On the Tucker Track: A Steelman Story

Steelman and Smith, professional wanderers from New Zealand, took a run over to Australia one year to have a look at the country, and drifted out back, and played cards and “headin’ ‘em” at the shearing-sheds (while pretending to be strangers to each other), and sold eye-water and unpatented medicine, and worked the tucker tracks. They struck a streak of bad luck at West-o’-Sunday Station, where they were advised (by the boss and about fifty excited shearers) to go east, and not to stop till they reached the coast. They were tramping along the track towards Bourke; they were very hard up and had to “battle” for tucker and tobacco along the track. They came to a lonely shanty, about two camps west of Bourke.

“We’ll turn off into the scrub and strike the track the other side of the shanty and come back to it,” said Steelman. “You see, if they see us coming into Bourke they’ll say to themselves, ‘Oh, we’re never likely to see these chaps again,’ and they won’t give us anything, or, perhaps, only a pinch of tea or sugar in a big lump of paper. There’s some women that can never see a tucker-bag, even if you hold it right under their noses. But if they see us going out back they’ll reckon that we’ll get a shed likely as not, and we’ll be sure to call there with our cheques coming back. I hope the old man’s got the lumbago, or sciatica, or something.”

“Why?” asked Smith.

“Because whenever I see an old man poking round the place on a stick I always make for him straight and inquire about his trouble; and no matter what complaint he’s got, my old man suffered from it for years. It’s pretty hard graft listening to an old man with a pet leg, but I find it pays; and I always finish up by advising him to try St Jacob’s oil. Perhaps he’s been trying it for years, but that doesn’t matter; the consultation works out all right all the same, and there’s never been a remedy tried yet but I’ve got another.