Chapter I: Staunton, Junior

The Dashwoods had been a full week in the great metropolis. Each day they visited different localities, and each day fresh wonders and glories were revealed to them.

They all enjoyed the city—all but Mrs. Dashwood and Maria. The former tired of it after the first day, and saw nothing to enthuse about. There was nothing real, nothing natural there, to appeal to her homely spirit. In her heart she longed to be back at “Fairfield”—longed to be amongst the fowls, and the ducks, and the dairy cows, and to see again the great wheatfields, and the blue peaks of the ranges, and vast plainlands stretching far away to the boundless west. But for the sake of the others she endured, without complaint, the stuffy, noisy, dirty streets of the artificial city, with its crowds of jostling humanity. She even pretended to share the joys and excitements of her family, and almost ran her legs off chasing trains and trams to please and humour them. An unselfish mother was Mrs. Dashwood, who lived to make life light and bright for those around her.

As for Maria, she liked the city “right enough,” but nobody, she reckoned, “could see anything, or go anywhere in peace with a blessed baby to look after.” And one day, when in extreme distress about the infant, she threatened to leave the encumbrance at home with its father the next time she came to town. To which resolution Tilly fervently said “Amen,” and fired Maria’s family pride. She flew into a temper, and proceeded to call Tilly names, and to remind her of things she did when at school, but Mrs. Dashwood intervened in time to save the situation and preserve the family name.

“Well, Ah baint be goin’ weth yow to-day,” old John informed the family at the breakfast table, “mah old friend, Robert Staunton, has herd we’re dahn, an’ writes sayin’ as he wants to see me perticler. He called twahce a’ready, but we moost abeen aht soomewheres he thenks.”

Mrs. Dashwood wondered how the Stauntons were getting along.

“They roons a produce place soomewheres,” old John answered, “but Ah don’t know wheres exactly yet, Eliza.”

Hailing a waiter scurrying past with two trays of “returned empties” in his hands, old John questioned him.

“Staunton & Staunton, Solicitors?” interrogated the waiter.

“Hoh! hoh! hoh!—Noh-h,” laughed old John, “none o’ thet kidney. He be too honest for thet; Robert’s a big man—bigger’n _me_; an’ his wahfe’s a big woman. Theey’re both old friends o’ ahn—ever since theey coomed to th’ coontry, and——”

The waiter was impatient and broke in on old John.

“Well, there are several gentlemen in the city bigger than you, sir,” he answered, “but I’ll enquire at the office,” and away he glided.

“Ah-h,” muttered old John, “Ah-h!”

Tilly and Polly followed the flunkey’s flying coat-tails with their eyes, and smiled.

“A wery erbligin’ young man thet be,” said old John, “wery erbligin’.”

“When there’s half-a-crown put into his hand, father. Ha! ha! ha,” from Peter.

“Well, Ah dedn’t give ’n no half-crahn, lad,” replied the parent, in defence of the waiter.

“No, but I did, yesterday,” from Peter.

James looked up quickly, and stared at his brother as at one who had suddenly gone out of his mind. Tilly and Polly opened their eyes in wonder, and exclaimed simultaneously:

“_You_, Peter?”

James struggled hard to suppress his merriment.

“What, _yow_ gin him half-a-crahn?” old John asked, in astonishment.

Peter nodded, but deemed it wise to offer no explanation.

“Did you give it to him in mistake for a penny, Peter?” Tilly asked, with a nasty giggle, in which the others joined.

“No,” Peter answered; “a gentleman was leaving in a cab yesterday, and he left it with me to give to him,” and he let off a laugh that made even those at the most distant table look up.

Tilly and Polly and James felt ashamed of their brother, but old John saw only the joke.

“Wery good,” he said; “yow hed ’n all thet tahme, lad, yow hed ’n raht enoof.”

They finished breakfast.

“Well, we’re going for a trip in the _Kangaroo_ to Bung Island,” Tilly said, rising; and speaking for the female portion of the party; “I don’t know what James and Peter intend to do.”

