The Storming of Grants Groggery:

Roaring Days in Old Broad Arrow 1908

A Pioneer Publicans Troubles
The Storming of Grants Groggery

There used to be some purple hued hours in the now decadent old ” Arrow,” in tho devil-may-care and open handed Nineties. No one cared about the troubles of today, nor went out of his road to meet those of tomorrow. Some of them had either sold or floated their properties, and every leaseholder was a potential millionaire, and what is more, felt that way— for it was a surprisingly tough proposition that couldn’t find some bounder to take it under option for a cool twenty thou or so. Those were the days, according to Smiler Hales, when Bill Dwyer fought the Grizzly bear in what is now known as Hill street. And speaking of Bill reminds me of the night the ” Dwyer “clan, all from Tassy, took full possession of the pub, bar and barmaid, and held it unchallenged till the early hours of the morning. Then when they staggered home with a bottle of rum in each pocket for an eve opener next day, Jim Grant and his ‘partner Greig ventured out of the adjacent scrub where they had been  shivering all night and watching operations from a safe distance. Old Grant, a very well known character in those days, had some rather more turbulent spirits to deal with than the divinity-hedged bung of to-day, and he will remember no doubt, if still outside the gates of Tophet, the evening the Hill End lads, then turning 16 ounces to the ton out of their mill, came down to celebrate one of their periodical birthdays at the shanty. These occasions always provided a wet day, a tropical downpour in fact, for the Arrow, when every one was bound to get soaked in rum.
There were no distinctions made, no social hurdles erected, in ’95 and English Johnnies, speculators wide awake mining sharks, and dead-beat but buoyant prospectors fraternised like one man, and the flow of beer, in luck, or out of it, was a perennial one for all hands.

But the entertainment, on this particular occasion, had been as deadly dull as a church service – not a fight, not a song, not oven a decent argument – so by way of infusing a little life into the proceedings, Jones, a Hill shareholder, conceived the brilliant idea of cracking up every stick of furniture in the House of Grant and then having a regular Guy Fawkes bonfire in the tap room. The first half of the programme was carried out with such thoroughness that there wasn’t so much as a three legged stool left in the premises for a man to sit down on. But just at this interesting state of the game, and as Grant and Greig were preparing to make a defensive stand to save their shanty from destruction, up drove Warden J. and a big bug mining man named Turnbull, from Kalgoorlie, and a truce was proclaimed, during which many fraternal snifters were dealt with and then the whole party, including the Warden, adjourned outside to discuss the situation.

But Grant and Greig must have been harassed with doubts as to the result of the conference, for they at once slammed the door and barricaded it with beer barrels, the only movable material left whole in the place. Demands for re admission were hiccoughed through the key hole, but without reply. Then the Warden invoked the name of the Law to that end, but with no better success. It was very evident that strong measures would be required if they were not prepared to spend a doughty night in the mulga. So, having been tacitly appointed leader and master of ceremonies, tho warden marshalled his boozy army in military order and informed them he had decided on taking the lost position by assault.
Picking out three of his burliest and soberest henchmen he directed them to uproot Grant’s lamp post to be used as a battering ram in their offensive operations. The order was quickly complied with, and the attacking force grouped together with a 20-foot pole standing on end in their midst –  they were waiting for the next order.  ‘Tenshun’ yelled the Warden in a pretty thick voice ; “Preshent arms !” and the business end of the post was lowered to the necessary angle. “Charge, you blankers.” he howled, and in went the ram, crashing through the door, over rolled the barricading beer casks, and the invading army was again in possession of the fortress in less time than it takes to tell this yarn. The defenders, however,  had sought safety in flight, but where the pioneer bungs of the Arrow roosted on that occasion has never been made clear.
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