The Speech Day

Now it's against my principles to gamble, so I took steps to remove the element of chance from the draw and ensure that the bike came to me. As it might arouse suspicion if I were to make the draw myself, I suggested that the chairman of the group should do it. He was getting on and had poor eyesight. It would be even more suspicious if I owned the winning ticket, so I looked around for an intermediary. One of the members of the group was called Hoppy, because he had lost a leg in the Dardanelles. He hadn't bought a ticket because a motorbike would be no use to him. I asked him if he would buy a ticket if there was a £25 cash alternative. When he said he would, I promised him that if he won, I would buy the bike from him immediately for that amount. That persuaded him.

The draw was made on stage at the group's meeting hall. All the counterfoils went into the drum - well, all except those from my private tickets and from Hoppy's ticket. The drum was given a good roll, then the chairman drew a counterfoil. He unfolded it and blinked at it blearily. As I had expected, he couldn't make the number out.

"What does it say?" he asked.

Swiftly I took it from him and read out, "103," which was, of course, Hoppy's number. Then I passed Hoppy's counterfoil, which I'd had in my hand all along, to the secretary, who confirmed the number.

Hoppy cried out, "That's me!" and made his way forward on his crutches. There was an embarrassed silence for a moment as members wondered if it might not be in bad taste to give a motorbike to a one-legged man. Hoppy reassured them, declaring "Harry here has promised to buy it off me." Applause broke out, partly congratulating Hoppy on his win, and partly commending my generosity.

I took the motorbike back the next day. The profit on the bike plus the sales of my private tickets gave me a net return of more than £100. As the good book says, boys, "Muzzle not the ox that treadeth out the corn," - but before you start make sure it's not hungry.

* * *

Thinking that it might be a good idea to lay low for a while, I went up to Brisbane to stay with a sheila I knew there, name of Brizzie Brenda. We worked the pubs with a nice little act which played out in three scenes.

Scene one, I go into a pub, describe Brenda, and ask if she's been in. The barman says no. I then have a drink while waiting for her, and get more and more impatient when she doesn't show up. I explain my agitation to the barman by telling him that she and I bought a lottery ticket between us, and tore it in two, each keeping one half. We had agreed to meet in that pub if the ticket won. I show him a torn half of a lottery ticket and tell him that the number has come up for the £500 prize, but I have to go away the next day, and if I can't get together with my lady friend, we will lose the prize. Then I tell him that I have some business to attend to, but will come back later. If my lady friend arrives in the meantime, will he please tell her to wait for me to come back. Then I leave.

Scene two, Brenda comes into the pub and asks the barman if I have been in. He tells her, yes, and that I want her to wait until I come back. She says that she can't wait because her mother is ill. Can she leave something for the barman to give to me when I arrive? Then she puts a torn half of a lottery ticket into an envelope, seals it, and writes on the envelope, "This is what you need. I promised the barman you'd give him £1." She gives it to the barman, telling him he will get a pound tip if he gives it to me when I arrive. She then leaves.

Scene three, I return and ask the barman if my lady friend has been in. More often than not he answers no. I curse and complain that I can't wait any longer, so now we won't be able to claim the prize. The barman likely then suggests that I leave my half of the ticket with him, to give to my lady friend if she should turn up. That offer I refuse, and I turn to leave. The barman then says, "Tell you what, I'm willing to take a chance. I'll buy your half of the ticket for a pound." I tell him it would be a waste of money, there was next to no chance she would return. He keeps increasing his offer, and I keep refusing, until eventually I relent when I judge he's reached his limit, usually between £5 and £10. I am careful to tell him that in my opinion he has just thrown his money away. I leave before he has the chance to put the two halves together and discover they don't fit.

It was surprising how many pubs we could cover in a day. I would go round one pub after another, performing scene one, followed by Brenda doing scene two, then I'd start at the first pub again doing scene three.

