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                          [Cover Illustration]




                               Stories by
                            MARY GRANT BRUCE
           Large Crown 8vo.  Fully Illustrated.  Cloth Gilt.
                                 POSSUM

    MRS. BRUCE writes with a freedom and grace which must win hosts
    of readers, and there is a lovableness about her Australian
    youths and maidens which makes one never tired of their healthy
    and sociable views of life.

                             JIM AND WALLY

    “There can be no doubt about the success of Miss Bruce . . .
    real pathos which gets hold of the reader, and her effects are
    obtained in a real natural way that makes them all the more
    telling. She evidently knows the up-country life . . . she grips
    the attention from start to finish.”—_Melbourne Argus._

                           A LITTLE BUSH MAID

    “It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian
    readers.”—_Perth Western Mail._

                           MATES AT BILLABONG

    “The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and
    mishaps, are admirably sketched in this vivid
    narrative.”—_Adelaide Register._

                          TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND

    “The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian
    bush, its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely
    various natural life.”—_Daily Telegraph._

                               GLEN EYRE

    “An admirable story, exquisitely told, full of gentle pathos,
    and ringing true all through.”—_The Sportsman._

                           NORAH OF BILLABONG

    “The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which
    makes instant appeal.”—_Manchester Courier._

                             GRAY’S HOLLOW

    “A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic
    delineation of unsophisticated nature.”—_The Scotsman._

                        FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON

    “The story has many more incidents than Mrs. Bruce’s earlier
    books, and though her style is quiet and matter-of-fact, she
    does succeed in infusing reality into her exciting
    episodes.”—_The Melbourne Argus._




                                 NORAH
                             OF  BILLABONG


                                   By
                           MARY  GRANT  BRUCE

         Author of “A Little Bush Maid,” “Mates at Billabong,”
                “Glen Eyre,” “Timothy in Bushland,” etc.


                      ILLUSTRATED BY J. MACFARLANE


           W A R D ,   L O C K   &   C O . ,   L I M I T E D
                     LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO




                        To All the Kind People
                          —Little and Big—
                     Who asked me for “More Norah.”

                                           M. G. B.




                                CONTENTS

                    I BREAKING UP
                   II NIGHT IN THE CITY
                  III THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN
                   IV GOING HOME
                    V WALLY
                   VI THE CUNJEE CONCERT
                  VII MORNING
                 VIII NOON
                   IX A LITTLE YELLOW FLAME
                    X MIDNIGHT
                   XI THE BATTLE UNDER THE STARS
                  XII BURNT OUT
                 XIII BEN ATHOL
                  XIV ON THE TRACK
                   XV THE HOUSE BY ATHOLTON
                  XVI BEYOND THE PLAINS
                 XVII THE PEAK OF BEN ATHOL
                XVIII THE WURLEY IN THE ROCKS
                  XIX THE LAST NIGHT
                   XX DOWN THE MOUNTAIN
                  XXI BACK TO BILLABONG




                          NORAH  OF  BILLABONG




                               CHAPTER I


                              BREAKING UP

                    When Sheelah in the morning
                      Comes down the way,
                    It needs no more adorning
                      To make it gay.

                                 —_Victor J. Daley._

A VERY tall boy came up the gravel path of Beresford House. It was
“breaking up” day, and an unwonted air of festivity and smartness was
evident, even to the eye of a stranger. The garden looked as though no
leaf had ever been out of place, no sacrilegious footmark ever imprinted
on the soft mould of its beds, where masses of flowers still bade
defiance to the heat of an Australian December. The paths were newly
raked; the freshly mown lawns were carpets of emerald, soft underfoot
and smooth as bowling greens. Aloft, on the square grey tower, fluttered
the school flag—a blue banner, with a device laboriously woven by the
fingers of the sewing class, and indirectly responsible for many
impositions, since it was beyond the power of the sewing class to work
with its several heads so close together as the task demanded, and yet
refrain from talking. It was a banner of great magnificence, and the
school was justly proud of it. Only the sewing class regarded it with
what might be termed a mingled eye.

It was early afternoon—too early for guests to be seriously thinking of
arriving. A couple of motors were drawn up in the shade of a big Moreton
Bay fig; but they belonged to parents who lived at a distance, and had
come earlier in the day, to talk solemnly to the head mistress, and then
to whisk emancipated daughters away to an hotel for lunch—which
necessitated a speedy whisking back, so that the daughters might be
apparelled in white, in readiness for the afternoon’s ceremonials. In
the garden, little groups of girls might be seen already clad in festive
raiment and walking with a seemliness that in itself showed that this
day was different from all other days. They turned interested glances
upon the newcomer, who, resenting the gaze deeply, stalked on up the
path, his straw hat tilted over his brown face. Girls in general had not
come much in his way. It was distinctly embarrassing to run the gauntlet
of so many frankly curious eyes.

“There’s some, one’s brother,” said a red-haired damsel, surveying the
stranger across a bush of New Zealand flax. “Yours, Laura?”

“Mine?” said Laura, regretfully. “Not much—mine is fat. He’s a dear, of
course, but his figure’s something awful! I’d be frightfully proud if he
looked like that!”

“I wonder who he belongs to,” said the red-haired girl, with a cheerful
lack of grammar. “Doesn’t he look miserable—he knows we’re talking
about him!” She giggled with wicked enjoyment. The giggle turned to a
whistle. “Gracious! Just look at young Norah Linton!”

Two younger girls, with arms linked and heads close together, had come
into view in a distant corner of the garden, walking decorously, as
befitted their white dresses. It was the taller of the two, a
brown-faced girl of fifteen, with dark curls and extremely long slim
legs, who had caught sight of the boy walking towards the house, and had
promptly acted as though electrified. She relinquished her companion’s
arms, uttered an incoherent exclamation, and dashed wildly across the
lawn, taking the flower bed that bordered it with a flying leap. The
sound of the racing feet made the boy swing round quickly. Then a smile
broadened on his face, and his eyes twinkled. They pumped each other’s
hands enthusiastically.

“Oh, Wally!” said Norah, breathlessly. “Oh, you old brick!”

Wally Meadows laughed outright.

“You don’t know what a blue funk I’ve been in,” he said. “This is a
horribly scary place to come to alone—and I’ve been picturing you made
as prim and proper as all these girls seem to be. But you’re not!”

“Indeed, I’m not,” Norah answered. “And no more are they!”

“Aren’t they, really?” asked Wally, much interested. “Well, they look
it; there’s a girl over there with red hair who looks nearly too good to
be true”—wherein Mr. Meadows showed as much penetration as is usually
given to man. “You don’t mean to say that they’re all accustomed to
getting across a flower bed in your fashion, Norah?”

“Oh, I’ll get into a dreadful row if Miss Winter happened to see me, I
expect!” Norah said. “It’s against the rules, of course—but I had to
run or to yell, or I’d have missed you—and it’s riskier to yell. Oh,
Wally, I am glad to see you!”

“So am I,” said Wally, heartily—“to see you, I mean. You’ve grown
immense, too, Norah.”

“Yes, haven’t I? All my frocks are too short, and I know Dad will say
I’ve put my feet too far through them. Oh, Wally, have you seen Dad—and
Jim?”

“Saw them yesterday. They ought to be here pretty soon—but my brother
motored me down, so I didn’t come with them. Norah—there’s a girl
looking at me, and if you don’t take her away I shall scream!”

“Why, that’s Jean Yorke,” said Norah, wheeling. “She’s my chum, and
you’ve got to be extra nice to her, ’cause she is coming home with me
for the holidays.”

“Then she deserves any one’s kind sympathy,” said Wally, solemnly. He
advanced upon Jean with outstretched hand and a smile that went far to
put that somewhat shy individual at her ease, while Norah murmured a
haphazard introduction.

Jean was a short and rather thickset person, with blue eyes and a
freckled nose, and a square, honest face. Neither chum could have been
regarded as pretty. They were wholesome-looking girls—alike in the trim
neatness that is characteristic of the Australian schoolgirl; and alike
also in the quality of sturdy honesty that looked straight at the world
from blue eyes and grey. Jean was fair, her thick masses of hair
gathered in more tightly than Norah’s curly brown mop ever
permitted—whereat Norah was frankly envious. She was also wont to be
apologetic, because, although a year the younger, she towered over Jean
by half a head. The unfulfilled ambition of Jean’s dreams was to be tall
and slender, and Norah bore a lasting grudge against Fate for denying so
moderate a longing on her friend’s part. She watched her anxiously for
signs of growth, and at frequent intervals measured her height, while
tactfully ignoring what she herself would have called her girth.

Across the introduction came a cold voice.

“Your brother, I presume, Norah?”

Both girls jumped.

“No—only it’s all the same, Miss Winter,” Norah explained, lucidly.
“It’s Wally Meadows—my brother’s chum.” At which Wally removed his hat
and said: “How do you do?” with such fervour that it seemed that his
peace of mind hung upon Miss Winter’s answer. That severe person’s
coldness was a trifle modified as she answered, but it was Arctic again
when she turned back to Norah.

“I saw you crossing the grass—and the flower bed!” she remarked. “Such
conduct is inexcusable, Norah—I am amazed at you. The garden is not the
hockey field, nor is the arrival of any friend to be the signal for such
conduct!”

Norah was scarlet.

“I’m awfully—I mean I am very—sorry, truly, Miss Winter!” she said. “I
forgot all about everything when I saw Wally. You see, he’s nearly the
same as Jim, and I hadn’t seen him for ten months! I won’t do it again.
And Jean never did it at all!”

“I could see that for myself,” said Miss Winter, drily—whereat Jean
became even more scarlet than Norah. “However, it is too late in the
term for impositions—which is fortunate for you!” There came into the
culprit’s eye an irrepressible twinkle, and the teacher relaxed a
little. “Ah, well—it’s nearly holiday time,” she said, smiling. “But,
Norah, dear—do remember that you are over fifteen!”

“I will, Miss Winter—I truly will,” said the criminal. “I’ll behave
beautifully—see if I don’t!——”

The iron gate clanged, and she glanced round with the quick
instinctiveness that never leaves the bush-bred. A tall man and a lad
almost as tall came into view, and at sight of them Norah’s “behaviour”
suddenly fell away from her, and with a little cry that was half a sob,
she fled to meet them. The gravel scattered under her trim-shod feet;
her long legs twinkled with amazing swiftness. Then the big man put out
his arms to her, and she flung herself into them.

“Oh, Daddy—Daddy!” said Norah. “Oh, Jim! Oh-h!” Words failed her.

“My girl!” said David Linton. Over her head he looked at the teacher,
and found that she was human. He smiled at her in friendly fashion.

“We try to teach Norah deportment,” she said, greeting him, and
laughing, while big Jim hugged his sister frankly, totally unabashed by
the amused glances from various parts of the garden. “But I am afraid
the effect isn’t very evident on breaking up day!”

“I’m quite certain we’re demoralizing influences,” he told her. “But
what can you expect, from the Back of Beyond? We’ll try to make her
remember the deportment when we get her back to the station, Miss
Winter. At present, you must make allowances.”

Miss Winter thawed amazingly under the influence of the quiet voice,
deep and courteous, and the Linton smile, which was a wonderfully
pleasant one. It was very frequent upon the face of her pupil, and had
at all times a tendency to upset discipline; and now the same smile
appeared, if more rarely, on the bronzed giants, father and son, who
confronted her upon the path. They were very alike—over six feet—Mr.
Linton had yet a couple of inches to the good, but Jim was overhauling
him fast—lean and broad-shouldered, with the same well-cut features and
keen eyes. Norah said that they had absorbed the good looks of the
family, leaving her none; which was partly true, although the remark
would have moved her father and brother to wrath. In their grey suits
and Panama hats, they were excellent specimens of long-limbed Australia,
and Norah gazed at them as though she could not take away the eyes that
had been hungry for so many long months.

It was evident that neither Jim nor his father found it easy to talk
polite nothings to Miss Winter. Their eyes kept straying to the slim
figure that was the main thing in their world—Norah, who jigged
irrepressibly on one foot and broke into sudden smiles, and forgot
altogether the discipline and deportment that had been instilled into
her during three terms at Beresford House. To put her there at all had
been a proceeding much like caging a bush bird, for, until she was
fourteen, Norah had known only home and its teachings. And home was
Billabong Station, where, apart from lessons that had been a little
patchy, she had lived her father’s life—a life of open-air, of horses
and cattle, and all the station interests. Jim had been sent to the
Grammar School in Melbourne comparatively early, and Norah’s city
relatives, particularly a number of assorted aunts, were wont to deplore
that the little girl had not had the same opportunity of polish. But the
bond between David Linton and his motherless child had been too strong
to break, and the silent man had snatched at every pretext for delaying
the pang of parting.

After all, as he told himself, half in excuse, Norah was no discredit to
home teaching. In books she might be below the average; but of the
unvoiced learning that lies beyond the world of books she had, perhaps,
rather more than falls to the ordinary schoolgirl. A big station is a
little world in itself, and the Bush teaching makes for self-control and
self-reliance, and a simple, straight outlook on the world that is not a
bad foundation of character. Lessons in deportment and manners are not
part of its curriculum: but there are a good many ideas in thought and
practice that it cultivates half unconsciously. Norah had an almost
superstitious regard for doing what Jim termed “the decent thing.”

Moreover, her father had given her an ideal to follow. The mother who
had gone away from them so soon had never been far from his thoughts or
his slow speech: and “Brownie,” the old woman who had taken the little
dark-haired baby from her weak arms, had helped to make the picture of
“Mother” that was so real that Norah had always known and loved it.
Vaguely she knew that there was a lack in her father’s life which she
must try to fill. It had tended to make her gentle—to bring out
something that was almost protective in her nature. There is a trace of
motherliness in every girl-heart; Norah always felt that, while Dad and
Jim were very large and strong and dependable, yet it rested with her to
“look after them.” Had she put her thoughts into words it is quite
likely that the objects of her care might have felt a shade of
amusement; but as she did not, they appreciated her attentions mightily.
To them, the heart of Billabong had dropped out when Norah went away to
school.

And school had been something of a trial. Norah’s bringing-up had been
along lines where rules of conduct are understood rather than expressed;
although she was a well-behaved damsel, in her own setting, it had not
been easy to find herself suddenly hedged in to such an extent that she
lived and breathed and ate and slept by regulation and timetable. She
realized that it was necessary to conform; but practice was a harder
matter, and the time at school had seen many “scrapes” and many
impositions. Common sense and good temper helped her through, and the
appearance of Jean Yorke upon a somewhat lonely horizon had helped in a
different way. But only Norah herself knew just how bad had been the
homesickness and the silent longing for her own old life. She knew that
Dad and Jim would be hurt by knowing, therefore she kept these matters
to herself, and diligently cultivated Jim’s prescription of “a stiff
upper lip.”

Now it was over. There would be other years; but no year could ever be
quite like the first, especially since there was now Jean to help—Jean
being a comprehending person, whose heart had gone out to Norah since
the day of her arrival at Beresford House, three months ago. Jean came
from New Zealand, and she, too, was lonely, with the desperate
loneliness born of the fact that she would not see home or the home
people for two years. When Norah contemplated Jean’s woeful plight she
was ashamed to admit that she had been homesick on her own account. So
they “twin-souled” immediately, and made life very much easier for each
other.

How this last week had crawled! Each night Norah had crossed out the
finished day upon her calendar with thick, red strokes that were some
relief to her pent-up feelings; always doing it just at the last moment
before turning out the light and jumping into bed, so that she might
have the friendly darkness to cover her as she buried her face in the
pillow, wriggling, with sheer physical inability to keep still as she
realized how near were home and Dad and Jim. Near—but how slow the
days! Examinations and matches were over, and the work of the school
slackening. She flung herself headlong into games and “break up”
preparations to make the slow hours pass, dividing each day into hours
and half hours—she even reduced them to minutes, but the sum total
looked too enormous! Her school work was characteristic of her turmoil
of mind. Once she rattled over the provisions of Magna Charta for the
Latin master with a fluency that paralyzed the unfortunate man, who had
merely asked her to decline an inoffensive noun; while Miss Winter gave
her up as hopeless on being informed that Thomas a’Becket Archbishop of
Canterbury, lost his life by drowning in a butt of malmsey! Norah saw
nothing incongruous in the prelate’s alleged death, and spent much of
the hour’s detention that followed in drawing a spirited picture of
it—representing a large barrel, from the yawning mouth of which
protruded two corpulent legs, clad in gaiters, and immaculately shod.
The charm of the picture was in the portion of it that was not visible.
It was unfortunate that it fell into the hands of Miss Winter, who was
handicapped by a literal mind. Altogether, the last week had been more
or less exciting and painful, and it was quite as well that it was over.

The great bell of the school rang out sharply, and a kind of white
flicker came over the garden as the girls moved quickly in answer. It
was the signal to assemble in hall. Norah exchanged looks of longing
with Jim and Wally. Then she and Jean moved off towards the house,
endeavouring to calm spasmodic footsteps.

A little later saw the three visitors making a gallant attempt to
dispose their long legs among the crowded rows of chairs reserved for
parents and “belongings,” while the boys sent rapid telegraphic signals
to Norah, by this time a mere speck amid the white-clad girls massed
upon the platform. The big hall was packed with visitors—proud parents,
each supremely confident that “our girl” was something quite beyond the
average; big sisters, anxious to create the impression of being far
removed from matters so juvenile as school; brothers, wearing the
colours of different schools, and assuming great boredom. Then came Miss
Winter, followed by church dignitaries and other notable people,
including two members of Parliament, who behaved as though engrossed
with affairs of State; whereat the infant classes arose and sang a
roundelay with much gusto, and the business of the day began.