“I’m off again in that train that goes to America,” Peter said, with a cheerful chuckle. “It’s the best fun of th’ lot.”

“To Amerikee?” old John repeated curiously; “yow’ll want summat to go theer with, lad.”

“Well, I want a couple o’ shillings, anyhow,” Peter said, glad of the chance to apply for some more funds. “I haven’t a sixpence left,” and he turned a pocket of his vest inside out.

Polly and Tilly accused Peter of imposing upon the good nature of their parent, and declared he hadn’t spent a shilling of his money.

“H’m!... Ah-h,” said old John, thoughtfully, then turning to his other son: “An’ where be yow goin’, James?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” James drawled, “I mightn’t go anywhere.”

“What’s the use of asking _him_, father?” Peter said, with a grin, “he’ll be off to spend the day again in the Art Gallery, gaping at those old mares with their heads and tails cocked, squealing for their foals. ‘The Cry of the Mothers’; isn’t that what it is called, James” (grinning at his brother). “He looked at it for two hours yesterday.”

James treated his brother with contempt.

“Oh, well,” Polly said, fumbling with her gloves, and glancing round to see that no outsiders were listening, “when James goes home, Peter, perhaps he’ll be able to paint a picture of a donkey with its ears cocked, which he’ll call ‘The Bray of the Brother.’”

James treated his brother to a broad grin, while Peter forced a short “ha! ha!” and rolled his eyes about.

“She wer’ too smart for yow thet tahme, lad,” old John said, with a broad smile. “Too smart!” and, rolling his serviette into a heap, he rose and led the way out. The others followed in single file.

* * * * *

The meeting of old John and Robert Staunton, the burly produce dealer, was a strenuous and boisterous affair. They greeted each other like two roaring lions conducting a courtship. Their handshake was an exhibition of strength and endurance.

“Blest if I ever saw you looking so well, John,” Robert hollered, caressing the plump hand of his country friend and looking into his eyes. “Why, you’re got up like a Suffolk Punch.”

“Ah-h,” rejoined old John, “An’ Ah’ve sin wus Clahdesdales nor yow, Robert. Hoh! hoh! hoh!”

Then they “hoh-hoh-hoh-ed” together, and hit each other on the back, and rocked about, and finally adjourned to the “Lounge” room, of which they soon became the sole occupants.

“Oh, Ah’ve been adoin’ well for a long tahme, now,” old John said, in answer to the other’s enquiries about his welfare. “Seasons baint be lahke ’n were in olden days, Robert. Markets are fairish, now, an’ lan’s gone oop won’erful. People on th’ lan’s doin’ pretty well, an’ they’ll do a lot better yet. There be soome as be a bit frahtent, tho’, o’ th’ Labour Party an’ th’ Lan’ Tax, but——”

“But surely _you_ don’t believe in a Land Tax, John?” Robert broke in in tones of surprise.

“Ah _do_, then, Robert,” was the answer, “an’ Ah thinks it’s what’ll make th’ country all round—anyways, thet’s how it seems to me.”

“For the life of me, John, I can’t see how it’s going to do anything of the kind. How can it, when it’s going to tax the farmer right off his land?”

Old John laughed.

“Robert,” he said, tapping his friend on the shoulder, “thet’s what th’ noospapers tells yow, them as will have to pay for theer footin’. But don’t yow believe ’n. They only wants th’ farmer to fight theer battles for ’n. No, no-h, th’ Lan’ Tax won’t hurt th’ farmer what _farms_, it’ll _help_ him. But the one as don’t farm, but sits on the land lahke a dug in th’ manger, will have to skedaddle and make room for him as wants it; an’ where theer be only one farm now, theer will be three or four bahme-by, which will all mean, Robert, thet theer will be a lot more produce for yow to sell on commission, an’ a lot more boots an’ shoes an’ tea an’ kerosene sold by th’ storekeeper, and a lot more drays and waggons and horses used up. Anyway, thet’s what it all seems to me, Robert, but if yow can show as it waint be thet way, well, Ah’m prepared to listen to yow.”

