The Emu's Head

By Carlton Dawe

"The Emu's Head" by Carlton Dawe. Published by Good Press. Good Press publishes a wide range of titles that encompasses every genre. From well-known classics & literary fiction and non-fiction to forgotten−or yet undiscovered gems−of world literature, we issue the books that need to be read. Each Good Press edition has been meticulously edited and formatted to boost readability for all e-readers and devices. Our goal is to produce eBooks that are user-friendly and accessible to everyone in a high-quality digital format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Good Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 4066338076410

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Prologue 2

Table of Contents

Mr. George Vincent, whom we have already had the pleasure of introducing, though under anything but conventional circumstances, was the only son of Mr. Samuel Horatio Vincent, a gentleman who at one time owned a considerable reputation as an architect in the city of Melbourne; but like too many gentlemen who enjoy fair reputations, Mr. Vincent was inclined to presume, and for such presumption he was fated to pay dearly. As a cat may be killed with care—and we believe no one will attempt to dispute this statement—so may a man’s reputation perish by indulgence. Being a person of illimitable ideas, which he ever strove to indulge to the top of their bent, Mr. Vincent soon found that the consequences attached to such large notions were like the notions themselves—infinite. A fine house in South Yarra, in which he entertained royally, horses, carriages, servants,—all these needed money. It was the same old story. Mr. Vincent got the money and the Jews his property. It was rather a come-down for this estimable family, but luckily, before the final catastrophe, the two daughters married fairly well, so that there were only husband and wife, with the boy George, then a lad of seventeen, to provide for. From South Yarra these three migrated to the wilds of Prahran, and though Master George experienced much sorrow in leaving the grammar school for an office, he was yet old enough to know that there was no gainsaying necessity.

Mr. Vincent, however, instead of regarding his fall as the dire calamity his friends insisted upon making it, looked upon it as a positive godsend, one of those blessings which come in the guise of curses, for it relieved him of innumerable embarrassments, and allowed him to dabble in matters more congenial to his tastes. As he had lost through speculation, while neglecting his own trade, to speculation he turned, resolved to win back fame and fortune or—or go bankrupt again if he could get the chance. Consequently he promoted banks, building societies, mining companies, irrigation schemes—in fact, there was no company of any importance in which Mr. Samuel Horatio Vincent had not his little finger. People quite believed that he was well on the way to fortune once more—for there is no way of making a fortune equal to that of handling other people’s money—but before that belief was wholly realised, Mr. Samuel Horatio Vincent gave up the ghost. Indeed, when they came to reckon up his personalty, his sole fortune consisted of one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Nevertheless, the good man had built up a considerable reputation, and if his premature demise did not quite paralyse the money market, it was known to affect several tradesmen in the neighbourhood of Prahran.

George was in his twenty-third year when his father died, and when we meet him, five years after, he was still in the same dingy office, slaving away for a stipend of three pounds a week, which, as far as he could see, was likely to remain at that figure for some time to come; for his master, Mr. Bash, was one of those good people who always think more of the spiritual than the material welfare of a man. Perhaps he might one day rise to three pounds ten; perhaps again he might recede. When man depends for subsistence on the caprices of his fellow man, he must live in constant terror of the worst. Whenever he approached Mr. Bash on the subject of a rise, that good man seized the opportunity of delivering a homily on the follies of youth and the evil of luxurious living, and when the young man somewhat flippantly replied that he should like to have the chance of living luxuriously, Mr. Bash answered, with a look of horror, that it would profit him nothing if he gained the whole world, and lost his everlasting soul.

And so he went back to his desk, and wondered if he were doomed to pass the rest of his life in this deadly dull routine. Was he for ever to be shut in by four walls, taking stock and casting up accounts? Never! And he chewed his pen till his teeth ached. But the grim walls still surrounded him, and the ponderous ledgers grinned at him as they sat on their dingy shelves. Ha, ha, they seemed to say, you belong to us, you belong to us. You may fret and you may fume, but escape us you never shall. Intolerable! Better be a counter-jumper at once. One may have to measure calico all one’s life, truly, but it must be a pleasure to measure calico for some people. And when your customer is young and chatty, and she turns up those pretty eyes of hers and asks you how much a yard, do you not feel your fingers tremble so that you cut her off a good three inches too much? Believe me, my brothers, there is something extremely fascinating in the life of a counter-jumper. At least, so George Vincent thought. To him there was something fascinating in everything but clerkship, for such a business gives a man no chance. A counter-jumper may save up till he purchases a little shop of his own; then see how handy a wife comes in. But what use can the poor clerk make of his better half? Not that George contemplated matrimony—oh, dear no! Though once he had crossed Brander’s Ferry with a young girl whose beauty had impressed him not a little. He had thought much of her soft eyes and fair face, more, in fact, than he would admit even to himself; and when, some three weeks after, he met her on the public crossing, he thought she was an old friend and raised his hat, but she, blushing vividly, hurried on with averted face. That was the last George saw of his divinity, and though for a long time after, whenever he thought of matrimony, he used to conjure up those sweet eyes and that fair face, he had now almost forgotten the lady’s existence.

Sometimes he used to think he would not mind grinding away at his desk if there were only something to hope for; but the eternal getting up and going to business, summer and winter, in rain or shine, with no hope of improvement or advancement, nothing to which he might look forward in all the years that were to come—this, this was the thing which angered him beyond endurance. Could any life be worse than that of clerkship? Was it a fit occupation for a full-grown, able-bodied man; a man who had ambition and hopes, and whose hands used to itch for something weightier than a pen? He sighed for the vanished Ballarats and the warlike stockades. He would have welcomed any change, from gold-digging to fighting. And yet he could not see how he was to avoid that fatal pen, those grinning ledgers. He grew peevish, irritable, almost misanthropic; and it is certain he developed a turn for sarcasm and cynicism which was not becoming in one so young. He had no friends, that is no intimates, and though people liked him well enough, they always sneered at his imaginary grievances, which, coming to his knowledge, was never known to sweeten his disposition. And thus he lived, and thus he thought, and in this frame of mind was he when that adventure befell him which opens this chronicle.

As he left the police quarters he made hurriedly for his hotel (having long since tired of boarding houses), pressing his hand every now and again to his pocket to feel if the murdered man’s gift were still there. It is true he was all aglow to know what that pocket-book contained, and yet, as became one who had gained a reputation for cynicism, he slackened his pace at different intervals with an exclamation of annoyance, for in spite of himself his heart and legs would run away with him. It was now about three o’clock in the morning. The rain had ceased falling, and the broken clouds scampered like mad things across the face of a sickly moon. Here and there he beheld a crouching figure slink away in the darkness, and a policeman at the corner bade him a cheery goodnight, but beyond that the city lay as quiet as a dead thing. At the corner of Bourke and Russell Streets he stood for a moment at the coffee-stall to imbibe a cup of that warm, if somewhat thick, liquid, which masquerades as the berry of Mocha, for he was thoroughly wet and cold. He did not imagine, though, that the little man who came up and ordered a similar drink had followed him every step from the police barracks. The coffee