The Billabong contingent was not happy. It was uncomfortably crowded;
its view was obstructed by immense erections of millinery on the heads
of ladies immediately in front; frequently it was tickled on the back of
the neck by similar erections belonging to ladies who leaned forward,
from the rear, manœuvring for a better vision of the proceedings. It was
much embarrassed by the French play, acted by the senior class—the
embarrassment being chiefly due to fear of laughing in the wrong place.
Nor did lengthy recitations from Shakespeare appeal to it greatly, or a
song by the red-haired girl, the said song being of the type known as an
“aria,” and ungallantly condemned by Jim as “screamy enough to scare
cockatoos with!” It brightened at a physical culture display, and
applauded vigorously when a curly-haired mite essayed a recitation,
broke down in the middle, and finished, not knowing whether or not to
cry, until much cheered by the friendly clapping. The moment of the
programme—for Billabong—came when Norah, very pale and unhappy, played
a Chopin nocturne. Wally joined wildly in the succeeding applause, but
Jim and his father sat up straight, endeavouring to appear unconcerned,
but radiating pride. Norah did not dare to look at them until she was
safely back in her place. Then she shot a glance at the two tall heads;
and what she saw in their faces suddenly sent the blood leaping to her
own.

Afterwards came the distribution of prizes—a matter which did not
greatly concern Norah, whose scholastic achievements could scarcely be
classed as other than ordinary. However, she had carried off the music
prize in her class—music being born within her, and, even in lessons,
only a joy. She was still flushed with excitement when the long ceremony
was at an end, and she was able to slip from the platform and find her
way to the waiting trio—standing tall and stiff against the wall, while
the crowd seethed in the body of the hall, and other book-laden
daughters were reunited to parents as proud as David Linton.

“I’ll look after that,” Jim said, with a masterful little gesture,
possessing himself of Norah’s prize. “Well done, old chap!” He patted
her head with brotherly emphasis.

“Proud to know you, ma’am,” said Wally, humbly. “Norah, I was nearly
asleep until you came on to play!”

“And quite asleep afterwards,” grinned Jim. “Snored, Norah—I give you
my word!”

“That’s one I owe you!” said the maligned Mr. Meadows, vengefully. “I
clapped until my horny hands were sore, Norah. Made a hideous noise!”

“Then there were two of us,” said Norah, laughing. “I never knew old
Chopin sound so funny—catch me playing before a lot of people again! I
was scared to look at old Herr Wendt. Probably he pulled out most of his
remaining locks—I know I made at least three mistakes.”

“It sounded all right,” said her father, and smiled at her. “Now, young
woman, this is very nice, but one can have enough of it.” A
wheat-trimmed hat brushed across his face, and he emerged in some
confusion. “How soon will you two girls be ready?”

“Must we change?”

“I sincerely trust not,” said Mr. Linton, appalled at the thought of
awaiting two feminine toilettes of a greater magnificence than was
familiar to him with his daughter. “Not if you have big coats—I’ve a
motor outside. Your heavy luggage has gone, I believe.”

“Yes, it went by carrier,” said Norah, happily. “All right, Daddy, we’ll
be back in five minutes. Come on, Jean!” They disappeared, to re-emerge
presently, muffled in heavy blue coats and wearing sailor hats.
Farewells hurtled through the air.

“Good-bye, Miss Winter. Merry Christmas!”

“Good-bye, Carrots, dear!” This to the red-haired singer, who accepted
the greeting and the appellation cheerfully.

“Good-bye, young Norah. Behave yourself, if you can. But you can’t!”

“Good-bye, Jean!”

“Good-bye, every one. Mind you all come back!”

“Good-bye!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Good-bye, school!” The note of utter thankfulness in Norah’s voice
brought a twinkle to Jim’s eyes.

The motor chug-chugged on the path. Norah did not like motors—horses
were infinitely better, in her opinion. But this one seemed a chariot of
joy. They bundled in, pell-mell.

“Are you all right?” queried Mr. Linton.

“I never was so all right in my life!” said Norah, fervently. The car
slid away into the dusty haze of the white road.




                               CHAPTER II


                           NIGHT IN THE CITY

                   Oh, the world is wondrous fair
                     When the tide of life’s at flood!
                   There is music in the air,
                     There is music in the blood.
                   And a glamour draws us on,
                     To the distance, rainbow-spanned.
                   And the road we tread upon
                     Is the track to Fairyland.

                                       —_V. J. Daley._

“JEAN, can you button me up?”

“Half a minute till I get this ribbon tied,” said the lady addressed,
wrestling urgently with an obstinate bow. “There—that’s got to do! Turn
round, old girl—I can’t see. There you are.”

“Thanks,” said Norah, shaking out her skirt. “Is my hair decent?”

“Yes, it’s all right. Curly-haired people like you always look right.”

“Wish I thought so,” said the owner of the curls. “Dreadful mop, I
think. Will I do, Jean?”

“Do?” said Jean, in some bewilderment. “Why, of course—you look all
right. Why are you worrying?”

Norah reddened slightly.

“Well—I never had dinner in a big hotel like this before,” she said.
“Melbourne hotels are a bit different to the Cunjee one, I guess. And I
don’t want Dad and Jim to be ashamed of me.”

“I don’t think you need bother your head,” said the more travelled Jean.
“You look nice, truly. And I shouldn’t think your father and Jim were
very hard to please.”

“Oh, they never would say anything. But they might think—and be
disappointed if I weren’t all right. You see, it never seemed to matter
when I was only at Billabong. But after all this time at school they’ll
naturally expect me to be different.”

“And do you think you are?” queried Jean, anxiously.

“I don’t think I am, a bit!” Norah answered. “That’s what’s worrying me.
It won’t bother me when I get home, I expect, but this big place seems
different.” She glanced round the hotel bedroom with a quaint air of
anxiety. “I feel just exactly the same as if I’d never been at school at
all.”

“Well, I believe that’s how your father’ll like you,” said Jean,
sapiently.

“And——” Norah flushed more redly, and paused.

“What?”

“Will dinner be—difficult? You know I haven’t been anywhere like this,”
said poor Norah. “Will there be lots of knives and forks and glasses I
don’t know anything about? I don’t want to make an ass of myself, you
know!”

Jean nodded comprehendingly.

“Don’t you worry,” she said. “It’s all quite easy. I stayed here with
father when he brought me over from Christchurch, you know. He helped me
a bit over ordering when the waiter came round—the menu is rather mixed
until you get used to it. You tell your father to do the same. And I
really won’t know a bit more than you, so if we make mistakes we’ll make
them together, and it won’t matter!”

“You’re a dear,” said Norah, gratefully. “I say, would you mind if I go
and find Dad now, and have a little talk to him? His room is quite
near.”

“Of course I won’t,” said her friend. “Hurry up—it’s nearly dinner
time.”

“I’ll come back for you,” Norah called, disappearing into the corridor.
She hesitated a moment in the unfamiliar place—all the doors looked so
exactly alike. Then from behind one came a line of a song, in Jim’s deep
voice, and Wally joined in:—

            “So we went strolling, down by the rolling—
                Down by the rolling sea!”

It made the corridor seem suddenly homelike, and Norah broke into
smiles. Beyond, her father’s number caught her eye, and she tapped at
the door.

“May I come in, Daddy?”

“Certainly you may!” said David Linton, with somewhat startling
emphasis, mingled with relief. “And tie this blessed evening tie!” He
submitted meekly to his daughter’s ministrations. “Ridiculous!—I’m far
too old to get into these clothes!”

“You look beautiful,” said his daughter, fervently. “Daddy, will I do?”

“Do? I should say so. That white thing looks very fine as far as I’m a
judge.”

“Then that’s all right. And, Dad——”

“Yes, my girl?”

“I’m awfully scared of dinner!” Norah confessed. “Will you keep fierce
waiters off me, Daddy? And tell me what to say I’ll have?”

David Linton looked at her and smiled with something like relief. He sat
down and drew her towards him.

“Do you know,” he said, “you’ve looked so fine a young lady to-day that
I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate. I suppose it’s the
clothes!”

“Daddy!”

“But I fancy I haven’t,” said her father twinkling. “Don’t bother your
little head about dinner—we’ll see you through. I don’t quite know how
I’d have liked it if you had been self-possessed about it.”

“Self-possessed!” uttered Norah. “Why, I’m scared to my bones! And as
for the clothes—if you’ll wait until to-morrow and let me get into a
linen collar again——!”

“I’ll know you thoroughly when I have you back at Billabong in your
riding habit,” said her father. “But these clothes are nice, too. I’m
not quarrelling with them. You’re not sorry to come back to your old
Dad?” He paused, watching her.

“Sorry!” said Norah. “Sorry!” And then her tongue suddenly refused to do
its duty. She put her head down on his shoulder, and drew a deep breath.
His arms tightened round her. They were silent for a minute.

“Jim is a good mate,” said David Linton, “none better. But my little
mate’s place has always been empty. It’s been a long time, my girl.”

“Long—to you, Daddy?”

“One of the longest I remember. You see, I never bargained for your
spending midwinter having measles.”

“Neither did I,” said Norah, ruefully. The memory of that inconsiderate
ailment was still a sore thing; at the time it had been almost too sore
to be borne. “It seems just ages since I saw home. Is it just the same,
Dad?”

“I don’t think there’s any difference. Everyone has been busy putting on
a bit of extra polish for the last week; and Brownie says she’s half a
stone lighter—but she doesn’t look it; and there’s a new inmate in the
little paddock near the house calling for your immediate inspection!”

“A new inmate?” Norah echoed.

Jim had come in, unnoticed. He grinned down at her from the hearthrug.

“A rather swagger inmate,” he said, nodding. “Seeing how out of form you
must be, I don’t think it will be wise to let you try him—we’ll put you
up on an old stock horse for a week or so!”

“Will you, indeed?” said Norah, with some heat, yet laughing. “You’re
going to lend me Garryowen—you said so!”

“Garryowen!” said the owner of that proud steed mournfully. “Poor old
Garryowen’s tail will be hopelessly out of joint. One thing, I’ll be
able to ride him myself—being of a meek disposition!” His eyes
twinkled.

Two red spots suddenly flamed into Norah’s face.

“Dad! You don’t mean——” She stopped, looking at him uncertainly.

“There’s something of a pony there,” said Mr. Linton, his keen eyes
watching her through his smile. “An ownerless one—wi’ a long pedigree!
I looked eight months before I found him. His name’s Bosun, Norah, and
he wants an owner.”

There was a mist before Norah’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her head
went down again upon the broad shoulder near her. A muffled word escaped
her, which sounded like, “Bricks!” Norah was least eloquent when most
moved.

Jim patted her shoulder hard, and said, “Buck up, old chap!” being also
a person of few words. For there had been another pony of Norah’s—a
most dear pony, who now slept very quietly under a cairn of stones on a
rough hillside. Not one of those three, who were mates, could forget.

From the corridor Wally’s voice came, gently consolatory.

“I think they’ve all been kidnapped,” he was explaining. “Many a little
hungry kidnapper would think Jim quite a treat! You and I seem left
alone in this pathless forest, and probably the birds will find us, and
cover us with leaves. Don’t let it worry you—I believe the leaves are
quite comfortable!”

“Come in, Wally, you ass!” said Jim, laughing. “He may come in,
Dad——?”

“Apparently he’s in,” said Mr. Linton, resignedly, getting up. “Come on,
Wally—and Jean, too.”

“We’ve been lost—at least, we were until we found each other,” said
Wally. “We came to the conclusion that none of you Billabong people were
left in this little inn. Jean would probably have cried if I hadn’t been
crying—as it was, she felt she couldn’t, which was very rough on her.
Mr. Linton, do I know you well enough——”

“For most things,” said the squatter, laughing!

“——To mention that I am hungry?” finished Wally, unmoved. “My last
nourishment was at twelve o’clock, and it’s nearly seven now; and
theatres in this benighted district begin before eight when they’re
pantomimes!”

Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation.

“I declare, I’d forgotten all about either dinner or pantomime!” he
said. “Thank you, Wally—I’m obliged to you. Where’s my coat? I hope all
the rest of you are ready.”

“Are we going to the pantomime, Dad?” Norah’s eyes were dancing.

“Jim says so,” said her father, laughing. “I’m in his hands.” He caught
up his coat, while Jean and Norah hugged each other in silent ecstasy.
“Now, hurry up, all of you!”

Downstairs, the big dining-room brought back Norah’s shyness anew. She
felt suddenly very young—infinitely younger than Jim and Wally, tall
and immaculate in their evening clothes, although, as a rule, they
seemed no older than herself. She kept close to her father’s wing,
greatly envying Jean’s apparent calm.

The huge room was crowded. It was full of tables of varying sizes, not
one of which seemed unoccupied—until a waiter, catching Mr. Linton’s
eye, hurried up and led them to a corner, where a round table was
reserved for them. It commanded an excellent view of the room, and the
sight was a little bewildering to the two schoolgirls.

Every one seemed in evening dress—and even Norah knew she had seen no
dresses like those the women wore—rich, clinging things, in soft and
delicate colours like the inner side of flower petals. The masses of
electric light took up the leaping light of jewels on their necks and in
their hair; all up and down the room the eye caught the many-coloured
gleam, twinkling and sparkling like rainbow stars. Everywhere was
laughter and chatter and the chink of plates and glasses; and somewhere,
unseen, a string band was playing softly a waltz tune with a lilt in it
like a bird’s note. Norah forgot all about being nervous. Indeed, she
remembered nothing, being deeply occupied with gazing, until she found a
deft waiter putting soup before her.

“That’s my order,” said her father, and smiled. “You and Jean have had
an exciting day, and you’re to eat just what I tell you.”

By these wily means any difficulties the menu might have suggested
disappeared. Moreover, the waiter was a man of tact, and seemed to
regard it as only ordinary if his clients kept him waiting while they
put their heads together over the merits of various items with very fine
French names.

“Experience in these things is everything,” said Jim, surveying a
peculiar substance on his plate. “I ordered something that read like a
poem, and it turns out a sort of half-bred hash! Thanks, I’ll have
beef!” So they all had beef, and finished up rather hurriedly with
jelly, which, as Wally said, could be demolished quickly; for the hands
of the clock were slipping round, and a pantomime was not a thing to be
kept waiting—especially as there was no likelihood that it would
wait!—a reflection that made the situation far more serious. Jim raced
up for coats for the girls, and they all hastened out.

In the street the lights of Melbourne lit the sky. Far as the eye could
reach the yellow glow shone against the star-gemmed blackness. Here and
there a point of special brilliance twinkled—it was hard to tell
whether it was a tall arc light reaching up into the very heavens, or a
lonely star that had leaned down towards the friendly earth. Up and down
the Bourke Street hills the lamps formed a linked chain of diamonds on
either side, while in their midst the low gliding tram-lights were
rubies and sapphires. The big head-lights of motors made gleaming
flashes as they turned, or shot straight up the wide street, twin eyes
of a dazzling radiance—so bright that when they flashed past darkness
seemed to fall doubly dark behind them. And there were creeping bicycle
lights, and streaks of white fire, that were the lamps of motor cycles;
and red and white lights that went by in silent rubber-tyred hansoms,
noiseless save for the jingling bit and the “klop-klop” of the horse’s
hoofs upon the wooden blocks. Advertisement signs in huge electric
letters flickered into sight and disappeared again—one moment dazzling,
the next velvet black; and over picture theatres and other places of
amusement were gleaming signs of fire. And up from the city below came
the deep hum of the people that only ceases for a little when the lights
go out—that wakes again even before the pencils of Dawn come to streak
the eastern sky.

Then a tram came by, took them on board, and in a moment they were
slipping down the hill towards a busy intersection where the post office
stood, a mighty block of buildings, with its tall clock just chiming the
quarter-hour above them. On again, through the wide, busy street, full
of hurrying theatre crowds. Barefooted newsboys ran beside the car
whenever it stopped, calling out harrowing details from the evening
papers. They passed cabs, climbing the further hill; and swift motors
slipped by them—in each Norah and Jean caught glimpses of women in
evening dress, with scarfs like trails of coloured mist. Everywhere the
shop windows were brilliantly lighted, although it was long after
closing time; and scores of people were staring through the glass at the
gorgeous displays within.

Norah gasped at it all. It was her first experience of the City by
night, and she found it rather bewildering.

“Does Melbourne ever stop being busy?” she uttered.

Mr. Linton laughed.

“Not often,” he said—“and not for long. Personally, I prefer old
Billabong. But this is all very well for a little while.”

The car stopped at a point where an electric theatre sign blazed right
across the footpath; and they hurried down a side-street. A string of
motors and cabs had drawn up by the kerb and passengers were hastily
disembarking before a glittering theatre, with uniformed commissionaires
holding the doors open. Norah and Jean had no time to look about them;
they were hurried up a wide flight of marble stairs, and in a moment
were following Mr. Linton into darkness, for already the lights had been
turned off in the theatre, and only a dun green ray filtered from the
stage, where an old man of the sea was engaged in making unpleasant
remarks to a fairy. The orchestra was playing softly—weird music which,
Wally whispered, gave you chills up the backbone. They stumbled down
some steps to seats in the front row, and as they thankfully subsided
into them, the green sea-caves and the fierce old man suddenly vanished
in a whirl of light and a blare of joyful music; and Norah was whisked
straight into fairyland.

In these advanced days of ours, pantomimes come very early into the
scheme of our existence. Most of us have seen one by the time we are
six; at nine we have become critical, and at twelve, bored. After that,
the pantomime may consider itself lucky if we do not term it a “pretty
rotten show.” This painful phase lasts until we are quite old—perhaps
eight and twenty. Then we begin to see fresh joys in it, and if we are
lucky, to work up quite a comforting degree of enthusiasm. At this stage
the companion we like to select must not number more years than six.
Then we feel sure of a comprehending fellow-spectator—one who will not
wither us with a bland stare when we are consumed with helpless laughter
at Harlequin, or rent with anxiety by the perils of the “principal boy.”