But Robert held no views other than what he had already briefly expressed.

“Well, of course,” he said, slowly, “if they don’t touch the small farmer, it will be all right, I suppose. And if, as you say, it will mean more produce for me to sell, well, then, John, I’m with it all the time,” and he laughed cheerfully.

“Yow be a hopportunist, then, Robert,” and old John laughed on his own account.

The conversation turned to family affairs, and, according to Robert, two of his daughters were married and living happily with their respective husbands on allotments in the suburbs. Another, Mary Ellen, was only “engaged,” and was employed in the “fancy” department of one of the large establishments.

“But, Will, my eldest boy,” he went on, “I’m not sure what to make of him. I’d like him to take to the land if he would; but I wanted to get your advice about him first, John, before putting out money in a farm for him. You see, I don’t want to find out that he’s not fitted for it, or that it’s not fitted for him, when it’s too late. I want to be sure beforehand.”

“How old be ’n?” asked old John, with the air of a medico inquiring about the constitution of his patient.

“He’s getting on for twenty,” Robert answered, “but to look at him, I’m blowed if you would think he was more than fifteen,” and added, with a look of pride in his eye, “all our youngsters look a lot younger than they are, though. You remember how young and frisky my old father looked at seventy-five, and who would ever think that I was getting on for fifty?”

“Fefty,” soliloquised old John; “Ah thought yow wer’ a lot more ’n thet, Robert.”

“Get away with you,” and Robert worked back to the merits of his son Will.

“Is ’n any size?” inquired old John.

“Well, of course you know,” the other answered, “youngsters brought up in the town don’t grow like they do in the country.”

“H’m! Ah-h,” reflected old John; “an’ have he a lahkin’ for farmin’?”

“A liking!” and Robert laughed a grim sort of laugh. “Th’ blinded young scamp, he hasn’t got a liking for anything except billiards, and football, and hanging round street corners at night.”

Old John shook his head gravely.

“Well, my attitude in the matter is this,” said Robert; “I was thinking if I could only get him on to the land with someone, someone who would work the devil out of him, and, at the same time; take an interest in him, you know, that it would make a man of him.”

“H’m!... Ah-h!” mused old John.

Robert stroked his chin thoughtfully and waited.

“Ah-h!” old John murmured again.

Robert saw the futility of beating about the bush, and came right to the point.

“Would _you_ take him for a while, John?” he asked. “He’d go to _your_ place, I believe, and of course I wouldn’t expect a wage for him, or anything like that.”

“Well,” answered old John, slowly, “Ah only took one yoongster in thet way in mah life, Robert; an’ Ah sed to the wife at th’ tahme thet Ah would never take anoother.”

“Just so,” from Robert, disappointedly.

“But,” old John proceeded, “seein’ as it’s to do a good turn by _yow_, Robert, Ah might change mah mind.”

“I wouldn’t forget it if you did, John,” Robert said, with a pleased look.

“Well, then, Ah would lahke to have a talk along wi’ him,” the other suggested, “a talk wi’ himself, yow un’erstand, an’ without ’n knowin’ as who Ah em.”

Robert entered into the idea with enthusiasm.

“An’ Ah could tell yow then, Robert, if wert wise to spend mooney on ’n.”

“Well, if you’ll come along and jump on a tram with me, now,” Robert suggested eagerly, “we’ll go down to my office, and you can have a chat with him there without him knowing who the deuce you are. But, mind you, John” (the light of parental pride filling his eyes) “he’s as cute as you make them, is Will.”

“Ah-h,” from Old John.

Then they rose and left the hotel together.