What happened if the barman was honest and handed over the envelope, I hear you ask. Why, I'd pay him a pound and look grateful. Does that surprise you? Well, let me tell you that the dishonest ones outnumbered the honest ones by more than two to one, and that I never sold my half of the ticket for less than £5. We took in at least ten times more than we paid out.

People are reliable, boys - you can always rely on them trying to cheat you if you give them half a chance. There was a sad ending to that episode. When I got back to Sydney I found that Brenda had tipped off some mates of hers that I'd be away, and they'd cleaned me out. Cherchez la femme fatale, boys, as the Froggies say.

* * *

When the war came in '39, there was more money around, but I was knocking on 70, so none of it came my way. In 1940 I was bumming on the streets of Sydney. That's right, sitting cross-legged on the pavement with an upturned cap in front of me, begging for pennies.

One day a rough looking fella stopped in front of me and took a fat wallet from his hip pocket.

"Here y'are, mate," he said, and dropped a pound note into my cap.

Well, you can imagine my surprise - a whole pound in one go. That was as much as I'd been getting in loose change in a week. Naturally, my feeling of gratitude soon gave way to resentment. Judging by the size of that wallet, he could have afforded to give me two, or even three quid, the stingy bastard. He was walking away, shoving the wallet back into his pocket. So I shouted after him, "Hey, mister," thinking I could shame him into an extra bung. As soon as the words left my mouth, I saw that his hand had missed his pocket, and the wallet had fallen to the ground, unbeknown to him. Naturally, I shuffled forward quick and tried to snaffle it before he missed it, but he had heard me shout, and turned around in time to see me reaching towards the wallet.

"Thanks, mate," he said. "That's real dinkum of you. A lot of blokes in your position would have kept it for themselves." The mug actually thought that I was trying to return it to him.

He took me off and bought me a meal. He told me he was an opal miner. He'd come into Sydney to sell a bag of stones. That's how his wallet was full. He asked me to be his partner - his previous one had left him.

"What, me?" I asked, "At my age?"

He said all I'd have to do was to be up top while he was down the hole, so that I could get help if anything happened to him. He wanted someone he could trust, and he'd decided he could trust me. I'd be in for ten percent of the finds.

We drove up to the claim at Lightning Ridge in his truck. It was god-awful country, but he'd built a decent shack that housed two comfortably. He'd found a right good strike, a thick vein only a few feet down. He was a hard worker, and every day up came bucket-loads of big nuggets of top quality black opal. Once a week he drove into Walgett for supplies, but otherwise he just kept digging. His idea was to work the seam until it ran out, sell the stones all in one go, and retire. The rate he was going, that wouldn't take long.

One night he'd had a bit to drink, and started talking about his ex-partner. It seems he'd caught him salting a few stones away for himself. I pricked up my ears because, of course, I'd been building up a little stash on my own account during his weekly shopping trips.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Oh, he left."

"Where'd he go?"

"Out there," he said, motioning towards the outback.

"Suppose he comes back?" I asked.

He gave a nasty little laugh. "He won't come back, believe me."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I am that the dingoes didn't go hungry the night he went away." Then his head nodded and he fell asleep.

I wasn't going to hang around to share the same fate. That night I loaded up the truck with our entire haul of stones and drove to Sydney. Of course, I made sure that the dingoes were fed before I left.

The lesson my mining days taught me was, "Do unto others before they do unto you."

* * *

While we'd been in the outback, the price of opals had gone through the roof, especially black opals, and even more especially black opals of the quality I had. That truck-load of stones brought me a tidy sum with more than enough noughts on it. So I decided it was time to come home and see how the old country had been getting on without me.

That, boys, is how I got where I am today, and any one of you can do the same if you just try hard enough.

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

After Harry had finished speaking, there was a moment's silence followed by tumultuous applause from the boys. Some of the older ones so far entered into the spirit of Harry's speech as to shout, "Good on yer, sport!" and similar antipodean expressions. Harry turned, confidently expecting the headmaster's congratulations for such a well received speech, but that individual was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. The rest of the staff had stolen quietly away at various intervals during Harry's address, vainly trying to stifle their mirth as they went.

* * *