from home, who knows more of whist than he does of work, tries to gain a little cheap notoriety by riding his horse slap though one of the saloon doors into the rough shirted mass of men pressed to the bar. Someone grabs the bridle, the fool in the saddle jams the spurs in the side of the gelding; a digger grips the steel shod boot and tosses the fellow out of the saddle over the horses quarters.
He falls on the heads of several men, who promptly carry him to the nearest window and throw him into the street. He gets up and wants to fight anyone in the crowd. No one wants to fight, they all laugh. He squares up to a massive giant, Dan Keiey, who wears a blacksmiths leather apron rolled around his loins for he had been working late. The giant grins and tries to dodge away. He hates a row, although he can beat 99 men out of 100 if he likes. The manger strikes Dan and although he feels like killing him for a moment, his Irish humor come to the surface. He grips the rowdy by the neck and lifts him up and carries him to the butchers shop and hangs him by the seat of his trousers to one of the meat hooks. A yell of laughter stirs the crowd and a cheer goes up for Dan Kiely, the giant smith. The mine manager swings between heaven and earth till a policeman comes. The man in blue is the only rival the smith has in size and strength for 500 miles around, it is Maurice Sullivan, constable and athlete extraordinaire.
“Phwt are ye doin’ up there, me mahn?” asks Sullivan; “are ye in a circus?”. “I’m not in a d#@* circus’ howled the suspended man, “let me down I want to knock Dan Kiely’s head off”. “Better stay phere you are, me mahn”, said Sullivan breaking into a grin, “for if Dan hits you once in earnest, you won’t need hitting again and we’ll be having an inquest tomorrow” and Dan’s too good a man to get in trouble for a scut like you”.
‘Call yourself an officer of the law”, yells the man on the hook. “I do that and I’ll knock the head off any man who denies it” answered Maurice. “How long have I got to hang here” yells the man on the hook. ‘Divil if I can tell, it depends on the strength av yer trousis, if they be made of cotton ye’ll be down before the pub close, if they’re Scotch tweed yell be there till morning”, and he marched placidly onward.
Two men come through the throng, laughing and joking as they pushed their way through the diggers; what a pair they were, even amidst that mob and that mob held the flower of Australian manhood. Warden Finnerty, the King of the Goldfields and Reg Pell the share broker, 16 stone each if they were a pound and 6 ft 3in in height and both of them famous athletes. The warden looked at the man on the hook and then at the grinning crowd and his brows grew black. “What the devil do you mean by this you cowards?” he snaps out. Things looked bad for a moment, but these two men could not have held this crown for a moment if they meant mischief, but they do not. The warden lifts the man down who again begins to prance and talk of fighting someone. “Get out of this you fool, I can’t hit you on account of my office, here Reg, have a word with him”. Reg lifted him by what was left of the seat of his pants and hoists him into the throng where he is obliged by the Bellman who gives him a good hiding.
What a night it was! Reg and Warden Finnerty elbowed their way to John De Bauns hotel. In this hotel, know to all, is a great room, but tonight it is a sanctuary, for the first billiard table on the Goldfields had arrived. This was a great event, two men there in moleskins are now millionaires in London, many sturdy miners, common thieves, barristers and medical men – all eager to see the first game of billiards played on the Goldfields.
There was a hush. The manager of the hotel, Charlie Atkin, got a seat on Martin Walsh’s shoulders and announced that Warden Finnerty and Reg Pell would play a game of 200 up to baptise the table. What a game it was, Pell won and the room swam with champagne. We had beer and speeches after the game, and poor Morgan D’Arcy (since killed) proposed that Australia should be a Republic and Reg Pell be crowned king, and he himself treasurer. Someone proposed as an amendment, that we should have a boxing match to celebrate the occasion, which was carried by an overwhelming majority. The purse was there and then subscribed, and two professionals were dug up who were willing to fight each other or anyone else for £100. A ring was roped off in the centre of a large galvanised iron hall which was used as an auction mart during the week and a Roman Catholic church on a Sunday and as a Salvation Army meeting place. The ring was pitched, gloves were found and rows of men with candles lined the ring to give the ‘pugs’ a good light. Bets were placed with reckless abandon and a timekeeper and referee were appointed.
For four rounds the battle was evenly match and watched with interest, then, in some mysterious fashion, one of the sluggers was down on his back like a dead man, the victor gathered his £100 and passed around the hat for the loser. A couple of the crowd carried the limp form of the loser to a back room where the victor went to console with him. When the door closed on the curious spectators, the apparently injured one rose swiftly and danced a hornpipe and victor and vanquished sat down together and divided the spoils, ‘cutting up the flats’ they called it in the vernacular of the prize-ring.
Out in the open air the sounds of the harp and the fiddle mingled with the noise of human voices, a big foreigner and a sad little girl are making melody at the bar, diggers are causing the wooden floor to clatter and shake as they bang their heavy Blucher boots in time with the tune. At the rear of the hotel two teamsters stripped to the waist are solidly punching each other for no other reason than they are full of cheap brandy and they will fight till they are too sleepy to fight any more. After that they will lie where they fall and sleep off the effects until they awake shivering and drink again. The lights go out as daylight dawns, sober men stride camp wards, drunks lie where they fell, nothing is left except a prowling thief who goes thought the clothes of the fallen diggers and the police who chase him. So ends one night from these rollicking days.
Alfred Arthur Greenwood Hales (Smiler Hales)
Moya Sharp
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A great piece of history! Thank you very much. I am also passionate about history. What would be a good source about an old town about 100 miles north of Kalgoorlie called Edjudina?
Hi Simon This is the page on my website on Edjudina – https://www.outbackfamilyhistory.com.au/records/town.php?town=Edjudina/Peake%27s%20Find