The Loaded Dog
Dave Regan, Jim Bently, and Andy Page were sinking a shaft at Stony
Creek in search of a rich gold quartz reef which was supposed to
exist in the vicinity. There is always a rich reef supposed to exist
in the vicinity; the only questions are whether it is ten feet or
hundreds beneath the surface, and in which direction. They had struck
some pretty solid rock, also water which kept them baling. They
used the old-fashioned blasting-powder and time-fuse. They’d make
a sausage or cartridge of blasting-powder in a skin of strong calico
or canvas, the mouth sewn and bound round the end of the fuse; they’d
dip the cartridge in melted tallow to make it water-tight, get the
drill-hole as dry as possible, drop in the cartridge with some dry
dust, and wad and ram with stiff clay and broken brick. Then they’d
light the fuse and get out of the hole and wait. The result was
usually an ugly pot-hole in the bottom of the shaft and half a barrow-load
of broken rock.
There was plenty of fish in the creek, fresh-water bream,
cod, cat-fish, and tailers. The party were fond of fish, and Andy
and Dave of fishing. Andy would fish for three hours at a stretch
if encouraged by a ‘nibble’ or a ‘bite’ now and then - say once
in twenty minutes. The butcher was always willing to give meat in
exchange for fish when they caught more than they could eat; but
now it was winter, and these fish wouldn’t bite. However, the creek
was low, just a chain of muddy water-holes, from the hole with a
few bucketfuls in it to the sizable pool with an average depth of
six or seven feet, and they could get fish by baling out the smaller
holes or muddying up the water in the larger ones till the fish
rose to the surface. There was the cat-fish, with spikes growing
out of the sides of its head, and if you got pricked you’d know
it, as Dave said. Andy took off his boots, tucked up his trousers,
and went into a hole one day to stir up the mud with his feet, and
he knew it. Dave scooped one out with his hand and got pricked,
and he knew it too; his arm swelled, and the pain throbbed up into
his shoulder, and down into his stomach too, he said, like a toothache
he had once, and kept him awake for two nights - only the toothache
pain had a ‘burred edge’, Dave said.
Dave got an idea.
‘Why not blow the fish up in the big water-hole with a cartridge?’
he said. ‘I’ll try it.’
M He thought the thing out
and Andy Page worked it out. Andy usually put Dave’s theories into
practice if they were practicable, or bore the blame for the failure
and the chaffing of his mates if they weren’t.
He made a cartridge about three times the size of those they used
in the rock. Jim Bently said it was big enough to blow the bottom
out of the river. The inner skin was of stout calico; Andy stuck
the end of a six-foot piece of fuse well down in the powder and
bound the mouth of the bag firmly to it with whipcord. The idea
was to sink the cartridge in the water with the open end of the
fuse attached to a float on the surface, ready for lighting. Andy
dipped the cartridge in melted bees’-wax to make it water-tight.
‘We’ll have to leave it some time before we light it,’ said Dave,
‘to give the fish time to get over their scare when we put it in,
and come nosing round again; so we’ll want it well water-tight.’
Round the cartridge Andy, at Dave’s suggestion, bound a strip
of sail canvas - that they used for making water-bags - to increase
the force of the explosion, and round that he pasted layers of stiff
brown paper - on the plan of the sort of fireworks we called ‘gun-crackers’.
He let the paper dry in the sun, then he sewed a covering of two
thicknesses of canvas over it, and bound the thing from end to end
with stout fishing-line. Dave’s schemes were elaborate, and he often
worked his inventions out to nothing. The cartridge was rigid and
solid enough now - a formidable bomb; but Andy and Dave wanted to
be sure. Andy sewed on another layer of canvas, dipped the cartridge
in melted tallow, twisted a length of fencing-wire round it as an
afterthought, dipped it in tallow again, and stood it carefully
against a tent-peg, where he’d know where to find it, and wound
the fuse loosely round it. Then he went to the camp-fire to try
some potatoes which were boiling in their jackets in a billy, and
to see about frying some chops for dinner. Dave and Jim were at
work in the claim that morning.
They had a big black young retriever dog - or rather an overgrown
pup, a big, foolish, four-footed mate, who was always slobbering
round them and lashing their legs with his heavy tail that swung
round like a stock-whip. Most of his head was usually a red, idiotic,
slobbering grin of appreciation of his own silliness. He seemed
to take life, the world, his two-legged mates, and his own instinct
as a huge joke. He’d retrieve anything: he carted back most of the
camp rubbish that Andy threw away. They had a cat that died in hot
weather, and Andy threw it a good distance away in the scrub; and
early one morning the dog found the cat, after it had been dead
a week or so, and carried it back to camp, and laid it just inside
the tent-flaps, where it could best make its presence known when
the mates should rise and begin to sniff suspiciously in the sickly
smothering atmosphere of the summer sunrise. He used to retrieve
them when they went in swimming; he’d jump in after them, and take
their hands in his mouth, and try to swim out with them, and scratch
their naked bodies with his paws. They loved him for his good-heartedness
and his foolishness, but when they wished to enjoy a swim they had
to tie him up in camp.