But it happened that none of our party had ever been spoilt by over-much
pantomime. It was, indeed, Norah’s first experience of a theatre. Jean
had seen but little more, and Jim and Wally, big fellows as they were,
had worked and played far too hard at school to be much concerned with
going out. None of them was at all brilliant; theirs were the cheerful,
simple hearts that take work and pleasure as they come, and do not
trouble to develop either the critical or the grumbling faculty—which
are, in truth, closely related. If the boys had not the ecstatic
anticipation that seethed in Jean and Norah, at least they were prepared
to enjoy themselves very solidly.

To Norah, it was all absolutely real, and therefore wonderful past
belief. The evening to her was, as she remarked afterwards, “one gasp.”
The hero puzzled her, since it was evident that he was not a “truly”
boy; but the heroine claimed her heart from the first, and the funny men
were droll beyond compare. Indeed, from Mr. Linton downwards, the
Billabong party succumbed to the funny men, and laughed until they ached
at their antics. The fairies were certainly a trifle buxom, compared to
the sprites of Norah’s dreams; but the Old Man of the Sea was
fascinatingly life-like and evil, and caused delightful thrills of
horror to run up and down one’s spine. And then, the gorgeousness of the
whole—the flower and bird ballets, the mysterious dances, the marches,
splendid and stately, the glitter and colour and light! And through all,
over all, the music!—swaying, rippling; low and soft one moment, with
the violins wailing and the harp strings plucked in a chord of poignant
sweetness—the next, swelling out triumphantly, wind instruments in a
blare of vivid sound, and drums and cymbals clashing wild and stately
measures. Afterwards the wonder of the night merged in Norah’s brain to
a kind of kaleidoscopic picture, swiftly changing in colour and
magnificence; but always clear was the memory of the orchestra, weaving
magic spells of music that caught her heart in their meshes.

She was a little breathless when the curtain fell on the first act, and
the lights flashed out over the body of the theatre. Instinctively her
hand sought her father’s.

“Is it all over, Dad?”

“Not much!” said Mr. Linton. “This is half-time. What do you think of
it?”

“Oh—it’s lovely!” breathed his daughter. “Isn’t it, Jean?”

“I should just think so!” Jean said. “Will there be more like it?”

“Very much the same, I expect,” said the squatter, laughing. “And what
do you think of this part of the house?”

It was not the least interesting part. The closing of the city schools
had set free hosts of pilgrims on the ways of knowledge, debarred, as a
rule, by stern necessity from such relaxations as pantomimes. Now it
seemed that parents in general had risen to a sense of their duty, for
it was clearly a “young” night. There were girls and boys in every part
of the theatre—in big parties, in twos and threes, or even singly,
accompanied by a cheery father and mother, in many cases keener to enjoy
than their charges. Everywhere were fresh young faces—girls with bright
hair and glowing cheeks, and sunburnt boys with shining collars: and
everywhere was a babel and buzz of talk and laughter as the young voices
broke loose. A procession—chiefly men—left their seats and filed out;
a proceeding which puzzled and pained Norah, who was heard to regret
audibly that they were making the mistake of thinking the theatre was
over. Wally laid a big box of chocolates on her knee, remarking that she
looked hungry—an insult received by the maligned one with fitting
scorn. At the moment Norah could scarcely have noticed the difference
between chocolates and corned beef!

“Won’t do,” grinned Jim, watching her dancing eyes. “She’s getting too
excited, Dad—we’d better take her home to bed!”

“I’d like to see you!” said Norah, belligerently. “Oh, my goodness,
Jean, it’s going up again!”

“It”—which was the curtain—flashed up suddenly, as the lights went
out, and straightway Norah forgot everything but the wonderland on the
stage. She leaned forward breathlessly, half afraid of losing even a
glimpse of the marvels that were unfolded with such apparent calm. “As
if,” said Norah later, “it was as ordinary as washing-day!”

Ever since she could remember, she had danced. But the dancing on the
stage was a new thing altogether. It was music put into motion; it was
as though the fairies had caught the spirits of joy and poetry and
youth, and turned them all into a rhythmic harmony. There was gladness
in every swaying movement; gladness and grace and beauty. “They all look
so awfully happy!” breathed Norah. But then—who would not be happy,
dancing in Fairyland?

Only, near the end, come one thing that Norah did not like. A children’s
ballet, dressed as flowers, had just danced its way off the stage,
leaving at one side a tall tiger lily; and from the other corner a tiny
thing toddled out to meet it. A wee baby form, almost ridiculous in the
quaint tights of green that made it an orchid—a little face, peeping
out of the green peaked cap. Very daintily, a little hesitatingly, it
began to dance; the orchestra’s music softened and slackened, as if to
help the little half-afraid feet. The theatre rang with applause and
laughter.

“They shouldn’t let it—it’s a shame!” she uttered very low. “It’s just
a baby—and it ought to be in bed! Jim do they make it do this every
night?”

“I expect so,” Jim answered. “Bless you, old girl, I suppose they pay
the kid!”

“Then they haven’t any business to—I don’t know what its mother’s
thinking about!” whispered Norah. “I’m perfectly certain it’s as scared
as ever it can be! It’s only a frightened little baby—I think it’s mean
to dress it up in those silly clothes and make it come out here in front
of all these people!”

“For all you know, old chap, it likes the game,” Jim said, practically.

“I’m sure it doesn’t—look at its eyes! I never saw anything so—so
anxious. Makes you want to pick it up and nurse it,” said his sister, a
straight young monument of indignation. “Thank goodness, it’s gone!” as
the little orchid danced off with the tiger lily. She subsided, somewhat
to Jim’s relief. He was not sure that he had liked the baby orchid
himself.

Then came the final scene, a vision of Aladdin’s Cave, massed with every
gem known of man, and a great number more known only of the stage; and
all gorgeous and glittering beyond any mortal dreams. Rubies as big as
turkeys’ eggs, and emeralds the size of barrels; and walls and ceiling a
flashing, scintillating mass of diamonds. “Worth while having a vacuum
cleaner there,” Wally commented—“you’d only get diamond dust!” And in
this wondrous setting, a shifting panorama of moving figures, almost as
vivid as the gems themselves; fairies and sprites and marvellous
flowers, and tall, slender soldiers in gleaming coats of silver mail.
And always the music that made the magic by which everything grew real.

Then, suddenly the curtain; and Norah came out of her trance, blinking a
little.

“Is that the end?”

“Quite the end,” said her father. “Come on, my girl; it’s high time you
were in bed.” He put a protecting hand on her shoulder, and piloted her
through the crowd, while Jim and Wally performed a like kind office for
the similarly dazed Jean.

Out in Bourke Street, the cooler air blew gratefully upon Norah’s hot
face. But she was very silent as the tram took them back to the hotel;
and when she said good-night, her father scanned her face keenly.

“Sure you’re not over-tired, Norah?”

“Not me!” said Norah, absent-mindedly and inelegantly. “I’m all right,
Daddy.”

“Then you’re half in the theatre yet,” said he, laughing. “Go to bed.”

Norah went, obediently. Just as Jean was falling asleep, a voice came
from the bed across the room—

“Wonder if any one’s tucked up that poor little orchid!” said Norah.
From Jean’s corner came a sound that might have been termed either a
grunt or a snore, according as the hearer might be more or less kindly
disposed. Norah was pondering the problem when she followed her through
the gate of sleep.




[Illustration: “I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate.”]




                              CHAPTER III


                        THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

          Yet long ago it was promised by Someone,
            Who lovingly help for the children implored,
          That if only you gave one a cup of cold water,
            You surely in no wise should lose your reward!

                                           —_John Sandes._

“I’VE an idea,” Mr. Linton said, putting down his morning paper.

Four faces gave him instant attention. It was breakfast time, and plans
for the day were being discussed, a trifle lazily, as befitted people
unused to over-night dissipation.

“We—ell,” said the squatter, and hesitated.

“You have lovely ideas, always, Dad,” Norah told him, kindly. “Tell us.”

“I don’t know that you’ll regard this one as lovely,” said her father.
“Still, I’d like to do it.”

“Well, then, it’ll be done,” said Jim, with finality. “What is it, Dad?”

“If you keep up this mystery any longer, I won’t be able to bear it, Mr.
Linton,” said Wally, much moved. “Prithee, sir——”

David Linton smiled.

“The mystery’s a tame one, you’ll think,” he said. “I thought of my plan
before I left home—old Brownie has been knitting a big bundle for the
Children’s Hospital, and she gave me the things to bring down. Then
there’s a letter in this paper about the hospital. It’s getting near
Christmas, you see; and I don’t suppose those little sick youngsters
have much of a good time. Would you all think it a very slow sort of
entertainment if we went to see them?” He looked round the four young
faces—a little afraid of seeing their eagerness die out.

But Wally smiled broadly, leaning forward.

“I think it’s a ripping idea, sir,” he said. “I guess we all like kids,
don’t we, chaps?”

The “chaps,” who evidently included the ladies of the party, assented
with enthusiasm.

“Tell us more, Dad,” Norah said, “I know you’ve more plan.”

“Well—I’m open to suggestions,” her father answered. “We won’t go
empty-handed; we can take up toys and books and things. It isn’t
visiting day at the hospital. In any case, I think it would be better
not to go at a crowded time. If I telephone to the Matron, I fancy she
will let us come; and she can tell me something about the number of
children. I—I’m a shocking bad hand at preaching, you know”—he
hesitated, gaining encouragement from their friendly faces—“but—well,
we’re looking out for a pretty good time ourselves, and it wouldn’t hurt
us to share some of it.”

“But I think it will be tremendous fun, won’t it, Jean?” Norah said. To
which Jean nodded vigorous acquiescence.

“Then we’ll get it done at once,” said Mr. Linton. “You can put your
four wise heads together, and consult as to what we’re to take up—I
don’t know what sick youngsters like.”

“That’s half the fun,” said Norah, happily. “Isn’t it, Jean?” And Jean
nodded.

“Then I’ll go and telephone,” said the squatter; “by which time you
hungry people may have finished breakfast—unless you mean to make this
meal run into lunch, as doesn’t seem unlikely!” He made his escape,
Norah regretting deeply that hotel etiquette prevented her from
reprisals.

He joined them, a little later, in the lounge, where big leather-covered
chairs and tall palms made a cool retreat in the hottest days.

“If there’s a more exasperating institution than the Melbourne
telephone, I have yet to find it out,” said he. “I’ve been standing in
that small Black Hole of Calcutta that they call a telephone box until I
nearly died of asphyxiation, and all the response I could elicit was
from a frenzied person who sounded like a dressmaker, and wanted to know
desperately if I would have tucks on the bodice! However, I got the
hospital at last, and we can go up when we like. So that means a busy
morning. How soon can you girls be ready?”

“Three minutes, Dad!”

“Amazing women!” said Mr. Linton, regarding them with much respect. “I
suppose, in a year or two, Norah, you’ll keep me waiting while you put
on your hat; but at present you’re certainly an ornament to your sex in
that respect. The car will be here in a few moments, so hurry up!”

The motor hummed up to the gate of the hospital a little later—a heavy
gate, set in a high stone wall, behind which towered grim buildings. A
neat maid admitted them to a wide corridor, with white walls and shining
floor, where the Matron, white-gowned and gentle, welcomed them.

“No sweets, of course?” she queried, glancing at their parcels.

“No; we were afraid to bring them.”

The Matron nodded approval.

“Some children can have them,” she said. “But very many cannot, and
there is no use in causing disappointments by making any difference. If
you only knew how hard it is to make the mothers understand!”

“Poor souls!” said Mr. Linton. “I suppose they are keen to bring them
something of a treat.”

“Yes—and one is sorry for them. But the risk to the children is very
great—only they won’t believe it, and many of them think we are
hard-hearted monsters. We always question the mothers as to what they
are bringing the children, and watch them carefully; but even so, they
manage to smuggle things past us. We had a dear little boy here in the
winter—a typhoid patient, just pulling round after a very bad time. Of
course he was on strict liquid diet, and equally, of course, he was very
hungry.”

“Poor kid!” said Jim, sympathetically.

“That’s what his mother thought. So she smuggled him in two large jam
tarts in her muff, and bent over him so as to hide him while he ate
them.”

“And did they hurt him?”

“They would have killed him. Luckily Nurse became suspicious, and caught
him, as she said, ‘on the first bite.’ She rescued every crumb from his
mouth, and nearly choked him in the process. But if she had not we
couldn’t have saved him.”

“And what did the mother say?”

“The mother? Oh, she said that Nurse was ’an in’uman brute,’ and nearly
fell on her, tooth and nail. You can’t teach them. Many of them are
terribly poor—but they will spend a few pence on some cheap and
dreadful sweetmeat, or a cake that looks—and often is—absolutely
poisonous, and expect to be allowed to watch a sick baby eat it.
Visiting day has many anxieties!”

Something called the busy Matron away as they reached the first ward,
and they hesitated in the doorway. It was a long, bright room, cheery
with sunlight and gay with flowers and plants, while the red bed jackets
made bright notes of colour against the white quilts. Many of the boys
were sitting up, working or playing at boards that fitted across their
cots to serve as tables. Others were lying quietly, and very often could
be seen the structure beneath the bedclothes that speaks mutely of hip
disease. There were framed placards over many cots, stating whose gift
they had been; perhaps raised by the efforts of children, or given by
some sad mother in memory of a little child. Looking down the long rows
of bright faces it was hard to realize that they were all sick
boys—that Pain lived in the ward night and day.

In one cot a little lad was crying softly—a tired cry, as if afraid of
disturbing others. The nurse bending over him straightened up, patted
his shoulder, said, “Be a good boy, now, Tommy!” and came to greet the
visitors.

“You mustn’t mind the little chap who cries,” she told them. “His leg is
hurting, poor man. He won’t speak to any one.”

The eyes that were buried deep in the pillow were the only pair that
were not turned upon the group in the doorway. The hospital children
knew nothing about the Billabong invasion; only the nurses had been told
of the unusual offer that had come over the telephone that morning. It
seemed to the Matron a little uncertain, peculiar; better, perhaps, not
to excite the children by anticipation.

But the first glimpse of the newcomers was sufficient—the children of
the very poor are not slow brained. Something like a thrill of delight
ran through the ward. There was no mistaking these people—happy-faced
and well-dressed, and laden with fascinating parcels that could only
mean one kind of thing. The eyes were very bright, watching from the
cots.

It was a surgical ward, and most of the inmates looked happy. Life is
not at all unbearable when you are a surgical case. To be a “medical”
means headaches, and fevers, and soaring temperatures, and other
unpleasant things. You are not allowed to eat anything interesting, and
you frequently desire only to keep extremely quiet. But the “surgicals”
know fairly well what to expect. Pain comes, of course—plenty of it;
and the daily visits of the doctors are apt to leave you a bit short of
self-control, even if you bite the pillow extremely hard in your efforts
to show that there is decent pluck in you. But after a time you forget
that. The ache in your leg, or your back, or your hip, or perhaps all
over you, becomes part of the programme, and you learn to put up with
it; and there is much of interest with other “cases” to talk to, songs
to sing, and games that the sick can play—and nurses who are often very
jolly and delightful. The nurse in this ward was little and dark and
merry, and the boys called her “Brown Eyes.” She had a knack of helping
you through almost any pain.

She welcomed the newcomers cheerily now, though her eyes were a little
tired. Behind her the faces were alight with silent eagerness.

“Can we talk to them?” Norah asked, shyly.

“Why, of course!” said the nurse. “You’ll find most of them great
chatterboxes—except little Tommy there. His pain is bad to-day.”

The boys were quite ready to talk. They told all about themselves
glibly, with a full appreciating of their value as “cases.”

“I had a daisy of a temp’rature, I had!” said a cheerful soul of nine.
“Doctor he came three times a day. Better now.”

“Mine’s a leg,” volunteered another. “Broke—a cart runned over me. They
brought me up from South Gippsland—sledge first, and then in the
guard’s van.” He shivered—a reminiscent shudder. “Sledge was a fair
cow!—bumped till I went an’ fainted with the pain.” He gave other
details that set Jean and Norah shuddering, too. “But the guard’s van
wasn’t half bad fun—y’see, I hadn’t never been in a train before. My
word, that guard was a kind man! Went an’ bought me oranges with his own
money!”

“Oh, I’m near right again,” a merry-faced little Jewish lad told them.
“Had me stitches taken out this morning—an’ I never howled!”

“Well, I did then,” said his neighbour, sturdily, “I don’t think getting
unpicked is any fun. But it don’t take long, that’s one thing.” The
other boy grinned at him in an understanding fashion. “Y’see, he’s two
years younger’n me,” he told Norah. “He’s only a bit of a nipper!”

Tommy alone declined to make friends. He burrowed into his pillow when
they came to him, and refused to show so much as the tip of his nose.
The sound of his sorry little wail followed them over the ward.

“Don’t mind him,” the nurse told the girls, as they turned away from the
cot, with downcast faces. “He’ll be better after a while, and then he’ll
be delighted with his presents. He’s homesick, poor mite.” They went on
down the ward.

Jim turned back presently. He sat down near Tommy’s cot and took out a
toy watch that had beautiful qualities in the way of winding. But he did
not offer it to Tommy. Instead he sat still, dangling it from his
fingers.

“Had a sick leg myself, once,” he remarked casually, apparently to the
watch. As might have been expected, the watch made no response; neither
did the black head burrowed in the pillow turn at all.

“Hurt it falling off a horse,” Jim went on. “At least, the horse fell
too. Tried to jump a log on him—and he shied at a snake lying on the
top of the log.”

The boy in the next cot was listening with all his ears. Tommy’s low
crying had stopped.

“Big black snake,” said Jim. “Must have scared him a bit when he saw the
horse rising. At any rate he slid off like fun—and my old horse shied
badly, and went over the log in a somersault. Landed on his head, and
pitched me about fifteen yards away!”

“Was you much hurt?” The boy in the next cot shot out an irrepressible
question.

Jim was not in a hurry to answer. The black head was turning ever so
little towards him, but he did not seem to see. He played with the watch
in an absent-minded fashion.

