This ‘Ripping Yarn’ from the pen of N E Gledhill is kindly shared by his Great Nephew Allen Gledhill with thanks:
The Fightin Man
Dave was old when I first met him – or should I say aged! Like a mountain tree ages, weather-beaten, gnarled, and brown, but standing straight and sturdy against the years. He had wandered into the station homestead on a blazing hot day about five years ago. He came riding out of the dust haze on the stark, dry plains.
“Just passin’ through”,
he said. Passin’ from and to where we never found out. After he’d downed a few cool beers on the verandah, Dave decided to stay on – ‘if we’d keep him in a bit of tucker and a bed, for helpin’ round the place.’ So he stayed, and he was well worth his keep over the years. Good with horses and handling cattle, and he’d ride out for days at a time, with his blanket and a bit of tucker, while looking for strays, fixing tanks and windmills. Quite content with his own company.
But we always said he could smell a campfire and boiling billy for miles. If we happened to make camp away from the homestead, he was certain to drift in about sunset. This time we’d been out shooting. We’d had a good day – some dingoes plus a couple of rabbits for the pot. We wanted to get some roos, but we decided to have a meal and a sleep. We’d barely got the fire alight when old Dave wandered in out of the dusk with a cheery ‘Mind if I join y’?’ We were only too pleased. Dave could be good company if you had an hour or so to spare. While the rabbit and bacon stew was mingling its delicious odors with the smell of wood smoke, Dave unsaddled his horse and settled down. We had barely finished eating when someone happened to mention the war.
“Well, I dunno” reflected Dave. “Talking about the war always reminds me o’ fightin’” Something usually reminded Dave of something! Andy poked the fire, and I unpacked a blanket and settled down. We knew Dave was off. He stretched out on the ground, one leg over the other, and his head resting on his saddle.
“An’ talkin’ about fightin’ reminds me o’ Marco. Fight!‘ E could fight like a threshin’ machine. I’d a’ been at the Ballarat diggin’s now if it ‘adn’t been for Marco and his fightin’. I was keepin’ company with a dame at the time, serious like! An’ one day I took ‘er to see a travellin’ boxin’ show. We were standin’ in the crowd listenin’ to a guy offerin’ a fiver to anyone who was good enough to stand up five minutes against a greasy big bruiser who was grinnin’ in the corner. Anyway, the chap next to me mumbled somethin’ about needin’ that fiver bad. It was Marco! didn’t know him then, so I didn’t say anythin’ but “Go on well”.
And ‘e took of ‘is coat an’ ‘anded me ‘is teeth.”
“You know I always reckoned Marco came from somethin’ better than most of us. Them teeth. “E was the only one on the diggin’s that ‘ad ‘em. “An the boys sort o’ looked up t ‘im account of it. When we was mates ‘e used to lose ‘em regular, every time ‘e got drunk. First thing next mornin’ ‘e’d make a dive for ‘em. They’d sure to be missin’. We’d do the rounds o’ pubs till we found ‘em. Sometimes if we was broke an’ thirsty, Marco ‘ud put em across the counter, security like.”
“Anyway, Marco ‘opped into the boxin’ ring, put up his dooks – no gloves them days –an’ the bruiser grinned an’ said: ‘come onto me, mug’! The mug came in – an’ by the time the bruiser woke up I reckon we’d blew every penny o’ that fiver” “After that the fights between me an’ the girl seemed so durned feeble that I decided I’d stick with Marco. ‘E was reckonin’ on comin’ West, an’ I ‘ad two decent pair o’ boots, so I thought I’d pal it with ‘im.”
“Marco was a fair walker and dang good scrounger, but we counted on fightin’ our way to the border. We took a bit of tucker an’ some water for the dry stretches and planned to drop in at the pubs along the track. Marco let me do the talkin’, good chance to learn the business, ‘e said. Then if the boss couldn’t see reason for a handout, Marco ‘ud offer to fight anyone who was game. We usually made enough on side wagers to keep us goin’.”
‘The Boxers’ – The Australian Sketchbook by Samuel Thomas Gill
“Twenty miles out from Dry Soak we ‘andn’t wet our lips – that is, nothin’ but water for two days! An’ we were down to the last o’ the bully. Things were lookin’ bad when we sighted a shack leanin’ in the middle of a paddock. Marco reckoned it was no time for ‘prentices to practice, so ‘e climbed the fence an’ knocked on where the door should ‘a been.” “What do you want?” comes a sunburnt voice from somewhere. “Spare a wanderer a bit to eat, lady?” “Ate!” she yelled – more sunburnt. “Git off the primises or oi’ll ‘ave you ‘risted!”
“I could see Marco eyein’ the ‘ouse. It was painted green. Marco was a dang quick thinker, and keen on ‘avein the last word. “Alright ma’am,” ‘e said, “an’ if I do, there’s an old Irish mother’ll mourn ‘er son. Besides, I’m big enough and strong enough to be able to work for meself, an’ I don’t want to be imposin’ on the revenue of the country!” “We tramped off, an’ Marco dosed that night without speakin’ a word. I let him alone. I guessed ‘e was annoyed at ‘imself for puttin’ up a bad exhibition in front of ‘is pupil.