He watched Andy with great interest all the morning making the
cartridge, and hindered him considerably, trying to help; but about
noon he went off to the claim to see how Dave and Jim were getting
on, and to come home to dinner with them. Andy saw them coming,
and put a panful of mutton-chops on the fire. Andy was cook to-day;
Dave and Jim stood with their backs to the fire, as Bushmen do in
all weathers, waiting till dinner should be ready. The retriever
went nosing round after something he seemed to have missed.
Andy’s brain still worked on the cartridge; his eye was caught
by the glare of an empty kerosene-tin lying in the bushes, and it
struck him that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sink the cartridge
packed with clay, sand, or stones in the tin, to increase the force
of the explosion. He may have been all out, from a scientific point
of view, but the notion looked all right to him. Jim Bently, by
the way, wasn’t interested in their ‘damned silliness’. Andy noticed
an empty treacle-tin - the sort with the little tin neck or spout
soldered on to the top for the convenience of pouring out the treacle
- and it struck him that this would have made the best kind of cartridge-case:
he would only have had to pour in the powder, stick the fuse in
through the neck, and cork and seal it with bees’-wax. He was turning
to suggest this to Dave, when Dave glanced over his shoulder to
see how the chops were doing - and bolted. He explained afterwards
that he thought he heard the pan spluttering extra, and looked to
see if the chops were burning. Jim Bently looked behind and bolted
after Dave. Andy stood stock-still, staring after them.
‘Run, Andy! run!’ they shouted back at him. ‘Run!!! Look behind
you, you fool!’ Andy turned slowly and looked, and there, close
behind him, was the retriever with the cartridge in his mouth -
wedged into his broadest and silliest grin. And that wasn’t all.
The dog had come round the fire to Andy, and the loose end of the
fuse had trailed and waggled over the burning sticks into the blaze;
Andy had slit and nicked the firing end of the fuse well, and now
it was hissing and spitting properly.
Andy’s legs started with a jolt; his legs started before his brain
did, and he made after Dave and Jim. And the dog followed Andy.
Dave and Jim were good runners - Jim the best - for a short distance;
Andy was slow and heavy, but he had the strength and the wind and
could last. The dog leapt and capered round him, delighted as a
dog could be to find his mates, as he thought, on for a frolic.
Dave and Jim kept shouting back, ‘Don’t foller us! don’t foller
us, you coloured fool!’ but Andy kept on, no matter how they dodged.
They could never explain, any more than the dog, why they followed
each other, but so they ran, Dave keeping in Jim’s track in all
its turnings, Andy after Dave, and the dog circling round Andy -
the live fuse swishing in all directions and hissing and spluttering
and stinking. Jim yelling to Dave not to follow him, Dave shouting
to Andy to go in another direction - to ‘spread out’, and Andy roaring
at the dog to go home. Then Andy’s brain began to work, stimulated
by the crisis: he tried to get a running kick at the dog, but the
dog dodged; he snatched up sticks and stones and threw them at the
dog and ran on again. The retriever saw that he’d made a mistake
about Andy, and left him and bounded after Dave.
Dave, who had the presence of mind to think that the fuse’s time
wasn’t up yet, made a dive and a grab for the dog, caught him by
the tail, and as he swung round snatched the cartridge out of his
mouth and flung it as far as he could: the dog immediately bounded
after it and retrieved it. Dave roared and cursed at the dog, who
seeing that Dave was offended, left him and went after Jim, who
was well ahead. Jim swung to a sapling and went up it like a native
bear; it was a young sapling, and Jim couldn’t safely get more than
ten or twelve feet from the ground.
The dog laid the cartridge, as carefully as if it was a kitten,
at the foot of the sapling, and capered and leaped and whooped joyously
round under Jim. The big pup reckoned that this was part of the
lark - he was all right now - it was Jim who was out for a spree.
The fuse sounded as if it were going a mile a minute. Jim tried
to climb higher and the sapling bent and cracked. Jim fell on his
feet and ran. The dog swooped on the cartridge and followed. It
all took but a very few moments. Jim ran to a digger’s hole, about
ten feet deep, and dropped down into it - landing on soft mud -
and was safe. The dog grinned sardonically down on him, over the
edge, for a moment, as if he thought it would be a good lark to
drop the cartridge down on Jim.
‘Go away, Tommy,’ said Jim feebly, ‘go away.’
The dog bounded off after Dave, who was the only one in sight
now; Andy had dropped behind a log, where he lay flat on his face,
having suddenly remembered a picture of the Russo-Turkish war with
a circle of Turks lying flat on their faces (as if they were ashamed)
round a newly-arrived shell.
