Gumtree Hollow

Like “Ben Bolt’s” mill, Allan’s farm, situated by the River Torrens,

had gone to decay and ruin. It was a flourishing place before the death

of Peter Allan, but the farmer had been taken away, and his widow and

her three children had to fight out the battle of life unaided. The

property had been heavily mortgaged three years previously, and, what

with unfavourable seasons and other misfortunes, the widow Allan had

not been able to repay principal or interest of the money borrowed, and

the creditors therefore gave the farmer’s wife notice to quit.

Fortunately, Mrs. Allan had a brother who had gone to some diggings in

New South Wales, and had left in charge of his sister an old hut and a

patch of land known as Gumtree Hollow. In the emergency the widow

determined to occupy the place until she could find a more suitable

home. The Hollow consisted of about two acres of crags and stones,

without sufficient soil to grow a potato in, and was distant from the

farm about five miles.

On a warm afternoon, three days after the widow had received notice to

leave the homestead, little Charlie Allan, the eldest boy, aged twelve,

started to the hut at Gumtree Hollow with his mother’s goods and

chattels in the spring-cart. It had been arranged that after delivering

his load the lad should return for his parent and his brother and

sister. Charlie was intelligent and very kind-hearted. He had noticed

his mother crying bitterly, and he had followed her into a back room

where his father had died, and there putting his little arms about her

neck he had tried to soothe her with many assurances that when he

became a man he would work for her and buy the place back again.

Old Bob, the pony, didn’t like the road to the hut, but repeatedly

turned to retrace his steps every half-mile or so of the journey.

Nevertheless, Charlie managed to get him there at last.

In a ravine between a natural cutting of jagged crags stood the old

building, overshadowed by a gigantic tree whose wide-open trunk, hollow

as a bell, had often afforded shelter to straggling picnic parties. It

was a grand, old, hoary gum, knobbed and gnarled with age, and whose

spreading branches formed a canopy over the dilapidated hut. One long,

fork-like branch projected farther over than the rest, on the extreme

end of which something perched, swaying the bough to and fro with an

easy motion. Charlie, thinking it was a parrot, took up a stone for a

shot; but he dropped the stone again instantly, as a voice from the

tree uttered a shrill peal of laughter.

The poor lad’s first thought was to take to his heels and run for it;

but the voice called out in a kindly tone, “Hallo! Charlie ’avic, how

are ye, Charlie Allan?”

The boy gazed upward in amazement, and beheld a wee, teeny, queer

fellow, hardly six inches high, sitting astride the branch, and gazing

down with a knowing look at him. The creature’s dress was green; from

his shapely shoes to his brimless hat, swallow-tailed coat, breeches,

stockings, all were the verdant green colour.

“Who are you?” questioned Charlie, recovering from his surprise.

“Shure I’m an Irishman,” cried the little fellow, at the same time

springing to the ground. “A rale paddy, an’ I may tell you that there

isn’t a fay or a gnome in South Australia that I can’t leap or swim

wid; do’s thee hear that, ’avic?”

He was such a dwarfed miniature of a man, and appeared such an impudent

swaggerer—with his chimney-pot hat on one side of his head, and his

saucy turned-up nose—that Charlie felt inclined to pick him up and cuff

him soundly.

“What is your name?” asked the boy, making a sudden dive at the

creature.

“McKombo,” answered the sprite, dodging under Charlie’s legs. “My name

is McKombo; but be aisy wid ye now, an’ don’t be after trying to take a

mane advantage of me.”

“I’d scorn to do it,” said Charlie, unconsciously clenching his fists.

“Who are you; what are you; and what do you want?”

“Be aisy, Charlie. Arrah’, don’t be botherin’ me wid too many

questions,” said McKombo. “I’ve tould ye I’m an Irishman. Captain

Brophy imported me to the colony in a hat-box twenty years ago.”

“Why, you’re a fairy,” suggested the lad, eyeing his strange companion

askance.

“Of course I am,” replied McKombo, “and I may tell you I’ve been

waiting all this blessed day to see you.”

“To see me?”

“Thrue for ye, Charlie. I am very well acquainted wid all the bother

an’ trouble that’s going on at the farm, an’ I mane to help your mother

clane out of it.”

Poor Charlie felt as if he could have hugged McKombo, but the sprite

kept his distance and said quietly, “You haven’t such a thing as a

spade and a pick among the things in the cart?”

Charlie had, though. Both the pick and the spade he had used many a

time at the farm, and he produced them at once; but he looked

doubtfully at McKombo as to what he was to do with them or how they

could be the means of assisting his mother in her difficulties. It

seemed very business-like, however, the way the sprite led Charlie to

the hollow trunk of the great gum-tree, and commanded him to dig within

a certain circle he at once marked out. The goblin’s promises of

certain and speedy benefit gave the boy faith and energy to dig and

delve away with might and main until there gaped a large hole within

the trunk, which revealed some of the thick roots beneath, also the top

of a square tin box, such as lawyers keep their deeds in. The moment

McKombo caught sight of the box he began to caper about the sward in

antic glee.

“Hurrah!” he cried, tossing up his hat. “There it is, me boy, safe an’

sound, as on the night I saw them murthering scoundrels place it there

twenty years ago.”

Poor Charlie stared at the fairy, and wiped the perspiration from his

heated face, but he could not comprehend what his companion meant.

Acting under McKombo’s directions, young Allan made a lever and got the

box out of its bed. It did not appear large, but it was very heavy—so

heavy that the boy could hardly lift it; the thick coating of paint on

it had preserved it from rusting and decay, and it was fastened with an

iron padlock. With one blow of his spade Charlie broke open the lid,

when—lo! he saw a heap of dark yellow sovereigns and several parcels of

bank-notes within. The sight made him faint and giddy with surprise and

delight, so that he could not utter a word.

“Look there, now. See that,” ejaculated the sprite, pointing to the

treasure. “One evening, twenty years ago, three men brought that box

here and hid it beneath the trunk of this old gum-tree; they went away,

but never returned for it. In time a poor woodcutter built his hut

beneath the great tree, and I watched him come and go to his daily

toil, until he could toil no more and they carried him forth and buried

him on the river-bank. Then came your Uncle George, my boy, who

purchased the place for ten pounds; but had he known of the riches

under his very nose, I’ll go bail he wouldn’t have gone away to dig for

gold.”

“Why didn’t you tell Uncle George about this money?” asked Charlie.

“Bekase he would have spent it recklessly, honey, that’s why. Money

ill-spent or misapplied is a great evil. Put the box on the cart wid

the things, and return to your mother. Off wid ye, boy, at onst.”

“Won’t you come with me?” pleaded Charlie.

“I can’t, ’avic, I’m going to a christening at McFadden’s in the Glen.

Away ye go. Good-bye.” Saying which, McKombo vanished from his sight.

Widow Allan was very much astonished when Charlie returned and told his

story, but her surprise was still greater when she saw the box of hard

cash. She counted the money, which amounted to over three thousand

pounds sterling; after which she fastened the box again, and wrote a

letter to the manager of a certain bank in Sydney, and to which most of

the notes belonged.

In due course the bank sent a representative to Allan’s farm, who

informed the widow that the bank had been robbed of over three thousand

pounds one night in June twenty years ago, and which had never been

recovered. The bank agent departed with the money, but he left the poor

but honest widow a cheque for £500—a sum which not only paid off the

liability upon her farm, but enabled her to put something by for a

rainy day and for Charlie when he came of age.