* * * * *

“You know,” Robert said, when they were seated in the tram, “the young devil is full of brains if he likes to use them. ‘Look here, Staunton,’ his schoolmaster said to me one day, ‘don’t you take that boy away from me yet; you leave him at school for another couple of years, and I’ll make something of him for you. There’s nothing he can’t do if he only makes up his mind to it.’”

“Ah-h,” answered old John, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “then it wer’ a pety, Robert, thet yow didn’t leave ’n at school.”

“Well, yes,” Robert mumbled, “it _was_, and I can see it now. No doubt, no doubt!”

They alighted from the tram while it was in motion, Robert landed on his feet, and old John on top of his head.

“God bless my soul, are you hurt?” Robert exclaimed, rushing to his friend and standing him up.

Old John spat out large samples of the city soil, and brushed some more from his swell suit, and tried to laugh, and said:

“Well, Ah dedn’t mean to come dahn thet way.”

“You might have been killed,” Robert said, with much concern.

“Well, Ah ain’t, Robert,” and old John laughed again, and pulled on his hat, which had left him when he struck the street.

They proceeded along a footpath to Robert’s place of business.

“Well, now,” Robert said on nearing the entrance, “I’ll go in first, John, and walk through to my own office, and you follow in a minute or two. You’ll see Will at the desk in the auction room, along with young Henry, the message boy. You can’t mistake Will, and he won’t know who you——”

Old John motioned Robert off in a way that plainly indicated he required no instructions.

Robert passed in.

“Was anyone looking for me when I was out, Will?” he called on reaching the door of his office.

“Anyone looking for the boss?” Will said, in undertones to the message boy.

The message boy shook his head in the negative.

“No one,” Will shouted, confidently, and resumed the useless occupation of pasting “questionable” postcards into an album.

Presently old John, with an air of studied indifference, sauntered clumsily in and began mooning round the auction room. He paused before a rusty-looking oil-painting suspended from the wall with cob-web and vermin, and gaped at it. The oil-painting was supposed to represent the figure and features of a State Premier.

The message boy drew Will’s attention to the visitor.

Will looked up, and for a moment or two eyed the broad back and long coat of old John.

“It’s lost its mother,” he said.

The message boy giggled; Will was a constant source of humour to the message boy. But for Will the message boy’s existence would have been a dull and uninteresting one in the office.

Old John, in admiration of the work of art, grunted: “H’m,” and “Ah-h!”

Will, on hearing the noise, looked up again, and, placing a thumb to his nose, worked his fingers at old John.

The message boy ducked his head under the bench and gave way to mirth.

Old John fixed a pair of spectacles on his nose and proceeded to examine the picture closely, like a woman judging fancy work at a country show.

Will became interested. He reached to the floor, and, lifting a stray onion that lay there, pelted it hard at old John’s head. The onion hit the State Premier in the stomach and made a hole in him.

Old John jumped round.

“Nit yer bloomin’ larks, now!” Will said seizing the message boy by the neck, “an’ garn outer this an’ do yer work. Chuckin’ onions about!”

The message boy snatched up a bunch of letters that required posting and fled, leaving a train of giggles behind as he disappeared.

Old John, with a serious expression on his face, approached Will.

“Yow should’nt let ’n do thet,” he said, pointing to the punctured Prime Minister. “Thet be a shame!”

“_Let_ him!” Will answered, in a voice of scorn, “I can’t stop him! But if I was the boss here I would. I’d spear him without warnin’. But the ol’ man, he’s far too easy, mister. ’Tween you and me he ain’t fit to be over a hen coop.”

“Be yow a son o’ Mr. Staunton’s?” old John asked, tactfully.

“Well, so far as I know, I am, mister,” Will replied, “but I couldn’t swear to it,” and he grinned.

Old John looked shocked.

Will laughed, and added:

“They say it’s a wise bloke that knows his own Pa—ain’t that so mister?”

Old John, half inclined to laugh, half inclined to administer a rebuke, was lost for a reply.

But Will neither waited nor looked for one.

