First Impressions Count – by Wiero

Jack Lawson was having difficulty with his hair. Since yesterday’s swim in the none too clean water-hole, it had departed from its usual submissiveness and now insisted on standing straight on end. “Just the one day of the year when I wanted especially to look my best,” he groaned. “If you soak it down and keep your hat jammed on, it might be O.K. by the time we get to the homestead tonight,” suggested Jones, who was sitting on a fruit case by the camp door, laboriously sewing a button on his best trousers, and complaining bitterly over the carelessness with which his tailor had attached it.

“I have had to sew the darned thing on three times now,” he said and wondered why Lawson grinned. “Seems years since we were in at the homestead last,” he went on. “Not grumbling about this old camp, mind you. It’s the best of its breed. But, all the same, it’s good to go into the station every three months and see what’s going on in the world.”

“Hand me that pot of glue,” said Jones, “and never mind what’s going on in the world. As long as we can report to the manager that all mills and fences are in good order, dingoes and eagles diminishing at the required pace, we haven’t any cause to worry about the troubles of the rest of the world.”

“In fact,” said Jones, “as long as he knows that the amount of work we do keeps a few jumps ahead of the amount of pay we get, all will be well. Great Scott!” he added, “Look at this damn button, will you? It was dead in line when I started on it and now it’s about an inch out. Well, I’m not going to go through the job again, so it can stay as it is.”

He rose with a sigh and replaced the needle carefully in his hat band. These men were in charge of the station outcamp. Day after day they saddled up at daylight, arranging the usual equipment of quart pot, saddle bag, hobbles, rifle and waterbag, round the horse, who took it all as a matter of course if he was an experienced beast, and who usually gave an exhibition of dedicated bucking if he wasn’t, careering madly round the paddock while oddments of gear flew from his back in all directions. Day after day they returned at sundown, weary and dusty, anxious for a quick shower under the overflow of the big tanks and the well-cooked meal Ah Pat was sure to have ready.

But every three months they were expected to drive into the homestead and Lawson and Jones were now doing up for the occasion. Carefully stored white silk shirts and “greys” were brought out and ironed with painful care of the inexperienced. They tossed up for the one really respectable hat and sought diligently among the many odd socks for two that looked at least something alike.

“I wish I knew how on earth I could get this black windmill grease out of my lily-white hands,” said Lawson, scrubbing relentlessly at a pair of strong brown hands without success, for windmill grease sinks deep under the nails and pores and there defies all efforts to get it out. Ah Fat, the Chinese Camp Cook (he deserves all those capitals, for he was a gem among cooks) was also arraying himself in his best and thinking of the grand game of cards he would have with the cook at the homestead, from whom he had managed last time to lift half a year’s wages.

At Jones’s call of “Righto, Dixie! Put the horses in and bring ’em round,” he bustled around faster than ever, making sure that all was well in his beloved kitchen before he left. Round came the buggy drawn by a pair of very fine bays. They were newly broken in and were the pride of Lawson’s heart. He was anxious to show off his skill as a horse-breaker to the manager and looked forward to rolling up to the homestead at a spanking trot before everyone tonight. “Righto, boys,” he called as they seated themselves, Ah Fat with his legs dangling out at the back.

“Let ’em go!” They let ’em go!

Then, as nothing happened, they besought ’em to go. Finally, they forced ’em to go wi’ the help of six natives pushing the buggy while the horses leant back valiantly against the dashboard. After a few hundred yards of this, the horses suddenly sprang into their harness with a jerk that unseated Ah Fat and left him speeding behind, gasping “Whafore? Whafore?” as he clambered in again. Thereafter miles flew under the flashing hoofs and Ah Fat’s face beamed again over his new pink shirt.

“We’ll get there about three o’clock,” boasted the proud driver. “Can’t they just step it out, eh! Hope there’ll be a crowd there to see us roll up.” “Hope the new governess will be there,” said Jones. “Wonder what she’s like.” “She must be something out of the ordinary if we can believe young Mathews,” said Lawson. “Well, we should make a good impression, rolling up like this, and, believe me, it’s the first impressions that count.”

Here the bays shied violently at an emu which bounded out of the bush across the road. Not that they didn’t know all about emus and their firm conviction that they ‘MUST’ always cross the road in front of motors or buggies, but the horses were fresh and full of beans and looking for excitement. Ah Fat grabbed his hat as it was swept from his head, and hung on again as the buggy bounced over a spinifex bush on its way back to the road.

“Jerusalem!” came an exclamation from Jones. “Look at that storm coming up!”

Storms were an almost everyday occurrence in the North, rising with unbelievable swiftness, shedding lightning and rain over a few local miles and then disappearing like a puff of smoke. This was a big one. Low black clouds were sweeping towards them with the red chimneys of small whirlwinds racing before the storm, and the men watched its progress with the eye of long experience. “Coming down the river,” said Lawson. “But we’ll get in before it gets here, at this pace.” He whistled to the speeding horses.

All went well till they got to the last gate, only three miles from the homestead. And there they stopped. The bays decided that the journey was over, and no amount of reasoning could change their unfounded belief. As the storm grew closer, reasoning and kindness gave place to rude remarks and the skilful use of a businesslike whip. Nevertheless, still they stood, hurt physically and mentally, but sticking to their convictions.

“I’ve heard if you put a bit of soap in their mouth-” began Jones.

“Got a bar in your pocket?” asked the irritable Lawson. “Got some tobacco,” answered Jones. “What about trying that?” They tried the tobacco, which the horses chewed contentedly. They tried blindfolding them with strips of Ah Fat’s pink shirt and nearly pulled their heads off in efforts to lead them, but the bays were admiring the brightness of the blindfold and wondering what strange thing would happen to them next.

Deep warning thunder crashed suddenly overhead and Jones, in desperation, thought of a mean but (theoretically) effective plan. “Let’s roast ’em out. Light a fire under their bellies.” They lit one and it worked, at least as far as moving the horses on a few yards and placing the buggy over the now merrily blazing bush! Then, as the men climbed hastily under to put the fire out, the storm broke with blinding lightning and sheets of rain. At that the horses sprang again into their collars and, knocking over Ah Fat who had been holding them, sped unchecked and alone toward the homestead!

Later, as three muddy, weary and very angry men trudged up the road toward the homestead, Jones nodded toward the verandah where most of the station staff were gathered to shower them with chaff and sympathy, including the new governess.

“Did I hear you say you hoped they’d all be there to see us arrive?” he asked, grinning through the mud on his face. “Well, there they are. And I bet we will make an impression all right, of a kind.”