“Hurt my leg,” he said at length. “I managed to catch the old horse,
because he put his foot through the bridle, and hobbled himself; and I
got on by a log and rode home. Didn’t jump any more fences though. And
when I got home I couldn’t stand on that leg. Had to be lifted off.
Makes you feel an ass, doesn’t it?”

The question was for the now visible Tommy, but Jim did not wait for an
answer.

“Then I had to lie still for days,” he said. “My word, I did hate it! I
feel sorry for any chap with a sick leg. It’s so jolly hard to keep
still when you don’t feel like it.”

Something in the low, deep voice helped the little lad in the cot, with
sore mind and body. This very large brown person understood exceedingly
well.

“But legs get better,” said Jim. “After a while you forget all about
them, and play cricket again, and go in for no end of larks.”

He shifted his position, still fingering the watch.

“The man that sold me this said it would go,” he said. “It’s got works
all right, and I know it can tick, because he made it. But I’m blessed
if I can get the hang of it!” For the first time he looked squarely at
Tommy. “I suppose you couldn’t give me a hand with it?” he asked,
casually. He held out the watch.

A small finger advanced about an inch, and the watch came nearer until
it was within touching distance.

“Thanks, awfully,” Jim said. “I ought to be able to get it going now.”
He fumbled with the stem Tommy had indicated. “No—I can’t! I don’t know
what’s the matter with the silly thing.”

“Me!” said Tommy, with a great effort. It was hard to speak; but harder
to lie silent, knowing quite well that you could extricate this other
fellow from his difficulties. And so well Tommy knew where that watch
ought to be wound.

“Well, perhaps you’d better,” said Jim, with relief. He handed over the
offending watch. “I suppose it’s because mine’s a different make,” he
said, drawing out his own. “See—mine winds so-fashion. I wouldn’t mind
betting you can’t get a tick out of that one of yours.”

“Mine?” said an infinitesimal voice.

“Yes—it’s yours, of course. A pity you can’t make it go. Oh, by Jove,
you have!” He bent over the cot, his brown face alight with interest.
“However did you do it?”

Five minutes later, when the Billabong party were ready to leave the
ward, Jim and his patient were deep in a discussion of watches. Once a
weak little laugh rang out from the cot, and the nurse looked round
quickly.

“That’s the first time that poor little chap has laughed,” she said.

Jim stood up, at last, and held out his hand.

“They’re waiting for me,” he said. “Well, so long, old chap. Buck up!”

Tommy shook the big hand solemnly.

“So long,” he said. He made a great effort to speak. “Is—is you’ leg
quite well?”

“Quite well, old man. So will yours be if you keep your pecker up.
Promise!”

Tommy nodded. His eyes followed the tall lad out of the room. Then he
slipped his hand under his pillow for his watch, and lo, there was a
pocket knife as well. And the boy in the next cot had one, too—so that
presently they were friends. And something had taken the worst of the
ache away from his leg.

It was Wally’s voice that guided Jim to the next ward.

Wally had been entrusted with a number of toy balloons, and in detaching
one for an enthusiastic person of three with a broken ankle, he had let
it slip through his fingers. A draught of wind took it down the
ward—and Wally, hastily thrusting the others upon Mr. Linton, had
pursued it frantically, his feet sliding on the smooth boards. The ward
broke into a sudden shout of laughter.

Luckily, the string was long. It kept the balloon from rising quite to
the ceiling; and just at the end of the room, Wally gave a wild leap
into the air and caught the dangling end, uttering a school war cry as
he did so. He brought it back in triumph, laughing; and the patients,
evidently considering him a kind of circus let loose for their especial
entertainment, shrieked with joy. The nurses were laughing as well, with
an eye on the door lest an inquiring matron should appear. Hospital
decorum was at a low ebb.

“I really don’t think you’re the kind of visitor to bring to a place
like this,” laughed Mr. Linton. “Will you ever have sense, Wally?”

“Don’t know,” said the culprit, sadly. “It doesn’t look very like it,
does it? But aren’t they a jolly set of kids!” He broke into smiles
again. “Takes such a little to make ’em happy, doesn’t it?”

It did not seem to take much. All the watching faces were smiling and
eager; if some were white and lined with suffering they hid it bravely
with smiles. These were girls, short cropped, occasionally, and looking
just like the boys; or with long hair carefully braided to be out of the
way. There were little touches of adornment here and there—a bright
ribbon in the hair, a flower pinned to the red bed jacket; and dolls
were visible on many beds.

But when she talked to them, Norah found that these small people were
not as care-free as the boys. They brought their worries with them to
the hospital.

“I simply got to get home soon,” one little girl told her. She was ten,
with an old, worn face. “Daddy was here yes’day, an’ he says me mother’s
sick—an’ there’s only me to look after the kids!”

“How many?” asked Norah.

“Four. The youngest’s not a year old yet, an’ he’s a reg’lar handful.”

“But you can’t look after them!” Jean protested.

The child stared.

“Well, I done it nearly all me life,” she said. “Mother, she goes out
washin’, an’ I run the house—y’see, I got a doctor’s c’tificate that I
needn’t go to school, ’cause of me hip, so that leaves me plenty of
time. An’ then me jolly old hip must go an’ get worse on me! An’ now
Mum’s sick.” Her lip quivered. “I don’t see how on earth they’re goin’
to get on if I don’t go home!” she said anxiously. “Do you think you
could say somethin’ to Matron? An’ then, perhaps, she could put in a
word for me with Doctor!”

Norah promised; it was hard to deny the pleading of the great brown
eyes. But when, later on, she found her opportunity, the Matron shook
her head.

“Poor little soul!” she said, sadly. “She does not know that she will
never go out.”

“Not go out?” Norah stared.

“No; she has been here five months, and it is quite hopeless. And it is
better so—she could never be strong.” The Matron patted Norah’s
shoulder, looking gently at her aghast face. “You don’t know how many
there are for whose sake we are glad when the end comes,” she said.

Out on the broad balconies many children were lying—there seemed no
corner in all the great building that was not full of patients. One
verandah had babies’ cradles only—such weary, old-looking babies that
Norah could scarcely bear to look at them; it was so altogether
extraordinary and terrible to her, that a baby could possibly look as
did these mites from the slums. That was the saddest part of all the
hospital.

Then there were medical wards, into some of which they could not go;
they left their parcels with the nurses, since David Linton had planned
that every child in the hospital should have a gift from his children.
Some of these small patients were too ill to be disturbed. There were
one or two beds round which a screen was drawn significantly, and the
children near the screens were very quiet. But even where sickness or
pain was hardest, there was but little complaining, and very seldom did
a child cry. The children of the poor soon learn to suffer in silence.

“But they don’t all suffer,” said the nurse the boys called “Brown
Eyes.” “Most of them are happy—and it hurts, sometimes, to see how many
hate to go home. You see, many of the homes are so poor and
comfortless—not even a decent bed. They dread going back, after having
been cared for here—they know their mothers haven’t time or money to
look after them properly. But there are always more waiting to come
in—we have to send them out as soon as possible.”

The Billabong children were very silent as the motor whirred through the
busy streets, and back to the hotel. Even Wally was quiet; he stared
before him, whistling under his breath, in an absent-minded fashion. And
Norah looked at Jim’s long legs, thinking of the crippled limbs that
were so ordinary in the hospital day’s work.

But back in the hospital the tongues wagged freely. It would be very
long before the Billabong visit was forgotten.

“Weren’t they jolly—just!”

“Didn’t they speak nice!”

“That long feller with the thin face—wasn’t he a hard case?”

“Them little girls wasn’t dressed a bit swell—they was only in print
frocks. My best dress ain’t print—it’s Jap. silk!”

“They lef’ us lovely things. An’ the man said they was our very own. I’m
goin’ to take my doll home to Myrtle when I go out!”

“They left brightness wherever they went,” said little “Brown Eyes”—who
was not usually poetical. “I’m not even tired to-night!”

In the boys’ surgical ward, after the lights were out, there was still
talking—it had been a great day, and excitement yet seethed. Little
Tommy was silent. He had fallen asleep, one hand thrust beneath his
pillow, where the watch had gone to sleep, too. The other hand held his
new knife in a tight, hot clasp. There was the shadow of a smile on his
thin little face. One might fancy that he had found his way to a Dream
Country, where there were no crippled boys any more.




                               CHAPTER IV


                               GOING HOME

                  A land of open spaces,
                    Gaunt forest, treeless plain;
                  And if we once have loved it.
                    We must go back again.

                              —_Dorothea Mackellar._

“WE haven’t too much time,” said Mr. Linton, looking at his watch.

The motor was standing before the door of the hotel. Norah and Jean were
tucked into the back seat, knitting their brows over a lengthy shopping
list. It was their last day in the city. Already, visions of Billabong
and its welcome were making Norah seethe with an excitement that
promised ill for the success of her purchases.

A clatter of feet upon the steps of the hotel, announced the arrival of
Jim and Wally. They swung themselves on board; the chauffeur did
mysterious things to the car, and in a moment they were gliding down
Bourke Street. They crossed the Yarra over Princes Bridge, where,
looking westward, the river seemed full of ships, and the wharves hummed
like a hive of bees. A big inter-State liner was nosing her way gently
up the centre of the stream, as if looking for an anchorage; they could
see the passengers clustering on her decks, glad of the end of the
journey. Something of the romance that never fails to cling about ships
made the dingy old river beautiful.

“I remember,” said Wally, dreamily, “many a time——”

“In your long-dead youth?” asked Jim.

“In the early Forties, he means,” put in Mr. Linton. “Don’t disturb his
eloquence.”

“My inborn respect for your father prevents my saying what I would like
to both of you,” said the victim. “Anyhow, I remember——”

“Full well,” said Norah, with emotion.

“Oh, get out, you Linton tribe!” ejaculated the harassed one. “I’m
talking to Jean.”

“Why?” queried Jean, unexpectedly. Mirth ensued at the expense of Wally.

“Never mind, Wally, old man,” said his host. “Mention what you
remember.”

“I’ve nearly forgotten it now,” Wally answered, much aggrieved. “I
believe I was pretty close to being poetical—that blessed old river
always sets me thinking. Ever so many times I’ve landed there on a
Monday morning, coming down from Brisbane; and I used to be such a
homesick little shrimp. It was always a struggle to get off the old
_Bombala_. I was great chums with the captain, and he made the old boat
seem like a bit of home. Also, I never was sea-sick in her!”

“No wonder you loved her,” said Jean, fervently. She shuddered, with
painful recollections of the voyage from New Zealand.

“Oh, she’s an old beauty—she can’t roll, I believe,” Wally answered.
“Or if she can, she isn’t let—so it’s all the same. Anyway, I never
liked leaving her and wending my lonely way down to school. There’s the
old shop now!”

They had swung round across St. Kilda Road, and were running up
Alexandra Avenue—on one side the river, and on the other trim gardens
leading towards the trees of the Domain and the massed green of the
Botanical Gardens. Beyond—Wally had spoken more by faith than by
sight—the grey stone of the Grammar School, mantled in ivy, stood
lonely, bereft of its usual cheerful hordes. Nearer, Government House
loomed up, its square tower crowned with a fluttering flag, silhouetted
against the summer sky; and the Queen’s Statue looked calmly towards the
city. All the rocky slopes towards the gardens were clothed with
creeping plants, now a sheet of vivid colour. A boy in a skiff was
lazily pulling up-stream, his pale blue sweater a bright spot on the
brown river; and motor boats were chugging gently down towards
Melbourne, to lie off Princes Bridge. Across the stream a woman had come
down to the water’s edge and raised an imperious hail of “Ferry!” and in
answer, a battered old boat was putting off from a little landing,
sculled by a very ancient mariner. It was all very peaceful and
leisurely—a sharp contrast to the other side of the bridge, where the
crowded wharves and shipping made the river a busy place either by day
or night.

They turned south presently, and were soon slowing down amid the traffic
of Chapel Street—that lesser Melbourne where the shops are always
crowded, and where there are inhabitants who have never found it
necessary to take the four miles’ journey into the city itself.
Apparently it was the happy hunting ground of the baby. There were
perambulators everywhere, propelled by busy suburban mothers, intent on
bargain finding. Very often each perambulator held two babies, and
perhaps a bigger child perched precariously upon a wooden step, and
occasionally fell off. They all seemed well accustomed to shopping—the
mothers had no fears about leaving them near the doorways while they
sought the counters within. This frequently led to a glut of
perambulators and a block in the traffic, and caused great wrath on the
part of childless pedestrians—unavailing wrath, since the mothers were
out of reach and the babies blissfully unconcerned. They ate biscuits
contentedly, and favoured the world with a bland stare, except when
their presence caused a disturbance of traffic, when they appeared to
regard life as a stupendous joke, and laughed greatly. Norah found them
very fascinating, and was with difficulty withdrawn from inspecting a
cheerful pair of twins when the sterner necessities of shopping demanded
her consideration.

To make Christmas purchases in a Christmas crowd is an exercise
demanding patience and tact, coupled with more business acumen than is
ordinarily the lot of the country-bred shopper. The Billabong tribe
found their stock of all these admirable qualities running low long
before their own vague desires were satisfied, together with Brownie’s
long list of commissions for the station. The shop was packed with busy
people, each intent on errands like their own, and, apparently, in as
great a hurry. Norah wondered if up-country express trains were waiting
for them all, so wild and eager did they seem, and if she also looked as
distraught; arriving at the conclusion that if she appeared as harassed
as she felt she would certainly attract attention, even in that hurrying
throng!

They parted company, since it was easier to work through the crowd
singly than “to hunt in packs,” as Wally put it; and after a time Norah
emerged upon the pavement outside, a little breathless, her arms full of
parcels. Behind her could be caught glimpses of the interior—a huge
place, with tables and counters in every direction, behind which stood
hot and tired assistants endeavouring to obtain the wants of twelve
people at once. The shop seemed full of children. Upstairs was a big
display of mechanical toys and other Christmas delights, and it seemed
that half of younger Melbourne had been brought to see the fun by
devoted mothers and aunts. In one corner a gentleman who might have been
four was evidently mislaid by his guardians. He stood, a figure of
bitter woe in a white sailor suit, rending the air with his howls; and a
very tall and gorgeous shop walker, who bent double in an attempt to
soothe him, was routed with great slaughter. Then, from afar, came the
mother, thrusting her way ruthlessly through the crowd in answer to her
son’s voice. She had, presumably, heard those yells before. She gathered
him up hurriedly, and withered the shop walker with a glance, clearly
suspecting him of a wish to kidnap the lost one. The shop walker
retreated, pondering on the ways of the world.

Near a counter devoted to what is vaguely known as haberdashery, Jean
fought vainly for the right to purchase. Norah could catch an occasional
glimpse of her square, blue-clad shoulders and the fair hair under her
sailor hat. It was all too evident that she was not happy. People
jostled her hither and thither, elbowing her away from the counter when
it seemed that success was within her grasp. The assistants had no time
for short people, when so many ladies, dressed like the Queen of Sheba,
demanded their attention. Jean was not a pushing person, and only a
person of push had any hope of catching the eye of the presiding
goddesses. So she fought unavailingly, and Norah watched her, half in
laughter and half in doubt as to whether she should go to her
assistance.

From another part of the shop appeared Wally, shot out of the crowd in
the manner of a stone from a catapult. He was propelled past Norah,
tucked into a corner of the doorway, where she was out of the way of the
throng that met in the entrance, fighting with equal vigour for exit and
admittance. Seeing him thus fleeting from her vision, Norah gave a low
and wholly involuntary whistle—and was forthwith overcome with
confusion at her unmaidenly behaviour. Wally, however, was not given to
criticism. He accepted the signal gratefully, and turned back.

“Thank goodness you whistled!” he uttered, pushing his straw hat off his
forehead. “I’d never have found you if you hadn’t. Great Scot, Nor., did
you ever see anything like it!”

“Never,” said Norah, fervently. “Is it always like this?”

“Pretty well—when it’s near Christmas. There ought to be a law to make
people who can shop early finish by the middle of December—then they’d
leave a little space for poor wretches like us, who don’t get away from
school. Thank goodness, I’m about done—though I don’t in the least know
what I’ve bought. How about you?”

“Finished,” said Norah, with brief thankfulness.

“Well, you ought to be,” said Wally, surveying her load. “Women were
given eight fingers and two thumbs, so that they could hang parcels on
each! I think you’ve done pretty well, young Norah. Where’s Jean?”

“Oh, Jean’s having a horrible time!” Norah answered, much concerned for
the fate of her chum. “I wish you’d go and see if you could help her,
Wally—you see, she’s so short, and she can’t get fixed up. I’ll hold
your parcels.”

“I feel like a knight errant,” said Wally, handing over many bundles.
“It takes no common order of courage to tackle that maëlstrom after
having escaped from it once. However, with a damsel in distress it’s got
to be, I suppose. Sure you can hold ’em all, Nor.? Where is the hapless
wight I’ve to rescue?”

“She’s over there—you can get glimpses of her hat,” Norah said. “At the
haberdashery place.”

“I’ve always wondered what that meant,” Wally said. “It’s got a sporting
sort of sound about it, hasn’t it? Now, I’ll find out, I suppose, and
probably my young illusions will be dashed to the ground—it really
sounds the kind of place to buy polo sticks, but I don’t fancy that’s
Jean’s business. Well, here goes! Oh, by Jove! She’s coming, Norah!”

Jean came, very red and indignant, with a knitted brow.

“I’ve had a perfectly awful time!” she gasped. “There isn’t an unbruised
bit of me! And I can’t get what I want—I’ve been trying for ages to buy
a belt buckle, and all the horrid woman has sold me is curling pins!”
She held out a small parcel tragically. “And I don’t even use them!” she
finished—whereat her hearers shrieked unsympathetically.

“Oh, Wally, go and make them take them back,” Norah begged, recovering
calmness. “Go with him, Jean, and show him the buckle you want—he’ll
manage it.”