“Sensitive chap, was Marco.”
“But ‘e was determined to make good. Next day we came to a ‘omestead standin’ on its own, and fenced in all round. Danged if I ever knew whether them fences were to keep anythin’ out or stop it from getting’ out once it got in. Anyway, there were flies round a kid sittin’ in a pram with a crust in its ‘and, and a jam mask on. Marco pocketed the crust an’ knocked on the door. ‘E gave me a despairin’ look when another dame come out with ‘er sleeves rolled up, showin’ two big ‘ams of arms.
“Well?” she said, just like that. So I ‘eld the gate open. “Spare me somethin’ to eat, lady?” Marco said, sympathetic. “Eat!” I opened the gate a bit more. “Get out o’ the yard or I’ll put the dog on you!” “Marco looked at ‘er again, and just as he was leavin’ ‘e said: ‘well. Well, will you give me a bit o’ pepper an’ salt?’ “Oh yes” she said. “I don’t mind that. What do you want it for?” “Marco turned an’ nodded sad like at the pram. “Aw nothin’. I was just goin’ to ‘ave a go at the kid.”
“Thank ‘eaven that dame ‘ad a sense of humour. We ‘ad ‘ome made bread an’ butter, an’ a bottle o’ beer each for tea that night”. Dave knocked his pipe on his heel, nodded dreamily into the distance and sighed. “You know, I never really understood Marco, though me an’ ‘im were mates for years after that. After we hit Kalgoorlie he was in more fights than anyone I knew, an’ seemed to enjoy ‘em. I’ll never forget the night he dragged me out o’ Sheedy’s after I clocked Jim for knockin’ me beer over. This ‘appened to be my idea, but I dunno. Marco seemed to ‘ave the personality, ‘E finished up takin’ the credit for it.”
Dave chuckled to himself as he relit his pipe. “It started when Jim tipped me beer, an’ finished up with me getting’ a bottle in the back, tryin’ to stop the rest of ‘em. Any ‘ow, it appears durin’ the scrum Marco stood on Dan Dunleavy’s dog, an’ Dan decided to stick up for ‘is ‘ound on the following Sunday over at the racecourse flats. Marco was no bigger ‘an me, but solid as a chip ‘quartz. About a ‘undred of us followed ‘em. I took round the ‘at. Got a tenner, two specks o’ colour an’ a silk ‘andkerchief. to back Marco with. Danged if we ever found out who gave that ‘angky.
“Anyway, they started, an’ we followed ‘em along the drain, over the flat an’ into the grandstand. Marco hit Dave everywhere, till every knuckle in both ‘is ‘ands was crocked. Dan was still standin’ there. It was like tryin’ to knock a bloomin’ blermonge over. E’d just sort o’ shiver an’ come together again. So Marco looked at ‘is ‘ands, thought of the tenner and agreed to call it quits. We hiked our way back to the City Arms along the track we’d blazed with Big K bottles, an’ that twenty quid went in beer for the boys.”
There was a pause as Dave puffed at his pipe. Then he got up and stared out at the darkening hills. He was quiet for so long that we thought he had finished his story when suddenly he turned and squatted down again by the fire. “Poor ol’ Marco – I dunno what came over ‘im. Soon after that ‘e changed. Gave fightin’ right away. Wouldn’t even come round the pubs much, case ‘e got mixed up in a brawl. I guess it was the girl that did it! Pale big eyed sort. Not the kind you’d expect Marco to go for. But ‘e fell with a bang. We’d been goin’ to join up – Marco was all for ‘aving a go at the dang Germans, and we fell in one day behind a recruitin’ band marchin’ up Hannan Street. We’d a’ been all signed up and ready to go if Marco ‘adn’t got into a fight with a guy he said ‘ad tripped ‘im. A few punches were thrown, and it finished with a good free for all.
Marco got seven days for that lot – ‘disturbin’ the peace’ was the charge. And that’s where ‘e met the dame – prison visitin’. She got ‘im proper. Met ‘im when ‘e came out, and fussed over ‘im like ‘e was a lost soul she’d saved from damnation. She was one of the ‘pacifist’ lot called Quakers. Didn’t believe in wars or fightin’ of any sort. I never would’ve thought Marco could fall for it after bein’ a fightin’ man all ‘is life, but that’s dames for you.
“I didn’t see much of ‘im after that. I missed ‘im a lot at first. Got mixed up in a few brawls, but they didn’t seem the same without Marco. Then I joined the army and went overseas and kind o’ lost touch. ‘Nothin’ much happened to me. Got a bit of a hit in the leg, just enough to give me a few months in hospital, an’ a ticket back ‘ome.” There was a pause, and Andy got up and poked the fire. “And did you ever hear from Marco again” he asked?
Dave took a long draw on his pipe and stood up. “I ‘eard the news when I got back” he said. “Marco ‘ad gone over to France with his Quaker girl and friends as a stretcher-bearer. They’d gone too near the front lines an’ run into some bloomin’ booby traps, an’ he was blown to bits.
Poor ol’ Marco. I can’t ‘elp thinkin’ ‘e’d been better if e’d kept on bein’ a fightin’ man!”
NOTE: some words’ have been changed for political correctness.
Moya Sharp
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