There was a small hotel or shanty on the creek, on the main road,
not far from the claim. Dave was desperate, the time flew much faster
in his stimulated imagination than it did in reality, so he made
for the shanty. There were several casual Bushmen on the verandah
and in the bar; Dave rushed into the bar, banging the door to behind
him. ‘My dog!’ he gasped, in reply to the astonished stare of the
publican, ‘the blanky retriever - he’s got a live cartridge in his
The retriever, finding the front door shut against him, had bounded
round and in by the back way, and now stood smiling in the doorway
leading from the passage, the cartridge still in his mouth and the
fuse spluttering. They burst out of that bar. Tommy bounded first
after one and then after another, for, being a young dog, he tried
to make friends with everybody.
The Bushmen ran round corners, and some shut themselves in the
stable. There was a new weather-board and corrugated-iron kitchen
and wash-house on piles in the back-yard, with some women washing
clothes inside. Dave and the publican bundled in there and shut
the door - the publican cursing Dave and calling him a crimson fool,
in hurried tones, and wanting to know what the hell he came here
The retriever went in under the kitchen, amongst the piles, but,
luckily for those inside, there was a vicious yellow mongrel cattle-dog
sulking and nursing his nastiness under there - a sneaking, fighting,
thieving canine, whom neighbours had tried for years to shoot or
poison. Tommy saw his danger - he’d had experience from this dog
- and started out and across the yard, still sticking to the cartridge.
Half-way across the yard the yellow dog caught him and nipped him.
Tommy dropped the cartridge, gave one terrified yell, and took to
the Bush. The yellow dog followed him to the fence and then ran
back to see what he had dropped.
Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all the corners and
under the buildings - spidery, thievish, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs,
mongrel sheep- and cattle-dogs, vicious black and yellow dogs -
that slip after you in the dark, nip your heels, and vanish without
explaining - and yapping, yelping small fry. They kept at a respectable
distance round the nasty yellow dog, for it was dangerous to go
near him when he thought he had found something which might be good
for a dog to eat. He sniffed at the cartridge twice, and was just
taking a third cautious sniff when --
It was very good blasting powder - a new brand that Dave had recently
got up from Sydney; and the cartridge had been excellently well
made. Andy was very patient and painstaking in all he did, and nearly
as handy as the average sailor with needles, twine, canvas, and
Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles and on again.
When the smoke and dust cleared away, the remains of the nasty yellow
dog were lying against the paling fence of the yard looking as if
he had been kicked into a fire by a horse and afterwards rolled
in the dust under a barrow, and finally thrown against the fence
from a distance. Several saddle-horses, which had been ‘hanging-up’
round the verandah, were galloping wildly down the road in clouds
of dust, with broken bridle-reins flying; and from a circle round
the outskirts, from every point of the compass in the scrub, came
the yelping of dogs. Two of them went home, to the place where they
were born, thirty miles away, and reached it the same night and
stayed there; it was not till towards evening that the rest came
back cautiously to make inquiries. One was trying to walk on two
legs, and most of ‘em looked more or less singed; and a little,
singed, stumpy-tailed dog, who had been in the habit of hopping
the back half of him along on one leg, had reason to be glad that
he’d saved up the other leg all those years, for he needed it now.
There was one old one-eyed cattle-dog round that shanty for years
afterwards, who couldn’t stand the smell of a gun being cleaned.
He it was who had taken an interest, only second to that of the
yellow dog, in the cartridge. Bushmen said that it was amusing to
slip up on his blind side and stick a dirty ramrod under his nose:
he wouldn’t wait to bring his solitary eye to bear - he’d take to
the Bush and stay out all night.
For half an hour or so after the explosion there were several
Bushmen round behind the stable who crouched, doubled up, against
the wall, or rolled gently on the dust, trying to laugh without
shrieking. There were two white women in hysterics at the house,
and a half-caste rushing aimlessly round with a dipper of cold water.
The publican was holding his wife tight and begging her between
her squawks, to ‘hold up for my sake, Mary, or I’ll lam the life
out of ye.’
Dave decided to apologise later on, ‘when things had settled a
bit,’ and went back to camp. And the dog that had done it all, ‘Tommy’,
the great, idiotic mongrel retriever, came slobbering round Dave
and lashing his legs with his tail, and trotted home after him,
smiling his broadest, longest, and reddest smile of amiability,
and apparently satisfied for one afternoon with the fun he’d had.
Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops,
while Dave went to help Jim out of the hole.
And most of this is why, for years afterwards, lanky, easy-going
Bushmen, riding lazily past Dave’s camp, would cry, in a lazy drawl
and with just a hint of the nasal twang -
"El-lo, Da-a-ve! How’s the fishin’ getting on, Da-a-ve?"
Tommy - The Loader Dog
Stands outside the Whyalla Veterinary Clinic
in Whyalla, South Australia
The sculpture is the work of Andy
Scott from Glasgow.