“Not for me, thank you,” said her chum decisively. “I wouldn’t plunge in
there for forty-eight buckles! I’ll go to another shop and try. What am
I going to do with those horrible pins? They were sixpence!”

“They mustn’t be wasted,” said Wally, with solemn joy. “I’ll buy ’em
from you, Jean, and put ’em in Jim’s sock for Christmas. He’ll be so
pleased!” He pocketed the pins and repossessed himself of his own
parcels. “I’d never have had the pluck to go and buy those things,” he
said, “but the beautiful instinct of friendship tells me that they’re
the articles for which my soul has longed for Jimmy!”

“Take care—he’s coming!” Norah laughed. They greeted Jim with an air of
innocence that would certainly have failed to deceive any one less
heated and annoyed than that worthy.

“What a place to be out of!” he ejaculated. “And some people go shopping
for fun! Where’s Dad?”

“Coming,” Norah said, watching her father’s tall head in the crowd. “He
likes it about as much as you do, Jimmy, judging by his expression.” She
smiled at Mr. Linton as he fought his way up to them. “Ready, Dad?”

“Yes, thank goodness!” said her father. “Come along—here’s the car.
Now, there’s a poor soul!”

He stopped, looking at a little crippled hunchback in a wheeled chair; a
boy who might have been any age, from child to man, so small was he, and
yet so old and weary his face. He was gazing wistfully at the gay little
group round the big motor. A tray of matches lay across his knees; tied
to the arm of his chair was a cluster of many-coloured balloons—a
pitiful contrast to the dull hopelessness of his face. Jim whistled
softly.

“Poor little wretch,” he said. “Can’t we buy him out, Dad?”

“We’ll do our best—even if the populace thinks we’re the advance agents
of a circus!” replied Mr. Linton. “Go and buy his balloons, Norah.”

“What—all of them, Dad?”

“Yes—all of them.”

He followed her across the footpath. The hunchback looked up at the
grave little face.

“Balloons?” he said, half sullenly. “How many—two?”

“I want them all,” Norah told him, smiling.

“Not—the whole lot!” A dull red came into the boy’s white face.

“Yes, we do. My father says so.”

He stared at her, bewildered.

“There—there ain’t many days I sell more’n five or six all told,” he
said. His voice shook a little. “You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I
s’pose?”

“No, indeed I’m not—truly,” Norah said, pitifully. “We’re going to buy
you out.”

The boy began to unfasten the string with uncertain fingers.

“Nothin’ like this ain’t happened to me before,” he said. “It’s—it’s a
bit of a slow game sittin’ here all day, hot or cold—an’ people starin’
at you. I wouldn’t mind ’em so much not buyin’—but—but they look at a
cove. You’re sure you want the lot?”

“Yes, I want them,” Norah answered—“if you’re sure you can spare them
all.”

“Spare ’em!” he laughed. “Why, I’ll be nex’ door to a millionaire,
bringin’ off a sale like this!” He gave the string into her hand and
looked at the money Mr. Linton dropped into his match tray.

“No—I say!” he said. “That’s too much, sir. Can’t you get change?”

“No, thanks,” Mr. Linton said, with a smile. “Good-bye, my lad. Come on,
Norah.”

“Good-bye,” Norah said. Near the car she suddenly turned back, fishing
hurriedly in her little purse. The boy looked up at her with a dazed
face of joy.

“Happy Christmas!” she said. She put a shilling into his hand—and fled.
The car glided off into the jumble of traffic.

The hunchback sat in his corner throughout the day, selling a box of
matches now and then. The busy crowds went back and forth past him,
casting curious or pitying glances at his deformity. For once, the
glances did not hurt him. Norah’s smile yet lay warm at his heart.

“Said ‘Happy Chris’mas!’ she did,” he muttered. “I don’t believe she
never even saw me back!”

The balloons proved rather exciting to the crowd until the next block in
the traffic gave Mr. Linton an opportunity to present them gravely to a
gaping urchin with the immediate result that his gape intensified
alarmingly, and threatened to become a permanent fixture. Then they sped
back to the city, with hasty visits here and there, to pick up parcels,
and a hurried attempt at afternoon tea in the crowded lounge of the
hotel. Their luggage was awaiting them, a big pile in the corridor, and
presently it was loaded into a cab, and the motor was following it up
the street towards the train.

At the big station they found themselves in another crowd—a hurrying,
impatient crowd, armed with suit cases and dress baskets, and pursuing
harassed luggage porters with incoherent instructions regarding trunks
that appeared non-existent. Nobody had the slightest regard for anybody
else—to get through the throng was to court death-dealing blows from
the sharp corners of luggage, delivered with vehemence and without
apology. Bells rang continually, with distressing effect upon would-be
passengers, who ran very fast in divers directions at each ring,
imagining it to be the final summons to trains which were very likely
not even backed into the platform! Porters shouted instructions, very
much in earnest, but wholly unintelligible. The shrieks of newsboys
added to the clamour, together with the wails of many babies, protesting
against travelling so early in life. Wild-eyed mothers clutched at
wandering children, endeavouring frantically to keep them under the
maternal wing. Beyond, in the station yard, engines whistled shrilly and
shunting trains banged and rattled.

“It’s a nice Christmassy place!” said Wally, surveying the scene. “Makes
you feel no end festive, doesn’t it? If you two girls hold each other’s
hands tightly, cling to my coat tails, and utter frequent bleats, it is
possible that we shan’t lose you!”

“Just take care that you don’t get lost yourself,” Jim uttered. “A
trifle like you straying about in a crowd ought to have a bell on its
neck. Take Dad’s arm, won’t you?”

“He’d better not,” said Mr. Linton, hurriedly. “I could employ more arms
than I’ve got, as it is.” His eye, roving over the throng, caught sight
of a familiar face. “Ah, there’s my porter!” he said, with relief, as
that functionary hastened up. “That’s right, Saunders—bring another man
with you. Now we needn’t worry—our compartment’s reserved.” He sat down
on an empty luggage truck and mopped his brow. “Give me Billabong!”

Then, somehow, they were all on board, the carriage overflowing with
miscellaneous bundles; and presently the train was slipping out of the
station, and leaving the suburban roofs behind as the wide spaces and
green paddocks came in view. Further and further, until the sun went
down in a red sky and the short Australian twilight faded to dusk and a
star-lit night.

Norah grew a little silent. She leaned back, her shoulder against her
father’s, glad of his nearness: all the dear voices of the country
calling to her, above the roar and rush of the train. The memory of her
long homesickness came over her with a rush. She could scarcely realize
that it was over, and Billabong drawing near. Until a year ago Billabong
had meant all her world—all that counted. Now she had a wider horizon.
But still home and home’s dear ones dwarfed all the rest.

Then it was time to collect parcels hurriedly. The train stopped with a
great grinding of brakes, and they all tumbled out upon the Cunjee
platform. It was only a little place; the train seemed to pause just to
shake itself free of them, and then it puffed away into the darkness;
and Norah was pumping the hand of a big sunburnt man with a wide smile
of welcome.

“Oh, Murty, I’m so glad to be back!”

“It is Billabong that’s glad to have ye,” said Murty O’Toole, head
stockman, and Norah’s friend from her cradle. “Blessed hour! Ye’ve grown
into a young lady, so ye have.”

“Indeed I haven’t,” said Norah indignantly. “I’m just the same. Isn’t it
true, Jim?”

“She’s worse, Murty,” said her brother, laughing. “No signs of
improvement. She’s lost all respect for me. It’s very trying.”

“Ah, g’wan wid y’!” said the Irishman. “I’ll tell y’ about him
to-morrow, Miss Norah—wanderin’ about for the last week like a lost
foal, makin’ believe he was puttin’ on extry polish for ye! There’s the
dog-cart, sir”—to Mr. Linton—“an’ another trap for the luggage.”

“We’ll need it!” said Mr. Linton dryly. “Miss Norah doesn’t travel as
light as she used to, Murty.” He pulled his daughter’s hair. Murty,
however, remained unmoved.

“An’ how could she?” he inquired. “Ye can’t have her growin’ up on y’
an’ expect her to go about wid a collar an’ a toothbrush!”

Mr. Linton sighed.

“I don’t know how much discipline they gave Norah at school, Jean,” he
said—“but she’s sure to want an extra allowance next year, after the
spoiling I foresee she’s to get at home. I appear to be the only person
likely to keep her in order—and what am I among so many? Neither do I
see why the statement should move either of you to such ribald mirth!
Here’s Billy, and I hope he’ll be stern.”

But the black boy who held the horses was a grinning image of delight.
He did not attempt to make any remarks; not, Jim said, that they were in
any way necessary. You could not get beyond Billy’s grin. Even the
stationmaster came up with a word of welcome.

“It’s very exciting—getting home,” Norah said.

Then they were in the high dog-cart; Jean and herself tucked into the
front seat beside her father, while the boys made merry at the back. The
brown cobs were making light of the fourteen-mile spin along the country
roads that were all so dear and so familiar. It was beautiful to be
behind them once more—to see their splendid heads tossing the jingling
bits, and their glossy quarters gleaming in the light of the lamps. Yet
it seemed long until they turned into the homestead paddock—and then
the mile drive, fringed with pine trees, was the longest of all.

Lights flashed out ahead as they turned a corner; Billabong, every
window shining with welcome. And at the gate was a smiling group, and
every one seemed to want to shake hands with her at the same moment. But
behind them was Mrs. Brown, her old face half laughter and half tears,
and speech wholly beyond her. She held out shaking arms to the tall girl
who had been her baby for so long, and Norah went to them, hugging her
tightly—not very sure of speech herself. It was not every day that one
came home to Billabong.




[Illustration: “‘You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I s’pose?’”]




                               CHAPTER V


                                 WALLY

              But when the world went wild with Spring
              What days we had! Do you forget?

                                       —_V. J. Daley._

BEFORE the homestead the lawn stretched smoothly away, its green expanse
broken here and there by a gay flower bed or a mass of shrubbery. Tall
palms tossed their feathery heads aloft, above lower growing roses and
tumbling masses of creepers. The mellow brick of the house itself was
half concealed beneath a mantle of ivy and Virginia creeper, while, on
the verandah posts, masses of tecoma and bougainvillæa made a blaze of
colour. Beyond the garden fence the water of the lagoon could be seen—a
blue gleam, studded with lazily swimming waterfowl. Further off, the
yellow grass seemed to tremble under a mist of shimmering heat.

Jim came in from the paddocks, welcoming the silent coolness of the
house after the blazing sun of the parched outer world. No one was
visible in any of the rooms into which he poked an inquiring head.
Finally the sound of Wally’s laugh guided him to the side verandah, and
he made his way thither through the French windows of the
breakfast-room.

It was always cool on the side verandah after the morning sun had
considerately mounted so high that a great pine tree flung its shade
across that part of the house. The verandah was very wide, with a low
trellis fencing it in from the lawn. Just now its lattice work was
covered with nasturtiums and sweet peas, which even sent intrusive
tendrils creeping across the red tiles of the floor. On the posts hung
clusters of climbing roses, so thick that all the verandah seemed a
bower, the green of the garden blending with the ferns that were planted
in tubs here and there. Rugs lay on the tiles, and here were tables,
littered with books and magazines, and big rush easy chairs and lounges,
made more inviting by red cushions. Altogether, the side verandah was a
pleasant place, and the Billabong folk were accustomed to spend a great
deal of time there in the summer days and the long, hot evenings.

Norah and Jean were at present occupying a wide lounge, the former
curled up in a corner, sewing violently at a rent in one of Jim’s white
coats, while Jean spread herself over the remaining portion, with a book
in her hand, to which she was paying very little attention. Wally, at
full length on another couch, was discoursing on many topics, in his own
cheerful way, to the huge delight of Mrs. Brown, whose affection for him
was unbounded. A huge bowl of peas was in her lap, and Wally was resting
after the fatigue of assisting her to shell them.

“Here’s old Jimmy!” he said, as Jim’s long form came through the French
window. “You look warm, old man. Have this couch, won’t you?”

“Couldn’t think of turning you out, old chap,” Jim answered grinning.

“I was always a beggar to struggle,” said Wally, thankfully settling
himself anew. “Fearful visions were in my mind of how I should bear it
if you should accept my heroic offer. Is it warm outside, Jim?”

“Warm!” said Jim, briefly expressive. He dropped into an easy chair,
carefully casting the cushions far from him—cushions not being part of
his creed. “It’s a fierce day. I don’t envy Dad and the men, tailing
into Cunjee behind those cattle.”

“Did you go far with them, Jim?” Norah asked.

“No—only to the second gate. They didn’t need me at all; only Dad
wanted to give me directions about some bullocks he wants moved. We’ll
have to do that presently, Wal.”

“Certainly,” said Wally, affably. “Judging by my feelings just now, I
don’t think I’ll be alive presently, so I can promise without any
trouble. Are there many, James, and is it far?”

“Only two, worse luck,” Jim answered. “Two can generally be relied upon
to give more trouble than two hundred. It isn’t far, but you can be
pretty certain that they’ll make it far.”

“Cheerful brute you are!” Wally ejaculated. “Well, I’m ready any time
you are, old man, though I think it would be kind to the cattle not to
disturb them until the cool of the evening!”

“I like your kind forethought for the bullocks,” Jim told him, laughing.
“They’d appreciate it, I know. You’ll end up as a philanthropist, if
you’re not careful, Wally. Unfortunately we’ve a job with the sheep for
the time you mention, so the cattle must come first—it’s very certain
that we wouldn’t get a move out of the sheep just now.”

Wally sighed heavily.

“It’s a laborious life I lead,” he said, stretching his long limbs on
the couch. “I come up here with beautiful hopes of getting fat, and I
always go back about two stone lighter. Norah, I wish you wouldn’t sew
so hard; it makes a fellow ache to see you.”

“Jim will ache if this coat isn’t ready,” said Norah, stitching
vigorously. “His coats are in a dreadful state—there isn’t one cool one
that doesn’t need mending. As far as Brownie and I can tell he seems to
have locked them away carefully whenever he tore them. Why did you do
it, Jimmy?”

“An’ me ready an’ willin’ as ever was to mend ’em,” Brownie said; “an’
now Miss Norah’s doin’ of it, poor lamb! Why did you, Master Jim?”

“Blessed if I know,” said Jim, somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t know the
jolly things weren’t all right. Sorry—but it’s ripping practice for
you, Nor., all the same. You can tell old Miss Winter I kept you up to
the mark with your needle!”

“M-f!” said Norah, with much scorn in the terse remark. “In the
circumstances, Brownie, does he deserve a cool drink?”

“He don’t, but I expect he’ll have to get it,” said Brownie, laughing.
She rose with the deliberate majesty that pertains to seventeen stone.
“There’s a new brew of lemonade coolin’ in the cellar, and I’ll bring a
jug along.”

“Bless you, Brownie, you’re my best friend,” said Jim. “You needn’t
bring any for the others—they haven’t earned it.”

“Haven’t I!” said Wally, indignantly. “Why, I’ve shelled peas until my
brain reeled! And I believe it’s hotter to be inside on a day like this
than out in the paddocks, so you needn’t be superior, James.” He
stretched himself, letting one brown hand fall on the railing of the
verandah. “I don’t think——”

He broke off suddenly, twisted himself off the lounge, and was on his
feet with one quick movement. Jim’s stock whip dangled from the arm of
his chair; Wally snatched it and struck furiously at a lithe form that
slid off the railing with a sinuous wriggle, and fell to the ground
beneath. The boy vaulted over the trellis as it fell, and thrashed
violently among the nasturtiums below. It was all done so quickly that
the others were scarcely on their feet before he hooked the still
writhing body of a black snake out of the creepers, and tossed it out on
to the lawn.

“You didn’t lose much time, young Wally!” said Jim, approvingly. “Fancy
that brute getting up here! Lucky you spotted him.”

“’M,” said Wally. Something in his tone made Norah swing round sharply.

“Wally! He didn’t bite you?”

“He did then,” said Wally. Something of the colour had died out of his
tanned face, but his voice was steady.

“Old man!” said Jim. Then he shut his lips tightly, and dived into his
pocket for his knife.

Wally took the verandah steps in one stride, and was beside him.

“I’ll do the chopping,” he said. “Lend me that, old chap. Is it sharp?”

Jim nodded.

“Slip round to Brownie,” he said, sharply, to Norah. “She knows where
the permanganate is—there’s some in the store, and some in the office.”
Norah’s racing feet sounded in the hall almost before he had spoken, and
he turned back to his chum.

“Would you rather do it, old man?” he asked.

Wally nodded, without speaking. There were two punctures plainly visible
on the lean hand he steadied on the verandah rail.

“Parallel cuts,” said Jim. “Quick, Wal.” He flung a hasty command over
his shoulder to Jean. “The men are at the stables—tell them I want the
dog-cart with the cobs, as hard as they can tear!”

The knife was razor-edged, and Wally did not flinch. He cut deep and
quickly, the blood spurting in the track of the blade. Jim was already
busy with a ligature on his arm, tightening it with a stick twisted
almost to breaking point. As the last cut went home, and Wally put down
the knife, Jim caught his hand and bent down to it. Wally uttered a
sharp exclamation, struggling.

“Get out, you old idiot! I’ll suck my own blessed hand!”

He tried to wrench his hand away, but the grasp on his wrist was iron.
Jim’s lips were on the wound, sucking it furiously.

“Oh, Lord, I wish you wouldn’t!” said Wally, miserably. “I can do it
perfectly well myself; and you may have a scratch about your mouth. For
goodness sake, stop it, old man! What’s the good of two of us getting
the dose?”

Jim, being otherwise engaged, did not answer. He continued his
operations strenuously, deaf to Wally’s entreaties, until Norah came
flying back with Brownie in the rear.

“Here are the crystals, Jim!”