“_There’s_ a pair o’ good legs,” he said, shoving one of the postcards into old John’s hand.

Old John glanced at the card, then burst into a loud “hoh! hoh! hoh—hoh! hoh! hoh-h-h!” and dropped it on the floor.

“You wouldn’t guess in a year o’ Sundays where I got that from, mister,” Will said, picking up the card.

Old John, with tears in his eyes, stared curiously at the son of his friend Robert.

Will cast a cautious glance at his parent’s door.

“I got that one,” he whispered in confidence, “locked up in the old man’s private drawer.”

“Hoh! hoh! hoh! hoh!—hoh-h-h!” and old John swung round and stamped hard on the floor.

Hearing the roar of laughter, Robert stealthily opened his door and looked out and smiled.

“Will’s amusing Dashwood, as I thought he would,” he murmured proudly to himself, and quietly closed the door again.

But the turn the interview had taken was not what old John desired.

“What Ah’ve coome abaht, young man,” he said, approaching Will again, “is th’ price o’ maize. How have it been sellin’ wi’ yow people?”

“_Maize?_” said Will, assuming an important business air. “_Dead_, sir; a perfect drug. So’s wheat, and potatoes are a bally pest.... Why, are you a farmer, mister?”

Old John saw his opportunity.

“Ah-h; Ah em, lad, an’ Ah’m proud on it.”

“You look it,” said Will, “you’re fat enough for one; but I’d have taken you for something better than a cocky.”

“There be things a lot wus nor cockyin’, don’t you think?” replied old John.

“Doing time would be, I suppose,” said Will, with a chuckle.

Under ordinary circumstances old John might have warmly resented the slander. But he overlooked it.

“No, don’t you thenk, lad,” he said, “thet yow would be mooch better orf setting behahnd a team o’ horses an’ a plough than cocked oop theer on thet stool every day?”

“Who, _me_!” indignantly from Will. “_Dicken!_”

“Ah-h, yow lad.”

Will laughed.

“Why, that’s what the old man is always preaching,” he went on, lighting a cigarette and blowing long thin streaks of smoke at old John. “The old cove” (glancing again at the door) “has tried lots of times to get me to go on the land. He wanted me to go with some old coot up Fairfield way—old Dashwood. Do you know him at all, mister?”

Will waited for a reply.

Old John appeared to be in difficulties with himself.

“Ah-h,” he muttered at last, “Ah knows him a leetle.”

“A silly, religious old goat, ain’t he, says grace before pluggin’ into the pumpkin?” further enquired Will.

Old John’s eyes and mouth opened wide.

“He’s got a couple of jolly fine daughters, though, I believe,” Will went on, rummaging himself for a match, “as good-looking as he’s ugly.”

Old John’s features started to work as if he was chewing something hard, and his fists closed and opened automatically.

“It’s curious how a lot o’ these ugly old blokes,” Will went on, growing philosophical, “have such good-looking daughters.”

Old John made an effort to speak, but couldn’t.

“How do you account for that, mister?”

A volcano seemed to be silently at work somewhere in the interior of old John.

“I reckon,” said Will, “if I went to his place it wouldn’t be driving teams I’d be at, I’d be driving those tarts around pretty slick. An’ I’d be huggin’ ’em an’ muggin’ ’em in the dairy. Oh, laws!” (Will placed his hand over his heart and sighed.) “_What_ a time I’d have, mister!”

Old John staggered back, and made a choking sound in his throat.

“I wouldn’t be there long,” laughed Will, “before old Johnny Dashwood would be wanting to know what I meant by——”

“_Damn_ yow for a ill-bred city skunk!” old John burst out violently: “Do you know who yow be atalkin’ to?” and he leaned over and glared ferociously at Will.

Will, suddenly turning pale, deserted the stool and placed his back against the wall.

“_Ah’m John Dashwood_, Ah em,” fairly shouted the other.

“Strike me curly, what am I up against!” said Will, and snatching up his hat, darted through a side door into the street.