sleep.
He awoke to see Happy Jack stoking the fire and making a billy of tea, pleasantly surprised to find that the whole night had not been a dream. Josie came up from the creek with a fat fish flapping at the end of a green line. “Breakfast,” he said, handing it to Happy Jack to prepare for cooking while he rolled up the swags. Then he showed Brennan how to roll his swag so that it was small and tight, neatly packed and easier to carry. Afterward they sat on the log and ate the fish that Happy Jack had fried in mutton fat, making little fish sandwiches with some leftover damper, and washing down the meal with mugs of sweet tea.
“Where are yer headin’ today, little swag boy?” Josie asked kindly.
The question caught Brennan off guard. “I don’t know,” he said awkwardly. He had somehow assumed he would go with them.
The old men exchanged glances. “Do you have any money?” Happy Jack asked idly. When Brennan shot him a suspicious glance, Josie laughed. “Do not worry, lad. We wouldn’t steal yer dough. We was gist wonderin’ how yer was set, is all.”
“That’s right, boy,” Happy Jack said. “We cadge a feed here and there, a bit of tea, sugar, flour and terbaccy, maybe a leg of mutton now and then, but we don’t steal.”
Brennan felt his cheeks flush with shame. “I have a little money that Aunt Ede saved up for me before she died,” he said, rummaging in his swag to draw out the oilskin pouch where he had stored his cash. He tipped the money out on the ground and stared at the notes and coins. He had not had much to do with money before, and so it meant very little to him.
Seeing his confusion, Josie began to count the money, whistling softly at the total. “Ten and a half quid,” he said slowly. “Why, a man can work all week for most squatters for a half quid, fifteen bob, and his keep at best. Yer got a tidy sum there, lad, and that’s the truth.”
Happy Jack saw the new cloud fall over the boy’s face and said quickly, “Now old Josie, he don’t steal; so don’t you worry ‘bout yer dough thataway. But he ain’t no saint neither, the old bugger; he’s got a coupla tricks up his sleeve that are a bit suspect. F’r instance, they call him windmill Josie sometimes.”
The boy creased his brows. “That’s a funny name. Why would anyone call a man such a name?”
“Well,” said Happy Jack, giggling like a child, “Old Josie here ain’t content to cadge a bit of tucker and terbaccy. Sometimes he wants a bit of work so he can get a few bob to buy his rum, or a new pair of boots, or the like.” He was wheezing between giggles now, clutching his wobbly belly. “So what he does is he gets to a selection and camps nearby in the bush. After a while he sneaks about and busts a windmill or two, then creeps back to his camp and just loafs around for a few days. By and by, after the tanks have been drunk dry by the stock, old Josie goes up to the squatter, as bold as you like, and asks if there is any work. ‘I can do pretty much anything,’ he says. ‘But windmills is my speciality,’ he says.” And Happy Jack laughed until his whiskers almost danced off his chin.
‘Can you really fix windmills, Josie?’ Brennan said slowly, thinking the whole thing a bit dishonest.
“Only ones what he broke hisself,” Happy Jack said before Josie could answer. “Got caught out once, too. The squatter’d fixed the windmill what old Josie broke, but there was another one over the rise that Josie didn’t know about. Old Josie had to pull up the whole workings with a winch so he could fix the foot valve, a hunnert feet down it was; took him two weeks, the old villain,” Happy Jack laughed. “Yer’da thunk that would’ve learned him, but he still pulls the stunt from time to time.”
“Taint true,” Josie said in mock protest. “Even when I bust ‘em up a bit first, I still give ‘em a good overhaul, so the squatter gets a good deal. Don’t you listen to that old rascal, Brennan.”
Brennan looked at the two old men and smiled. “If you let me toss in with you, I’ll share the money,” he said. “I don’t know how to live on the track; you can teach me.”
Josie rubbed his chin reflectively. “Well,” he mused, “a man can walk where he pleases in this land, so you don’t need our permission to tag along. But there is a lot to learn about survival on the road, and Happy and me can sure learn yer that. We are a bit short of a quid, come to mention it; a share of yer kitty would be a fair cop fer a bit of bush craft trainin’, I s’pose. We are too close to the city to get much of a handout; people are darn unfriendly until yer git ter the outback.”
He stood up and rubbed his old limbs. “All right, Brennan me swaggie mate, yer can toss in with us. We’ll poke down this lane to the next village and stock up with enough tucker and stuff to get us further west, and while we’re there we’ll kit you out with a proper swag too.”
The three of them shouldered their swags and set off towards the road just as a family of kookaburras raised their voices in mirth among the treetops. As soon as they left, a flock of warbling magpies descended on the campsite, eagerly cleaning up any scraps left behind by the departing humans. Brennan stepped out with a bold sense of purpose, wondering what unknown force had caused him to follow the small track the night before. In any case, he was glad that he had heeded his instincts, making it possible to meet these two resourceful and friendly old bushmen.
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