WITH THE BILOELA EXCURSIONISTS
By G.W.
IT was only after we had borrowed the next-door-but-one neighbour's alarm clock to wake us up at four o'clock to catch the excursion train to Biloela we found that whilst it would keep passable time if you laid it onits face, the alarm would not go off no matter what side you laid it on. Never mind, the womenfolk said, it was just as easy to wake up at 4 o'clock as 8 o'clockif you only made up your mind about it; merely a matter of will power— and of course not staying up too late at the Anzac Club, in any case there was no need to worry. They hadn't been getting men off to work at all hours for 30 years without being capable of pulling off a little job of this nature.
But we were very firm on this point. No one was to be bothered with the job of getting us off. It was our own little affair. “We'll be away hours before any of you open an eye,” was our final admonition.
It was exactly twenty-five to two — if we remember rightly — when we I bounded out of bed for the first time thinking the train must be on thepoint of departure. A pity to have wakened so early. Still it was worth it to know we could notch another three hours' sleep.
The tooting of a motor horn bringing home a late but lively party from somewhere out Glenmore way had us out at 2.15 in the belief that the car had arrived to take us to the station. A rooster crowing out of his turn at 10 minutes to 3 flushed us for the third time. At 3.30 a disturbing dream in which we were chasing a train up The Razorback broke our rest.
It must have been after this that we fell into a sleep such as opium smokers enjoy. Oh that it would last forever.
Then a hand shook us, and a voice said: “Come on, there's a cup of tea ready and the car will be here in ten minutes.”
“Where have you been all night — playing poker?” asked that keen observer Mr. Luck as he gazed into the more or less limpid blue eyes of your correspondent at the railway station. “Poker, be hanged!” we answered tartly. “We've been practising getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning.”
In spite of the hour of departure it was what the Junior Reporter would call a 'goodly company' that boarded the Biloela excursion train. A member of Parliament, a banker, an alderman or two, a shire clerk, an editor, the Y.W.C.A. secretary, a handful of public servants, quite a cluster of the younger business community — 5 o'clock is far too early for the merchant prince to separate himself from the sheets - and the Labour Band. Later in the day the Independent Member in a public speech referred to us as 'these distinguished visitors from Rockhampton'. We blushed, but accepted the soft impeachment, and the Independent Member consolidated his position quite considerably so far as his seat at the next election is concerned.
There are many points of interest in the train journey from Rockhamptonto Biloela. The first point of interest to our excursionists was the Mount Morgan railway refreshment room, where we breakfasted at half-past six on tea and sandwiches. The next was the Wowan refreshment rooms where we breakfasted again on tea and less substantial sandwiches. Thethird point of interest was the Raines Hotel, just across the road from the station. A good sprinter with a clear run can, they say, do it in 12½ seconds. No one made this time on account of the size of what the racing reporters call 'the field.' But the event recalled the pictures of a race to peg out a claim on the South African diamond fields.
The scenery is not so interesting on the Callide branch as the Rockhampton to Rannes run. That is be cause the stations are small and with out refreshment room.
There is one exception. As the train approached Jambin old hands began to move towards the landing platforms. Those who had not done too well in the Rannes sprint removed their boots. They were not going to be so badly served this time. But alas, there was no race at Jambin. The train did not stop long enough and the excursionists were denied a first-hand acquaintance with Stone's Famous Pick-Me-Up— though, they had a good look at the laboratory where it was reputed to have been made.
There is no question that Biloela was out to do us proud. The whole community turned up at the station. Flags and streamers with words of welcome fluttered across the street. One hotel had lashed tree branches to the verandah posts after the manner of shopkeepers at Christmas time. A dog-fight started. Motor horns honked and cars dashed about themain street. The dust became thicker, the flies more attentive.
We had hardly expected or deserved a welcome like this. We felt unworthy and at a loss how to express our appreciation. But we had forgotten the Labour Band. Soon there was a stir down near the railway station The Band, its ten members widely spaced, came marching down Biloela's main street playing a spirited march.