The boy caught at the little bottle. Then he saw Brownie’s distressed
face, and gave them to her.

“You get ’em ready,” he said, briefly. “I’ll go on sucking for a moment.
Hurry the men, Norah!”

Almost by the time the permanganate crystals were worked into a paste
and rubbed into the cut about the punctures, the horses were in the
stable yard. Every man on Billabong liked the merry Queensland
boy—there were willing hands at every buckle of the harness that was
flung upon the brown cobs in breathless haste. The dog-cart, with Murty
O’Toole on the box, clattered to the front of the house—to the little
group that had been so merry when the shadow of death had suddenly fell
upon it.

Wally’s face was a little strained. The tightness of the ligature was
telling upon him, more than the snake bite itself. But he grinned up at
Murty in his old way.

“I’m giving you plenty of trouble, Murty,” he said. “Silly ass, to go
patting a snake at my time of life!”

“Begob, it might happen to the owldest of us,” said Murty, consolingly.
“Ye have that bandage tied tight, Mr. Jim?”

“He has that!” said Wally, ruefully. “Don’t you worry about Jim when it
comes to tying a ligature. My hand will drop off soon, I should say!”

“Y’can have it loosened just f’r a minute, presently,” said Murty. “Whin
it’s been on half an hour it’s due f’r a spell. Begob, I’ll bet it hurts
y’, me boy!”

“Oh—some,” said Wally, briefly. He glanced at his hand, swollen and
purple under the bandage Brownie had wrapped about the part that had
been bitten. “Pretty looking object, isn’t it? Well, I do think I was a
chump! That beggar must have been lying along the rail for ever so
long!”

“Y’ had no business to go killin’ it before ye attinded to y’r hand,”
said Murty. “Much better have let him get away on us than wait. Never
mind, there ain’t much time lost, an’ y’r as healthy as a rabbit. We’ll
have y’ right as rain in no time.”

“Oh, I guess so,” said Wally. Then Jim came plunging out, Norah and Jean
at his heels.

“Here’s your hat, old man,” Jim said, clapping it on its owner’s head.
“The girls are coming in with us. Hurry along—we don’t want to lose any
time.” He made as though to help his chum into the dog-cart, and Wally
grinned at him.

“What are you after?” he asked, swinging himself up with one hand. “I’m
not a dead man yet. Come on, you old nursemaid!” He waved his hat
cheerily to Brownie, whose kind old face was working with anxiety.
“Don’t go worrying, Brownie—I’ll be back for tea! May I have pikelets
if I’m a good boy?”

“You’ll have everything I can make for you,” said poor Brownie, tears in
her eyes as she looked at the merry, defiant face. “Only come back all
right, my dear!” Murty gave the cobs their heads, and they shot down the
drive. It was but fifteen minutes from the moment Wally had put his hand
on the black intruder lying along the railing of the trellis.

A man was waiting at each gate; there was no delay of opening and
shutting. Murty swung the horses through the narrow openings, shaving
gateposts by a hair’s breadth, but never slackening speed. Out on the
road, the brown cobs felt the unaccustomed indignity of the whip on
their backs, and resented it by trying to bolt; but the hand on their
mouths was rigid, and they came back from a gallop to a flying trot,
that spun over the long miles to Cunjee. The shining tyres flashed in
the sunlight. Now and then sparks flew from flints hard smitten by the
racing, iron-shod hoofs.

Wally kept up a plucky attempt at chatter for awhile. Then he grew
silent, nursing his swollen arm in a fruitless effort to relieve the
agony caused by the checked circulation. Jim loosened the ligature
momentarily, after a time, and the relief was great; but it had to be
tightened again, and gradually the boy’s set lips grew white. Once he
spoke, in a low voice.

“I say, old chap,” he said. “If things go wrong, you’ll let them know
all about it up at home, won’t you? Tell ’em it was all my own
stupidity.”

“You shut up,” returned Jim, gruffly. “Things aren’t going wrong—we’ve
got you in loads of time.”

“Oh, I know. I’m not expecting them to,” Wally answered. “Still, there’s
the chance. Don’t forget, old Stick-in-the-mud.” He pulled Norah’s hair
gently, and demanded to know why she was so quiet. “Something unusual to
have you civil for so long at a stretch!” he told her, laughing—to
which Norah tried to make a cheerful retort, but choked instead, and
averred that she had swallowed a fly.

“Hard lines on the fly!” said Wally. “See—there’s your father!”

He pointed ahead to a blur of dust on the track, which resolved itself
into Mr. Linton and two men, riding slowly behind some cattle. Murty
glanced over his shoulder at the same instant.

“Will I pull up, Mr. Jim?”

“Just for a moment,” Jim said, hesitating. “Dad won’t want much of an
explanation.”

Not much was needed. The racing hoofs and the grave faces told their own
story, as Mr. Linton checked his horse beside the road. Jim was brief,
in answer to his father’s hasty question.

“What’s wrong?”

“Snake,” he said. “He got Wally on the hand. We’re off to Dr. Anderson.”

“You’ve done all you can, of course?” Mr. Linton asked quickly.

“Yes—everything. Haven’t lost any time, either.”

“Well, Anderson’s not there,” Mr. Linton said. “I saw his motor going
out along the Mulgoa road half an hour ago. But go in; Mrs. Anderson may
know what to do, or where to send for him. Murty can go for him.
Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can catch him now; there’s no knowing where he
may have pulled up. You’ve got stimulants?”

“Two Thermos flasks of strong black coffee,” Norah said.

“That’s right. Don’t wait. Keep up your pecker, Wally, my boy.” The big
man smiled at Wally affectionately. “We’ll have you all right soon, my
dear lad.”

“I guess it’ll take a tough snake to kill me,” Wally answered. “I’m all
serene, sir.” The buggy whirled away again as Mr. Linton wheeled his
horse and went off at a hard gallop.

“Jove, old Monarch can travel!” said Wally, approvingly. A jolt shook
his swollen hand, and his lips tightened again.

Mrs. Anderson could give but a vague idea of her husband’s movements,
nor was there any one in the township able to do more to help the
patient. Murty dashed off on a fresh horse in search of the doctor; and
the four from Billabong sat in the shade of a big oak tree and tried to
talk—three watching covertly all the time for any new symptoms on
Wally’s part. After a while his eyes grew heavy, and Norah brought a
flask of coffee, strong and black, and dosed him at short intervals. The
boy made a brave fight to help them.

“This won’t do,” he said, after a while. “I’ll be asleep in five minutes
if I stay here. Get a pack of cards and we’ll play cribbage.”

They played on a rug in the shade—Jim and Jean against Norah and Wally,
the latter playing with one hand and occasionally cracking a laborious
joke, almost in the midst of which his head would nod to one side. He
always recovered himself with a jerk, and, despite his drowsiness, he
played with a keen quickness that shamed the others, who made the most
egregious mistakes with a total lack of concern as to their score. It
was long before Norah could ever again bear the sight of a cribbage
board.

Jim flung down his cards at last, his voice shaking.

“Well, I can’t stand this,” he said. “Hang that man! Will he ever come?
Let’s walk up and down, Wal., old man.”

They went up and down, up and down, along the garden path, in the hot
air, heavy with the scent of the doctor’s flowers—all the time fighting
the fatal drowsiness that threatened to overcome the boy they loved.
Mrs. Anderson kept the supply of coffee ready, and Wally took it
obediently whenever it was brought to him.

“If this blessed hand would only let me do anything, I’d be all right,”
he said sleepily. “I’d give something to be able to use an axe! Norah,
asthore, will you stick hatpins into me if I get any more stupid? I’m
not going to sleep, if I have to stick them into myself!”

Then, just as they were becoming sick with anxiety and the long
watching, came the far-off hum of a hurrying car, and presently little
Dr. Anderson swung round the corner, pulled up with a sudden jar that
would ordinarily have caused him extreme wrath, and came through his
garden at a run. He cast a swift professional eye over Wally.

“Good children!” he said, approvingly. “Come along to the surgery, my
boy; you, too, Jim. You girls go and let the wife take care of you.”

But Norah could not talk to any one just then. The long strain had been
too heavy a burden. She watched the three figures vanish within the
surgery door, the doctor’s hand on Wally’s shoulder, and then turned and
went blindly down a winding path. It ended in a fence. She put her head
down upon it, swallowing hard, dry sobs. Jean put an arm round her,
silent. There was not anything to say.

Within the surgery Wally had faced the little doctor.

“I say, sir,” he said, moistening dry lips, “you won’t let me make a
fool of myself if things get a bit beyond me, will you?”

“I will not,” said the doctor, sturdily. “But they won’t—don’t talk
nonsense!” He was unwrapping the hand swiftly. “Catch this bottle, Jim.”

Very long after—so it seemed to Norah and Jean—a quick step came down
the path behind them.

“Your nice brown lad is all right,” said Mrs. Anderson, happily. “Jack
says there’s no risk now. Everything was done in time. We’ll keep him
here to-night, just to watch him, and Jim will stay with him. Mr. Linton
is waiting for you two lassies; and you can come back to-morrow, and
take Wally home for Christmas. Unless you like to leave him with me for
a month or so? I like that boy!”

“So does Billabong,” said David Linton’s voice, not quite steady. “We
can’t spare him to any one, can we, Norah?”

Norah shook her head. She clung to her father’s hand as they went back
to the house, where Jim waited on the verandah, his face still grave.

“The patient sends his love, and you’re none of you to worry,” he said.
“And you’re to tell Brownie to keep the pikelets for to-morrow!”




[Illustration: “Wally snatched it and struck furiously at a lithe form
that slid off the railing with a sinuous wriggle, and fell to the ground
beneath.”]




                               CHAPTER VI


                           THE CUNJEE CONCERT

       And stirrup to stirrup we’ll sing as we ride,
       To the lights of the township that glimmer and guide.

                                          —_W. H. Ogilvie._

“THEY should be home, Murty,” said David Linton.

“They shud,” said Mr. O’Toole, with conviction. He removed an
exceedingly black pipe from his mouth and stared at it, pressing the
tobacco down in the bowl with a broad thumb. “Will I be saddlin’ up a
horse, do ye think, an’ takin’ afther them?”

“Not a bit of good,” said the squatter. “They may come home by any of
three or four roads. I’d go myself if I were sure.” He knitted his brow,
staring down the twilit track. “I don’t understand it—Mr. Jim is never
late.”

“Sure, they’re young,” said Murty, and propped his long form comfortably
against a tree. “Ye can’t never be tellin’ what the young’ll be afther
whin they gets out wid a loose leg, like. An’ Mr. Jim’s level-headed
enough. I wud not be worryin’.”

“Mr. Jim should know better than to be away so late,” said Jim’s father,
sharply. “It’s nearly nine o’clock—and they should have been in for
dinner at half-past six. Wonder do they think a woman has nothing to do
but keep dinner hot for them! At any rate, I’ve told Mrs. Brown she’s
not to keep anything. They can manage with bread and cheese if they
can’t be in in decent time!”

“Niver did I see the ould man in such a tear!” confided Murty, a little
later, to Mrs. Brown—who, in flagrant defiance of instructions, was
brooding over preparations for a large and satisfactory supper for the
absentees. “Him that aisy-goin’ as a rule, an’ niver lettin’ a cross
word out of him—an’ he’s walkin’ up an’ down like a caged elephint,
fairly rampin’. ’Tis anxious he is—that’s the throuble.”

“Well may he be,” said Mrs. Brown, tearfully. “That new pony of Miss
Norah’s is that flighty and excitable—an’ he’s big an’ strong, too, an’
I know for two pins he’d buck! See him when they went off this
mornin’—fit to jump out of his skin, an’ dancin’ little jigs all the
way down the track. It’s enough to make anybody anxious.”

“P——f!” said Murty, with great scorn. “Miss Norah can manage Bosun as
aisy as shellin’ peas. There’s no vice in him, nayther; he’s as kind a
pony as iver I throwed a leg over. Ye’d not have the little misthress
ridin’ an old crock?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said poor Brownie. “I never could make meself
feel ’eroic where Miss Norah’s concerned. All very well to be proud of
her ridin’ an’ all that—an’ you men are fair foolish over that sort of
thing—but give me the contented mind as is a continual feast! An’ I
would feel contenteder if she rode something a little less like a
jumpin’-jack than Bosun.”

“That pony do be suitin’ Miss Norah down to the ground,” averted Murty.
“Sure, ’twas something to see her face whin she caught sight of him
first; an’ she’s that proud of him already. I did not think anny pony
would ever do as well for her as poor ould Bobs, but——”

“Miss Norah’ll never love a pony like she loved Bobs,” Brownie said,
belligerently.

“No—maybe not. But Bosun’ll run him close, an’ he’ll carry her real
well until she’s growed up,” Murty answered. “Sure, he’s not far off
fifteen hands, for all they call him a pony. An’ as for worryin’ about
her ridin’ him, Mrs. Brown, ma’am—well, ye may as well save y’r own
feelin’s.”

“Well, I wish they were all home, that’s all,” said Brownie. “It
mightn’t be Miss Norah—there’s Miss Jean, too.”

“Sure, that one can take care of herself,” Murty said, laughing. “She
ain’t one of them as talks; but I guess she won’t go fallin’ off on us,
for all that. An’ Nan is as safe a mare as there is on Billabong.”

“Now, I heard you say Nan could shy!” retorted Brownie, whose soul
refused to be led in ways of comfort.

“I’d not give y’ a ha’penny for the horse that couldn’t,” said Murty,
unblushingly. “Wud ye have them all rockin’ horses? But Miss Jean can
ride her all right. Now, wud ye be afther suggestin’ that it’s Garryowen
as’ll sling Mr. Jim, or ould Warder that’s goin’ to market wid Mr.
Wally? Ye pays y’r money an’ takes y’r choice!”

“You get out!” said Brownie gloomily. “All very well for you to stand
there grinnin’ at me like a Cheshire cheese—but the master’s as anxious
as I am, an’ it’s no wonder! An’ I would bet sixpence, Murty, me fine
lad, that down inside you you’re pretty anxious too!”

“Bosh!” said Murty, looking slightly confused. The sounds of hoofs saved
him from further defence. He turned to the kitchen doorway with
sufficient quickness to justify Brownie’s accusation.

“’Tis the Boss,” he said, in tones of disappointment. “I’d thought ’twas
thim young ones comin’ up the thrack. Tare an’ ages! he’s lettin’ ould
Monarch out! Why wudn’t he be lettin’ me go, whin I asked him, I wonder?
Well——” He pondered a moment, and strolled away. Five minutes later
Brownie, looking out hurriedly at hearing again the sound of hoofs on
the gravel of the track, saw him cantering off in the wake of his
master.

“Why on earth am I seventeen stone?” queried Brownie, desperately, of
the ambient air. Receiving no adequate response, she retreated to the
kitchen and wept a little into her apron; then, realizing the futility
of grief, roused herself to action and made scones of a lightness almost
ephemeral. It was some relief to her surcharged feelings.

Christmas had come and gone, and it was New Year’s eve. Summer was
ruling in earnest; day after day saw the sun rise like a golden disc, to
be molten brass during the long, breathless day, and finally sink into a
lurid sky, a ball of liquid fire. The grass dried rapidly; paddocks that
had been green when Norah and Jean came from Melbourne were now waving
expanses of yellow. Rumours of bush fires all over the country districts
filled the newspapers.

Despite the heat, Billabong was doing its best for its visitors. Wally’s
adventure was almost forgotten by the victim himself, since he had
suffered no further effects from the snake bite than a rather sore
hand—due, Jim said, to poor carving. No one seemed to mind the
temperature much. When the thermometer was trying to eclipse all
previous records, the house was always a cool refuge; or there was the
lagoon, where the boat rocked sleepily in the shade of the willows; or
the tree-fringed banks of the creek, where no intrusive sun rays ever
penetrated. Besides, there was so much to do that there really seemed
little time to think of the weather; long days out in the paddocks with
the cattle, mustering, or drafting, or cutting out; boundary riding, to
make sure that fences were in good order and gates secure; fishing
expeditions, rides to neighbouring stations, and long, delicious bathes
in the lagoon, which in themselves made the heat seem worth while. Jim
had established a jumping ground during his year at home—a paddock near
the homestead, where a couple of log fences and some brush hurdles made
an excellent training ground for the horses. Brownie used to stand on
the balcony, torn betwixt pride and anxiety, watching the four riders
sailing over the jumps—with sometimes a fifth, when Mr. Linton could
persuaded to add Monarch, his black thoroughbred, to the starters. The
boys entertained visions of a general hurdle race, for which the entries
should include Lee Wing, the Chinese gardener, on an ancient piebald
mare entitled Bung Eye, and Hogg, his sworn foe, on a lean mule that was
popularly supposed to be capable of kicking the eye out of a mosquito.
They even planned to enter Mrs. Brown, and declared their intention of
training her on Blossom, a Clydesdale mare of great antiquity. In this
ambition it is perhaps unnecessary to state that they had not the
support of Mrs. Brown.

To-day the quartette had ridden into Cunjee, somewhat against their
inclination. As a rule the township made small appeal to them; they
greatly preferred the freedom of the paddocks and the wide
galloping-places of the plains. On the station, where play included work
and responsibility, there was never any dullness; the interests of each
day claimed them, giving even the girls a definite share in the daily
business. It was the life to which Norah had always been accustomed, and
which she loved with every fibre of her energetic being. That Jim and
Wally should care for it was a matter of course; to them also it was a
part of life. It had been added joy to find that Jean took to it with a
zest little, if anything, inferior to her own. Nothing was wanting, in
Norah’s eyes, to complete the perfection of holidays and Billabong.

The necessity of despatching a telegram had caused the expedition to
Cunjee; somewhat deplored by the boys, since they were reluctantly
compelled to don coats, to which they strenuously objected in the hot
weather, and to find hats of a more respectable appearance than the
battered felt head gear they habitually wore. They rode away after an
early lunch; four cheery figures, alike in white linen coats and Panama
hats, the brims turned down to keep the sun glare from their eyes;
turning at the bend in the track to wave farewell to Mr. Linton, who
stood at the gate to watch them go.

