The Hash House Riot of Ford Street

DINNER AT DALTONS
by Pharisee.

In the boom days of Coolgardie an enterprising individual named Dalton ran a hash and doss house in Ford Street. The building was made of bush timber covered in with hessian, and was divided into three compartments -a dining room, a kitchen, and a sleeping kennel, which contained about a dozen bag stretchers. Nothing gave the proprietor greater pleasure than to drag newcomers throughout his premises and dilate upon the luxurious make-up of the establishment.

“Them beds you see there can’t be beat in the town,”

He explained to a now well-known M.L C., who took his provender at Dalton’s, “I’m thinkin of go in for a cheaper line, These are too comfortable, and I can’t get the blokes out early enough in the morning.” The prospective legislator looked at them doubtfully and asked what reforms were meditated, ” Well, you see,” replied Dalton, “I’ve a good mind to copy old Moran’s idea up the road and construct a long bench, and put no ticking on it. Then it’ll make’em take their half-a-crown’s worth out quick and lively,”

He was a very sanguine person was Dalton, and took the money of his victims with a calmness quite prostrating to behold. He in conjunction with his cook, ran the whole affair. Between them there existed a mutual agreement, that for a consideration of an extra few bob a week the hash and burgoo manufacturer was to bear all the growling and abuse of Dalton’s customers. The complaints about the tucker were loud and frequent. If a man pointed out that the meat was raw or the plum duff was simply dosed with a currant here and there, the boss would immediately rush around the hessian division which separated the dining-room from the pot and kettle department, and call the red-nosed cook all the names he could think of.

“You infernal scoundrel, what do I pay you for?” he would yell out so as everyone could hear him. “Do yer think I give yer four blanky quid a week to wreck the digestive organs of the patrons?” The man of  ‘Grills and Grease’ would simply wink at his employer, and take it all in like a philosopher. The outraged devourers of Dalton’s tucker invariably professed themselves satisfied after these demonstrations, and got their feed down without further murmuring. It was just about Christmas time, and Dalton watched the cook closely so as he wouldn’t get drunk and be unfit to prepare the big spread with which the customers were to be regaled on the Natal Day. We all shuffled into the festive chamber, and spread ourselves around the table on beer cases and three-legged stools. The proprietor looked over the partition into the chef’s den and asked, ” All ready, Billy?” ” All correct”, was the reply in suspiciously unsteady tones. “Well, serve the soup,” said Dalton, in pompous tones. He took the liquid from his servitor through the door and deposited it in tin plates on the table.

All went well until “Pigweed Jimmy” startled everyone by exclaiming, “Gorblime, if there ain’t a cockroach in mine.” In his usual solicitous manner, the hash house owner immediately seized the plate, and its dubious compound (barley broth it was  supposed to be) and took it back behind the hessian, yanked the black object out of it, and planked it once more before the disgusted “Pigweed.” He then proceeded to deal out the usual dose of scathing denunciation, but the long-suffering cook at last revolted and promptly hit his boss on the nose. This unexpected display paralysed the hash man for a moment, but when he recovered a furious scrap eventuated which distributed itself all over the building. creating havoc amongst the cooking utensils and crockery, while the boarders tumbled out in all directions more or less covered with soup and debris.

Dalton and Billy went to it with hammer and tongs and finally got into Ford Street. Here a ring was made, Pigweed Jimmy picked up the chef and Paddy the Slab did likewise for his opponent. Six lurid and willing rounds brought the conflict to a close, and we carried the vanquished boarding house proprietor into his shattered premises and left him to ruminate over things in general.

Dalton’s house is gone, but the memory of his Christmas dinner still remains.