We felt that Rockhampton had at least offered something in return, and then bringing our minds back to more practical things beat the local lads to the bar before the rush set in after the procession. Also we staked a claim out on a seat at the dinner table, before all had gone. These are little details that must not be overlooked on excursion days.
Biloela's courtesies did not end with the flag waving. The town placed its motor fleet at the disposal of the visitors to 'see the district'.
Your correspondent was of the company which included the Independent Member and visited the Experimental Farm. Later we went to Thangool, which is eight miles further on. Thangool was deserted when we were there in the afternoon. It was Biloela's day, but some of Thangool's stickers refused to be lured away.
There is a pretty rivalry between Biloela and Thangool, besides which I imagine all other town rivalries are a case of love at first sight. Biloela doesn't like the headway Thangool has made in the last 12 months, and Thangool considers there is no longer any need for Biloela’s existence except as a whistling station. It is not easy to say who’ll win out. Biloela has the advantage of the start, but Thangool is the terminus of the line and is making up her leeway in seven leagued boots.
There is urgent need for someone to let the world know how to pronounce the name of Biloela. When the train left Rockhampton everyone was calling it 'Billoweela'. After the Mount Morgan contingent joined it was 'Bilowla'. But when we reached the place itself half the natives were calling it 'Billoweela' and the other half 'Bilowla'.
Perhaps the best way out would beto adopt the name of the Rockhampton lady who told her neighbours that all her young people had gone off to “that place they call Billylulu”.
At the sports ground they asked for a few words from the Independent Member. He could not find it in his heart to disappoint them. He had to climb up on to a very high and very ricketty scaffold. But his time was not yet. After wishing the Biloela community a Merry Christmas and advising them to treat their Adam's Apple and Abdominal Cavity generously — Mr. Luck was later accused of priming the Independent Member up on this subject in the interests of Rickarts' Xmas cakes— he safely descended to terra firma.
This was not the Independent's only risk. We rode back from the sports ground in the back of a small truck carrying its full quota. The road was the one in which a truck had piled itself up against a tree earlier in the day.
Your correspondent and the Independent Member have been in many tight corners since our paths crossed. We caught his eye as he braced hlmself against the woodwork. We tried to look cool and unconcerned and as though we were used to this kind of thing. We even commenced a flippant and airy conversation and the result was greatly reassuring. Then like the well-conducted heroine in the melodrama we thought it best to place our unbounded faith and trust in our chauffeur, and gazed at the ruts with haughty indifference.
And like the smiling courteous all conquering hero that he Is Mr. Tontolini brought us back safely to the station without even turning a hair.
We left Billoweela — or Bilowla or Billylulu— to the exchange of cheer's, and gave a promise to come back again when the cotton was in bloom and the files have gone to their winter quarters.
On the way home a tense look plastered itself over the faces of the young merchant princes. Recently they had paid two pounds ten for a “visualisation” course designed to assist the memory in remembering the names of the people you meet. For instance if you are introduced to a Mr. Baker you immediately 'visualise' him in the form of a 4lb. loaf of Rickarts best product. Next day you see this fellow in the street. You can not recall his name, but you do remember that you associated him with a quartern loaf. Then tt comes to you. “Good morning, Mr. Baker,” you say, and he marvels to himself, “Wonderful memory that chap's got.”
I believe the merchant princes had almost convinced themselves — almost but not quite — that they had got their two pound ten worth when they visited the Callide Valley. But there half the men they were introduced to were of Italian or Russian nationality. Under this strain the visualisation scheme brought large corrugations to the noble brows of the students, and at Rannes they clipped two seconds off the morning's time for crossing the road.
Hot pies and tea at Wowan sustained us till Mount Morgan was reached. We came down the Razorback in two divisions, and it was just on 11 when the lights of Stanley street showed up. And this was the end of another almost perfect day.
“Central Queensland Herald” 27 November 1930 p3