Cunjee was found gasping with heat, and only mildly consoled by the fact
that no such temperatures had been recorded in the memory of man.

“Now, I always think that’s quite a help,” Jean said. “Once it’s 100° in
the shade you feel almost as bad as you’re going to feel—and you might
just as well have the satisfaction of knowing you had every excuse for
being hot, because it was 114°. That makes it so interesting that you
forget to be sorry for yourself!”

“I like to hear you, New Zealand!” quoth Wally, with fine scorn. “Didn’t
know you ever worked up much of a temperature in those Antarctic islands
of yours!”

“Well, we aren’t exactly singed into chips, like the Queenslanders!”
said Jean, mildly, amidst mirth on the part of Norah and Jim—while
Wally, who hailed from the vicinity of the Gulf of Carpentaria, looked
modestly unconscious. “But we can be just as warm as we want to be.”

“Well, Cunjee is warmer than I appreciate,” Jim said. “Let’s leave the
horses at the hotel to get a feed, and we’ll go and beg afternoon tea
from Mrs. Anderson.”

Mrs. Anderson greeted the invasion enthusiastically.

“So lovely of you to come,” she said. “I’ve been feeling ever so dull.
And now you’ve come, you must stay. The doctor has had to go to Mulgoa,
and may not be back to-night; and I want an escort for the concert.”

“Is there a concert?” Norah asked.

“Didn’t you know? Ah, well, I suppose you irresponsible people don’t
read the local paper,” said their hostess, pouring out tea. “Cream,
Wally? No? How ridiculous of you, and you so thin! Yes, we’re to have a
tremendous concert. I forget what it’s in aid of, but it’s mainly local
talent, and so it’s bound to be exciting. And I can’t go by myself, and
it’s quite too hot to go out and find a companion. Personally, I think
Providence has delivered you into my hands!”

“Afraid we can’t, thanks very much, Mrs. Anderson,” Jim told her. “We
didn’t say we’d be away.”

“Pooh! They would know at home that you would be all right,” said Mrs.
Anderson. “You station folk never seem to worry about times and seasons,
and I always think it’s so delightful! Your father would know the others
were quite safe in your care, Jim.”

“I hope you children are taking note of that speech,” said Jim,
laughing. “I wish I could feel as confident about it as you do, Mrs.
Anderson—but, unfortunately, my years don’t seem to convince Dad of my
common sense. I’m afraid he’d be worried if we didn’t turn up for
dinner.”

“Rubbish!” said Mrs. Anderson. “He would know you stayed for something
or other; probably he reads the local paper, if you don’t, and is
acquainted with the dissipated intentions of Cunjee. I’m certainly not
going to let you escape now that I have you all!”

“What do you think, Nor.?” Jim asked his sister.

“Why, I don’t suppose he’d mind,” Norah answered. “It always seems much
the same to be out with you as with him, though it’s very imprudent of
me to let you know it.”

“He wouldn’t mind if he knew,” Jim said, doubtfully. “Still——”

“Oh, risk it,” said Mrs. Anderson, laughing. “Consider the claims of a
woman in distress—you can’t leave me to face a Cunjee audience alone.
Your clothes don’t matter a bit—in fact, Cunjee will probably consider
you clad as the lilies of the field.” So Jim, against his better
judgment, stayed.

Dinner at the Andersons’ was a cheerful occasion, to which variety was
lent by the Anderson baby, who insisted on sitting on Norah’s knee, and
drummed happily on the cloth with her dessert-spoon, while Norah ate on
the catch-as-catch-can principle. Then, the baby being with difficulty
severed from the object of his adoration, they hurried to the Mechanics’
Institute, outside which the local brass band was performing prodigies
of harmony, somewhat impeded by the fact that the euphonium was three
tones flat.

Jim did not enjoy the concert. A shade of anxiety hung over his mind,
with the conviction that it was quite possible that their absence was
causing anxiety at the station. Thus the antics of the Cunjee comedian
who, in private life, kept a somewhat disreputable bicycle-repairing
establishment, fell flat; albeit the comedian aforesaid had bedecked
himself in spurious red whiskers and a kilt compounded of a red table
cloth, with a whitewash brush as sporran, and sang Scotch ditties with a
violent Australian twang—a combination truly awe inspiring. They
suffered from the familiar soprano, who trilled strange trills in a key
very much too high, and from the confident young baritone, who warbled a
ditty of the type more generally reserved for tenors, and took an encore
on the echo of the first faint clap. The band master played a long solo
upon the cornet, than which there is no more lonely instrument when
unsupported; and on the heels of its wailing came a young lady who
recited harrowing particulars of the death of “my chee-ild,” whom she
indicated as lying in its coffin immediately before her. She knelt by
it, and apostrophized the deceased in moving terms. She wrung her hands
over it; in fact, she pointed it out so definitely that to Norah, whose
imagination was unfortunately vivid, it assumed actual reality, and she
with difficulty restrained a cry when, in the last verse, the
elocutionist forgot her previous actions, and in the anguish of her
mood, stepped right into the coffin! At this point Norah decided
definitely that she did not like recitations. It pained her greatly to
see the young lady smirk and stroll off the stage, oblivious of her
heart-rending actions.

Then the Shire President came forward and thanked everybody in impartial
terms, and the concert was over. Jim hurried his party out of the hall,
and as soon as possible they had said good-night to Mrs. Anderson,
resisting her offers of supper; and were in the saddle, cantering along
the homeward track.

Five miles out of Cunjee a shadow loomed up out of the gloom, and
Garryowen gave a sudden whinney. Mr. Linton’s voice followed it.

“Is that you, Jim?”

Under his breath Jim uttered a low whistle.

“Great Scott! It’s Dad!” he said. He raised his voice. “Right-oh, Dad!
Is anything wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong at home,” said David Linton, wheeling Monarch
beside Garryowen. “What has kept you?”

“Went to a concert,” said Jim, briefly, feeling suddenly very small and
young.

“We never thought you’d be anxious, Dad!” Norah said.

“Not anxious!” said her father, explosively. Then he shot a glance at
Jean and Wally, uncomfortably silent.

“You’ve given us a pleasant evening,” was all he said. But Jim winced as
if he had been struck, and the blood surged into his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said curtly.

“It was my fault, just as much, Dad,” Norah began. But her father
stopped her.

“Jim was in charge,” he said. “There isn’t any more to be said about it.
We’d better hurry. Mrs. Brown is picturing all sorts of things.” He put
Monarch into a canter, and they rode on in silence. Two miles further on
a dim figure at the roadside turned his horse beside Wally.

“Is it all right, ye are, all of ye?” asked Murty in a hoarse whisper.

“Some one else out hunting the lost sheep?” Wally asked. “Yes, we’re all
right.”

“Thin I’ll not let on to himself that I kem out,” said the Irishman.
“Wisha! he was wild!” He dropped behind the riders, vanishing into the
gloom.

Billabong was slow in appearing; to the silent riders the miles had
never seemed longer. At last the lights came into view with Brownie’s
massive figure silhouetted against the light of the doorway.

“Run in, you and Jean, and tell Brownie you’re all right,” Mr. Linton
said to Norah, as they pulled up. “We’ll see to the horses.”

In the harness room, while Wally took off bridles outside, Jim’s eyes
met his father’s. Both had been thinking.

“I’m sorry we made you anxious,” said the boy, stiffly.

“You made me very anxious,” said David Linton. “Still——” He hesitated,
memories of his own early manhood coming back to him as the big fellow
faced him. “Perhaps I forget that you’re not a child any longer,” he
said, with an effort. “If I hurt you, Jim, I’m——”

“Don’t!” Jim’s hand went out quickly. “I deserved a jolly sight more
than I got. But I’m sorry, Dad.” They shook hands on it, gravely.

“Bring in those bridles, young Wally, and be quick!” sang out Mr.
Linton—and Wally appeared, his face comically relieved at the tone.
They walked over to the house—a laugh from Jim at some futile remark of
his chum’s coming to Norah’s ears as they neared the verandah, and
greatly relieving that distressed damsel, to whom it had appeared that
the skies had fallen.

Later, when supper had been discussed cheerfully, and the household had
scattered, David Linton smoked a last pipe on the balcony, thinking.

A slender figure in blue pyjamas came softly to him.

“Dad—I’m sorry!” said Norah.

“Right, mate!” said her father. He saw the quick lift of her head, but
she hesitated.

David Linton laughed, kissing her.

“And Jim’s all right,” he said. “Off to bed with you!”




                              CHAPTER VII


                                MORNING

     That loving Laughing Land, where life is fresh and clean,
     Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.

                                               —_Henry Lawson._

“NORAH!”

“James?” said Norah, with polite inquiry. She paused with Jean, and
turned a questioning eye towards the window whence Jim’s voice had
reached her.

Jim, in his shirt sleeves, his face obscured by lather, looked out,
razor in hand.

“Don’t go over to the stable just now, if that’s where you two are
going,” said he.

“Right-oh, Jimmy. For how long?”

“Don’t quite know,” Jim said, grinning through the suds. “Dad’s having
words with one of the men, and you’d better wait until he comes over.
You mustn’t risk interrupting the flow of his eloquence.”

“Is anything wrong?” Norah asked.

“It’s that blithering ass, Harvey,” Jim answered. “He’s a useless loafer
at the best of times; and he’s let us in for a nice game now! Dad has
been sending him out to look round those new Queensland bullocks in the
Bush Paddock, and he’s left the slip-rails down, and they’ve all boxed
with the cattle next door, in the Far Plain.” At this point Jim’s wrath,
or an unconscious movement, led him to take a mouthful of lather, and
his head withdrew abruptly, spluttering. Incoherent sounds came from the
interior of the room.

The girls laughed unfeelingly.

“He’s so funny when he shaves, isn’t he?” said his sister. “Jean, it’s
an ill wind that blows nowhere!”

“Why?” asked Jean.

“Well, if those cattle are boxed it means a big muster,” said Norah;
“and mustering the Bush Paddock is better fun than anything else. I
don’t feel nearly as sorry as I might.”

“More shame for you!” said a voice above their heads, at which both
girls jumped. Wally’s face emerged from the concealment of the dark
green leaves of a cherry tree. A big black cherry bobbed temptingly near
his nose, and he ate it, still keeping a severe eye upon his audience.

“I never knew any one with your ability for appearing in unexpected
places,” said Norah, laughing. “Come down, Wally; I know quite well your
mother doesn’t let you climb!”

“I come,” said Wally; “but more because the cherries are scarce than
because of you, young woman. Funny how few ripe ones there are this
morning.”

“Not a bit. Jean and I have been up there,” said Norah, with calmness.
“That’s what comes of being early birds. If you’d only get up in the
morning instead of snoring in a loud voice——”

“Never did,” said Wally, swinging his long form to earth. “’Twas Jim you
heard.”

“Jim never snores!” said Jim’s sister.

“Then ’twas the Boss. Or probably you weren’t up at all, and heard
yourself snoring in your sleep, which is far more likely. Certainly, the
cherries have disappeared in a manner only possible to you and Jean; but
that might have been while I swam peacefully in the lagoon. In any case,
you’re a shocking hostess!” Wally paused for breath, while Norah grinned
amiably and remarked that, at any rate, she had suited Jean!

“Given up to greed, both of you,” said Mr. Meadows, “while I, alas, am
given up to hunger. Here comes your father, and he looks pretty wild.
Wonder if he’s sacked Harvey?”

“We’ll want all hands to-day,” said Mr. Linton, pausing to greet them as
he came up with quick strides. “Harvey’s boxed half the cattle on the
place, and we’ll have our work cut out to get them all in, short-handed.
You see, I gave the other men permission to go to the races, and they
left about sunrise. And now Harvey’s leaving too, in haste!”

“Did you sack him, Dad?”

“I did,” said his father. “I don’t know that I would have done so,
though he’s a most useless man on the place, but he chose to be insolent
about it. In fact he told me just what he thought about me for
oppressing the labouring man. I wished Murty and Boone and the rest had
been there to have learned how down-trodden they are. They would have
enjoyed it!”

“I believe Murty would have fought him,” Norah said, indignantly.

“It’s not unlikely,” her father answered. “Murty’s a loyal old soul.
According to Harvey, they are all worms, and I am a callous tyrant, and
Jim’s a whelp!”

“Oh, am I?” said that gentleman, with interest, looking out. “What have
I done to the noble Harvey?”

“Well, you’ve existed. I can’t quite gather that you’ve done anything
else, and I fancy Harvey would have mentioned it if you had. At times he
seemed hard up for things to mention. Still, on the whole, he was very
eloquent. I’ve known politicians tarred with the same brush; the less
they have to say, the more fluent they become! Judging by present
indications,” said Mr. Linton, “Harvey will develop into a Prime
Minister, and probably afflict me with a special land tax. And all
because I asked him why he’d left the slip-rails down.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve sent him away, Dad,” Norah said. “I always
thought he had a horrid face.”

“Oh, he’s a miserable type,” her father answered—“the kind of man that
never ought to come to the country. He’s absolutely useless, and I don’t
think he ever did a day’s work in his life—if he did, it wasn’t on
Billabong. We’ve put him at various kinds of work, and found him
worthless at each; his one idea was to ‘knock off,’ and he shone at
that. And, as you say, he’s a low-looking brute, and I shall be glad to
have him off the place. But I don’t like sacking a man.”

“Don’t know why we ever put him on,” said Jim, through the window.

“Well, he said he hadn’t a penny, and wanted work. One doesn’t like to
send a man away without giving him a chance. But I’m sorry I kept
Harvey. However, he’s off, or he will be shortly, so we needn’t bother
our heads about him. The bullocks are likely to need all our energies.
Jean, can I rely on your assistance?”

Jean nodded vigorously. It was clear that the prospect afforded her
undiluted joy.

“That’s right. And Wally?” Wally grinned, disdaining further answer.

“Then,” said Mr. Linton, “as I presume I can count on Jim and Norah——”

“Not that they’re much use,” said Wally, despondently. A large boot
hurtled from Jim’s window, took him in the rear, and he uttered a
startled yell. Recovering his composure, he possessed himself of the
missile and proceeded to swarm up the bare trunk of a tall palm, going
up hand over hand, much like a monkey on a stick. Arrived at the crown
of leaves, he clung with his legs while he tied the boot firmly in with
the laces.

“Bring that down, Wally, you reptile,” sang out Jim. He made a dash for
the garden, one foot encased in a sock, and, seizing a hoe, prodded
vainly upwards in the climber’s direction.

“Not if I know it,” said Wally, happily. “Looks lovely up here—like
some strange tropic blossom. Orchid Kangaroohides Jamesobium
Wallistylis. Exquisite new species, flowering once a century. Look out,
Jimmy, I’m going to slide.”

“Are you?” said Jim with vigour. His eye, roving round in search of a
weapon, had caught sight of a fragment of barbed wire—the remains of a
device of Hogg, the gardener, to keep greedy ’possums from devouring his
rosebuds. It was but a moment’s work to seize it and coil it round the
palm trunk in a long spiral. He stood back, grinning.

“Better not slide too suddenly, old man!” he said, pleasantly.

Wally had already begun to move, but he checked himself quickly. There
were not many intonations in his chum’s voice that he did not
understand. He leaned sideways and surveyed the trunk, his face
lengthening involuntarily.

“Oh!” he said, and paused, apparently seeking for inspiration. “Beast!”

Jim sat down in a leisurely fashion on the grass and nursed his unshod
foot.

“It’s a nice morning,” he remarked, conversationally. “Garden looks
jolly well before the sun gets hot, doesn’t it? Tropic blossoms well
out, and all that—including the climbing novelties! And there’s
breakfast,” as the gong sounded. “What a pity to leave it all!” He
gathered himself up, slowly. “So long!”

“Brute!” said Wally, with fervour.

“Aren’t you happy?” asked Jim, surprise in his tone. “You ought to
be—I’ve never seen you look so nice! Will you bring me my boot, young
Wally?”

“I will not,” said the victim, firmly. “Not if I stay here for a week!”

“The barbed wire will last longer than that,” said Jim, grinning. “Does
it strike you, Dad, that the climbing novelty looks dry?”

“It’s more evident that it’s annoyed with you,” said David Linton,
laughing. “Better bring him his boot, Wally—it’s his game, I think.”

“Never!” said the captive.

“Told you he was dry,” said Jim. “Look at that purple flush—doesn’t
that indicate a need of cooling down?” He disappeared behind a clump of
laurustinus, and returned armed with a coil of hose.

Norah gave a fresh burst of laughter. “Oh, Jimmy, you won’t!” she cried.

“Will I not?” grinned her brother, turning on the tap. A light shower of
drops spattered the trunk near the victim’s head—with due regard for
the safety of the dangling boot.

“My hat, Jimmy, when I get within reach of you——,” said Wally,
laughing. “Put that down, you fiend, and fight fair!”

“Bless you, I’m not fighting,” said Jim blandly. “I’m watering the
garden!”

“Yes, you’re Daddy’s useful little son, I know,” returned Mr. Meadows.
“I’ll deal with you when I get down!”

“Told you water was necessary,” said Jim to his audience, two-thirds of
which had collapsed on the grass, helpless. “Parched, that’s what he is.
Turn on that tap a little harder, Dad, and I’ll give him a really nice
tropic downpour!”

Mr. Meadows capitulated.

“Take off your beastly barbed wire,” he said, his tone expressing
anything but pious resignation. “And put on your beastly great boot!”
The boot descended with some force, and caught Jim on the shoulder as he
stooped over his spiked entanglement. “Nice shot—there’s some balm in
Gilead!” said Wally. He slid down, arriving at the ground with some
force, and immediately gave chase to Jim, who had gathered up his
property and fled.

