Memories Of Edie

Creek

By “Old Timer”

ANDY GILLESPIE was a bit late in get ting to Edie Creek. He had made a bit of a clean-up on the Lakekamu and, with more money to his credit than he had had for many years, he decided to visit Scotland and see his old mother. It was many years since Andy had been home—years spent as a deep-water sailor, in tin mining in the Northern Territory, and on every gold-rush in Papua.

One of the features of the big Wembley Exhibition of that time was the rough riding and buckjumping exhibitions, with competitors from all ports of the world.

After the big Exhibition broke up, small buck-jumping shows began to tour Eng land and Scotland.

One arrived at Andy’s home town on a day when Andy had been celebrating valiantly with his boyhood pals. They all went to the buckjumping show. Andy looked like a fair-dinkum bushman, with his bandy legs and weather-beaten feat ures.

The ringmaster was offering £5O prize to anyone who could ride the outlaw of the show; and Andy’s pals urged him to give it a go. One of them threw Andy’s hat into the ring, and Andy followed it. Andy, be it said, had never ridden a horse in his life!

The Ringmaster sidled up to Andy.

“Where are you from, sport?” he asked.

“I’m from the Northern Territory of Australia,” said Andy.

“Can you ride?” asked the Ringmaster.

Andy spat expertly. “I wouldn’t blanky well be in here if I couldn’t ride,” he said.

“Well, look sport,” said the Ringmaster.

“This is the only decent buckjumper we’ve got, and if you rode him fair-dinkum he wouldn’t be fit for anything afterwards.

I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it worth a fiver if you’ll pull out.”

Andy pulled out!

He Mixed His Boats

ANDY was returning to Papua from Scotland, via Suez and Australia.

They were a snooty mob on board, and Andy didn’t take to them. He found his own haunts, where most of his con versation consisted of the magic phrase “Fill 'em up again.”

At Colombo, the liner anchored in the stream, and Andv went ashore. There he met two or three fellows of his own style, and they got well and truly on it.

Some hours later, after dark, Andy, well under the influence, found himself on the waterfront, explaining to a native boat man that he wanted to be taken off to the ship. With a lot of manoeuvring and some assistance from the native boatman, he ascended the gangway and staggered along to the “boozer,” where he promptly fell asleep.

A couple of hours later he awoke with a raging thirst. Another man was sitting there, and Andy invited him to join in a drink. They had two or three, and got conversational.

“Where are you going?” asked Andy.

“I'm going to England,” said the stranger.

“But, how can you be going to Eng land?” said Andy. “We’ve just come from there.”

“I think you’re mistaken,” said the stranger, “this boat’s next stop is at Aden.

Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Fremantle,” said Andy.

“You might be,” said the stranger, “but not on this boat.”

The native boatman had delivered Andy to the wrong liner, and his own ship, by this time, was many miles away steaming southwards. He got home, eventually.

Andy Does Time!

THE early days on Edie Creek were a bit rough and tough. Everybody was getting gold, but it was the devil’s own job to ensure sufficient kai-kai —rice, biscuits, and tinned meat—to keep a box team going. The miners would hang on to the last minute before taking or sending their teams down to Salamaua for a load of provisions.

The older men dreaded the walk down and back. If possible, they would send their teams down in charge of a white man who happened to be “going out,” and occasionally they sent them down unattended.

Andy Gillespie had sent most of his team out to the beach, and his kai-kai was finished. Everyone was short, and he could not buy or borrow a thing. The outlook, for Andy, was a- bit grim.

Then he was called before the Warden’s Court to answer for a minor breach of the Mining Regulations. The Warden’s Court was a tent, and the Warden’s residence was another tent. Andy was fined £3 and, when the Court finished, he made no move to pay.

The Warden sat down to his simple dinner. Andy poked his head through the flap. “Don’t you feed your blanky pris oners?” he exclaimed.

The Warden looked up in astonishment.

“I fined you £3, Gillespie,” he said, “now pay your fine and go home.”

Andy spurned the suggestion. “I’m not paying any blanky fine. I’m cutting it out.”

The nearest European gaol was at Rabaul, and no European had ever before refused to pay a small fine.

“Look here, Gillespie,” said the exas perated Warden, “I’m not going to feed you. I haven’t got enough blanky tucker for myself.”

“I can’t help that,” said Gillespie, “you blanky well fined me, and I’m blanky well cutting it out, and you’ve got to feed me until I cut it out.”

The argument waxed strong, but Andy stood firm. The Warden offered to waive the conviction, but Andy wasn’t having any. He knew his rights, and he was determined to be fed at the expense of the Warden’s scanty stores until his boys got back from the beach. He refused to budge, and threatened all sorts of com plaints to the Administrator and the Minister for Home and Territories.

The Warden weakened and ordered his boy to set another plate for Andy. After three days Andy’s boys turned up with a load of kai-kaL Andy then gravely in formed the speechless Warden that, hav ing now purged his offence, he was prepared to go home.

Red Bill’S Funeral

OLD Bill Parks reckoned that if a creek was good enough for a man to get his bit of gold out of, it was good enough to be buried in. He knew he was breaking up, and he asked his mates, when his time came, to bury him at the back of his claim on the Black Cat Creek (in the New Guinea ranges, between Wan and Salamaua). Instead of that, they carried him over the range and down the ridge to the new church at Wau.

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It was Easter Monday morning at Wau and the town was en fete. The race meeting was set down for the afternoon.

Poker and two-up had claimed their share of devotees around the pub, and the bar was doing a roaring trade.

The church bell commenced to toll, and Bill’s old mates wended their way down to the church. A coffin had been made for Bill, and it lay there before the altar covered with the Union Jack. The pews started to fill up. There was still no sign of the parson.

Most of the congregation had not been in a church for many long years. Arthur Reynolds opened a prayer-book, got to his feet, and began a burlesque of a sermon, in a high-pitched, nasal voice.

Carried away by his own eloquence, Arthur did not notice the parson enter from the vestry and kneel down to pray.

Arthur just carried on.

The parson glared at Arthur, but Arthur was completely oblivious of his presence.

The tittering grew into laughter.

Then Arthur looked up and saw the. parson kneeling there. “Ah, opposition, eh!” he exclaimed.

The parson got square for the indignity, however. After the church service was finished, he dismissed the police boys who, with their handcart, had been waiting outside to carry the coffin to the cemetery.

T think there are enough of us to carry our dear brother to his last resting place,” he said.

We couldn’t protest. The coffin weighed about a ton, and it was a very hot day.

We had to carry it nearly a mile to the cemetery.

Old Bill would have enjoyed that epi sode thoroughly, although we couldn’t see much humour in it at the time.