“No one would think there was any work waiting on this place!” said Mr.
Linton, laughing. “Come to breakfast, all of you—hurry up, Norah!”

Wally joined them in the breakfast-room, somewhat dishevelled.

“He’ll be in in a moment—he’s putting on the boot!” he said. “Isn’t he
an uncivilized ostrich? I don’t know how you brought him up in his
youth, sir, but he’s no credit to you. I’d sooner have old Lee Wing,
pigtail and all.”

“You look a little damp, Wally,” Norah said, kindly. “I hope you won’t
take cold!” To which the injured one returned merely a baleful glance,
before devoting himself to his porridge.

Jim slipped in unobtrusively, wearing an air of bland composure.

“We’ll take lunch out, I suppose, Dad?”

“Yes, I sent Brownie a message some time ago,” said his father. “You’ll
have to run up the horses after breakfast, Jim, and when you’ve caught
ours turn the others out into the big paddock.”

Jim glanced up inquiringly. It was an unusual command.

“I wouldn’t trust that beggar, Harvey,” his father said, answering the
glance. “If the horses were close at hand the temptation to borrow one
to get as far as Cunjee might be too strong; but he couldn’t catch one
in the big paddock. It won’t take long to put them back when we come
in.”

“You’re not going to send him in to the township then?”

“I’m not,” said Mr. Linton, firmly. “He came carrying his swag, and he
can carry it away—after the flood of bad language and insolence I had
from him this morning, I really don’t feel any obligation to have him
driven in. The walk may give him time to get a little sense—not that
you could put sense into a man of the Harvey type by any known means.”

“Well, it won’t hurt him—and I don’t see who would have driven him,
anyhow,” Jim said. “Are you letting him have any tucker?”

“Oh, yes; I said he could get some from the kitchen.”

“Then he’s got nothing to grumble at,” Jim declared. “Not that that is
in the least likely to keep him from grumbling. I expect it wouldn’t be
a bad precaution to lock up pretty carefully at the stables, Dad.”

“Certainly, lock up everything,” his father answered. “I’d have been
glad to see him fairly off the place, as Murty and Boone are away—still
Hogg and Lee Wing are about, so there’s really no need—and we can’t
afford the time.”

“Lee Wing would be sufficient guardian for any place,” said Wally, who
cherished an undying affection for the stolid Chinaman, who did not
return the feeling at all. It was not certain that Lee Wing loved any
one, though Norah was wont to declare that he wrote sonnets to a girl in
China. So far as Australia was concerned, his heart seemed to be given
to his onions, and he regarded Wally with a dubious eye.

Mrs. Brown came in, favouring the company impartially with her wide and
beaming smile.

“Will you be boilin’ the billy, sir?”

“Yes, decidedly,” said Mr. Linton. “It is going to be hot enough to make
tea a necessity, I fancy. And Wally is aching to carry the billy—aren’t
you, my boy?”

“Personally,” said Jim, “I should have thought it was the breakfast he’s
eaten, on top of about a hundredweight of cherries. Give him some more
coffee, Norah—he looks pensive!”

“That’s because he has had two cups already—and I don’t allow him
three, as a rule,” said Norah, callously. “However, he’s had a hard
morning, so I’ll be weak—and so will be the coffee. Pass his cup,
Jean.”

“I don’t know why I come to stay with the Linton tribe,” said Wally,
surrendering his cup and sighing heavily. “I’m not appreciated, and it’s
blighting my young life. Mrs. Brown, may I stay with you to-day and hold
your hand?”

“You can’t. I got a fair amount to do with it,” rejoined Brownie. “Not
but I will say, Master Wally, you’re the good-temperedest ever I see!
And gimme a boy as laughs!”

“Well, I’ve thrown myself at your feet often enough, but you won’t pick
me up!” said Wally, much aggrieved. “Some day I will wed another, and
then you’ll know what you’ve lost!” At which Mrs. Brown bridled, and
said, “Ah, go along now, do!” and aimed a destructive blow at him with
her apron. Murmuring something about lunch, she retreated to the
kitchen.

“I’ll go and run up the horses,” said Jim, pushing back his chair.
“Young Wally, see that you have the saddles out by the time I get them
in, and bring the bridles down to the yards.”

“Be it thine to command,” said Wally, with meekness. “Mine to obey—when
I’m ready.”

“Better make it convenient to be ready quickly,” warned Jim.
“Otherwise——”

He left the sentence dramatically unfinished, and, finding a halfpenny
lying on the mantelshelf, deftly inserted it into his friend’s collar as
he passed him. Wally choked over his coffee, and fled in hot pursuit,
clutching at his backbone as he went.

“Aren’t they cheerful babies!” said Norah, laughing. “I guess I’ll be
grey-haired long before they grow up. Come on, Jeanie—I’ll race you
getting ready!” The sound of their flying feet echoed down the corridor.




[Illustration: “‘Bless you, I’m not fighting—I’m watering the
garden!’”]




                              CHAPTER VIII


                                  NOON

          Ah, . . . I remember
          The muster of cattle away outback,
          The thunder of hoofs and the stock-whip’s crack,
          The panting breaths on the warm sweet breeze,
          The tossing horns by Rosella trees,
          And the whirl of dust, and the hot hide’s reek!

                                         —_M. Forrest._

“ALL aboard!”

“Are you girls ready? Hurry up.” From the direction of the garden came a
faint hail, which might have been taken to mean anything.

“Curious things, girls,” said Jim sapiently. Wally and he were leaning
over a fence, five horses ready behind them. “When young Norah’s alone,
she gets dressed as quickly as you or me; but now she has Jean, they
spend ages in getting togged up. And they don’t look any different, no
matter how long they take.”

“No,” agreed the other masculine observer. “They always look jolly nice,
anyhow. I never can make out what they do, to keep ’em so long.”

“Oh, tie each other’s hair ribbons, and swap neckties, and things like
that,” said Jim, vaguely. “Nobody ever knows what girls are up to. Of
course, Norah never seemed quite like a girl until she went to school.
But you can see there’s a difference now.”

“Well—a little,” Wally answered. “But she’s up to all sorts of larks
yet, thank goodness.”

“Well, I should say so,” said Jim, staring. “They’d have to boil Norah
before they made her prim; and that’s a comfort. I rather fancy she must
have had a pretty woeful time when she went to school first.”

“Pretty rough on her,” Wally agreed. “She’ll be growing up next, I
suppose—worse luck.”

“Norah—oh, rot,” said Jim, firmly. “She’s only a kid yet—and will be
for ages. Don’t you go and put ideas like that into her head, Wal.”

“Me?” rejoined his chum. “What do you take me for? But she’ll get ’em
put in at school, you’ll see, quick enough.” And Jim glowered, muttering
something unkindly about school and its by-paths of learning.

“Well, I wish they’d hurry up, anyhow,” he said. “Wonder what’s keeping
them.”

From behind them came a faint snore, and he swung round. Jean and Norah
were already mounted, their heads drooping on their horses’ necks, in
attitudes of extreme boredom. They gave the impression of having sat
there for many hours, and finally succumbed to fatigue and slumber. The
boys burst into laughter.

“Well, of all the idiots,” said Jim, ungallantly. “How did you get
there?”

“Came round the back of the stables,” laughed Norah, waking up. “You two
old gossips were muttering away with your heads over the rail—I believe
we could have stolen all the horses without your knowing anything about
it. It’s just extraordinary how boys will gossip—Jean and I never get
lost in our own eloquence, like you and Wally. What were you being
eloquent about?”

“Never you mind,” said her brother, shooting an amused look at his chum.
“Matters of State too high for your little minds. But you’re not going
to ride Warder, are you, Norah?”

“No,” said Norah, slipping off Wally’s mount. “I knew it was no good
trying to be quiet if I got on Bosun, bless him!” She patted the brown
pony’s neck, and fished a lump of sugar out of her pocket for him.

Mr. Linton came hurriedly over from the house.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said, taking Monarch’s bridle. “I
had to give Brownie some directions; and Hogg is in tears because
something’s wrong with the longest hose—I left him trying to mend it
with bicycle solution and strips of rubber cut from one of Brownie’s old
goloshes, which she nobly sacrificed on the altar of the garden.”

“There are always excitements in being out of reach of shops,” Jim said.
“I hope it’s not the hose I used this morning?”

“Oh, no; your skin’s safe this time!” said his father, laughing. “That
was a shorter one. I don’t like the big one being out of order, in case
of fire; not that a fire at the house is likely—but it’s as well to be
prepared. Stirrups all right, Jean?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jean answered. Nan, staid stock horse though she was
supposed to be, was impatient to get away, and Jean was walking her
round in a circle, pursued by Wally with anxious inquiries as to whether
she were qualifying for the circus ring. Bosun’s eagerness to start had
been manifested so strongly that Norah had at length given up trying to
restrain him, and was some distance across the paddock, the pony
fretting and sidling, and trying to break into a canter.

Mr. Linton and Jim mounted, and they all cantered after Norah. She gave
Bosun his head as they came up to her—a liberty he acknowledged by
executing two or three tremendous bounds in mid-air.

“Mind him, my girl,” her father cautioned. “Don’t let him get his head
down; he’s quite happy enough to buck this morning.”

“I’ll watch him, Daddy,” Norah panted. The big pony was reefing and
pulling double. She patted his arched neck. “Steady, you old
image—steady!” and Bosun came back to a jerky canter, still longing for
unchecked freedom to put his head down, kick up his heels and race
across the paddock without any handicap of saddle and bridle and rider.
For Jim’s weight he had some respect—but this new featherweight, to
whom he was not yet accustomed, was a different matter; it was difficult
to realize that she had wrists like steel and a curious comprehension of
his moods and high spirits. Yet already Bosun understood that his new
rider was not at all afraid of him; and that is the best foundation of
friendship between rider and horse.

The gate into the bush paddock was on flat country—the end of the wide
plain on which Billabong homestead was built; but within a few chains
after entering the paddock the ground began to slope upwards until the
flat had given place to a range of low hills, sparsely timbered, and
interspersed with green and quiet gullies, where thick bracken grew. A
week or so back cattle had been grazing all through the hills; big,
scraggy Queensland bullocks, new arrivals from “up north,” and still
wild and shy. Now, thanks to the vagaries of Harvey, there were none to
be seen. They had scattered into the next paddock, where the grass was
shorter and sweeter, and “boxed” thoroughly with the other cattle
already running there.

“It’s maddening,” said David Linton, scanning the hills with keen eyes.
“I came out here ten days ago, and the bullocks were settling down
splendidly—not half as wild as they were when we drafted them into this
paddock. Now they won’t want to come back, off the clover they are on
now. I’d like Harvey to have the job of mustering them alone on foot!”
Jim whistled.

“Jolly for the bullocks—to say nothing of Harvey,” he said, laughing.

“Jollity for Harvey isn’t part of my idea,” his father responded. “But
the bullocks would be dying of senile decay before he completed the job,
I’m afraid; and I’d rather fatten them while they’re young.”

“I expect you would,” Jim agreed. “Well, I don’t believe there’s a hoof
left in this paddock, anyhow, Dad.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll scatter a bit and
ride round. Jean had better keep fairly close to me; the rest of you
know where the slip-rails are, and we can all meet there. Be as quick as
you can, all of you.”

So they scattered into the timber, Jim taking a line to the extreme
left, with Norah nearest to him, then Wally, and, on the right, Mr.
Linton and Jean. Jean had not quite the appearance of having been “born
in the saddle,” as had the others, who had certainly ridden almost as
soon as they had walked; nevertheless, she could be depended upon to
give a very good account of herself on Nan, who combined a cheerful
spirit with great common sense, after the manner of stock horses, and
was quite capable of correcting any mistakes made by a rider unversed in
the ways of cattle. Jean’s experience had been chiefly gained after
sheep in far-off New Zealand, and to muster cattle is very different
work.

But, like many other silent people, Jean was observant, and even since
coming to Billabong she had picked up a good few points about cattle and
their ways—not a difficult matter where station matters, and the stock
generally, entered largely into the life of every day. She was,
moreover, greatly afraid of making mistakes, and not at all above asking
questions where she needed guidance—two excellent characteristics in a
“new chum.” The man of the Bush is nearly always tolerant to beginners,
and kind in “showing ’em how.” The one individual for whom he has no
time and no mercy is the ignoramus who is cocksure.

Jean was not exactly a beginner—she had ridden by her father’s side in
New Zealand much too often for that. Her blue eyes were alight with
keenness as they trotted through the timber—now swinging into a canter
where the going was clearer, or pulling up when a stretch of crab-holey
ground threatened risk to horses’ legs. It was very pleasant in the
chequered shadows of the trees, and in the deep gullies where the
night-dews still spangled fern and tussock, and the wild convolvuli
nodded blue and white bells as if in greeting. Pleasant to give a good
horse his head—to let him swing in and out amid the timber, dodging
low-hanging limbs by instinct, and skirting the rough barked trunks
closely. Pleasant to smell the sweet bush scents; to catch the strong
beat of wings overhead where black swans sailed southwards towards the
reed-fringed lagoon; or the shrill scream of parrakeets, swooping into a
wild cherry tree in a green, flashing, chattering crowd. Pleasant, too,
to think of school—very far away, with shuttered windows and great
empty classrooms, with dust lying thick on the desks that were symbols
of hated toil! Quite possibly the caretaker did not permit dust to
linger at all. But it was undeniably cheering to picture it.

A white blur in a deep gully caught Jean’s eye as they rode, and she
called to Mr. Linton.

“Is that a bullock lying down?”

“Good girl!” said her host, approvingly. “Yes, it’s a beast down, and I
should say he can’t get up. Perhaps you’d better not come down, lassie;
just keep straight along this ridge, and I’ll catch you up presently.”
He turned his big black’s head down into the gully.

It was ten minutes before he rejoined her—by which time Jean had come
to a standstill, partly because she was uncertain as to which way to go,
and partly because of a queer sound that might have been a stock-whip
crack, but sounded somehow different. She looked inquiringly at Mr.
Linton as he rode up. His face was grave and angry.

“Poor brute! I had to put him out of his misery,” he said. “He’d been
caught in a little landslip and fallen, and his leg was broken. Come on,
Jean, we’re not far from the slip-rails, and the others will be
waiting.”

Norah and Jim and Wally were sitting on a log near the rails, letting
their horses have a mouthful of grass. They mounted as the late-comers
rode up.

“We didn’t find a hoof,” Jim said. A glance at his father’s face had
told him that something was wrong, and he brought Garryowen beside
Monarch as they rode into the next paddock, over the rails that Harvey
had flung down the day before. “Did I hear a shot?” he asked, dropping
his voice.

Mr. Linton nodded.

“Yes,” he said, curtly. “A beast down in a gully—leg broken. I was very
glad I’d brought my revolver; it’s always best to bring it in country
like this, when you never know if it will be necessary to put an injured
beast out of pain. The sickening part of it is, that the job should have
been done a week ago.”

“A week!” Jim whistled.

“I should say so. The poor brute must have lain there in agony for a
good many days—the ground about him was ploughed up with his struggles,
and the leg was in a fearful state. He was nearly dead; the bullet only
hastened things a very little.”

“And Harvey’s been out here every day,” uttered Jim.

“Yes—with nothing to do but ride round and see that those cattle were
all right. Of course he couldn’t have helped the accident, but he could
have saved that poor helpless brute days of agony. It’s quite near one
of the tracks, too; there can be no excuse for missing it.”

“I don’t think Mr. Harvey ever did much riding round,” Jim said. “Going
to sleep under a log is more his form.”

“Or if he did see it he wouldn’t bother his head about it,” his father
answered. “Well, I’m not likely to see Harvey again, thank goodness, and
that is fortunate for him!” In which, as it happened, David Linton was
very far from the truth.

There were plenty of cattle to be seen in the paddock they had now
entered. The ground was gently undulating, with clumps of trees here and
there, and in two or three places a blue flash that spoke of water.
Bullocks were feeding in every direction—some quiet and half fat, while
others were raking, long-horned fellows, gaunt and shy, who threw up
their heads and their heels and lumbered off at a gallop at sight of the
intruders. This had generally the effect of making the quieter bullocks
gallop too, and Mr. Linton groaned at the spectacle of so much good beef
deteriorating by unseemly and violent exercise.

“I had cherished foolish hopes of cutting them out here and coaxing them
back to their own home,” he said. “But there’s not a chance of that—it
will have to be a general muster.”

“Where do we take them, Mr. Linton?” Jean asked. It was evident that she
did not share any of her host’s troubles—her face was eager and merry,
her eyes dancing as they met Norah’s, who, needless to say, was equally
cheerful over the prospect before them. Mr. Linton laughed as he looked
from one to the other.

“Pretty sympathizers you are for a worried man,” he said. “I believe
you’re in league with Harvey—are you sure you didn’t bribe him to leave
down the rails? Does it matter at all to you that I drafted out these
bullocks very carefully not long ago—and that now I’ve the job all over
again?”

“It would matter to me horribly if I were at school and heard about it
in a letter,” said Norah, laughing. “I would be awfully worried and
cross over it—to think of you having such a time! And I would tell Jean
all about it, and she’d be cross and worried, too. But as it is—when
we’re both here, and can relieve you of quite half your anxiety by
helping——!” Whereat Jim and Wally became a prey to great laughter, in
which Jean and Norah joined after a fruitless attempt to ignore them
haughtily.

“Since it’s no use to expect decent sympathy from you, you can certainly
do all the helping you like,” said Mr. Linton, smiling broadly. “We’ll
muster all the cattle down towards the far end of the paddock, and take
them out through the gate there—we might have a pretty hard job if we
tried to take them through the Bush Paddock. Wally, my lad, just canter
back and put up those slip-rails, will you? Jean, you can’t get bushed
in this paddock, because there isn’t enough timber; we can’t get out of
sight of each other for any length of time. Now we’ll each take a line
and get hold of the bullocks in front of us, and hope as hard as we can
that they’ll go quietly. I believe much is said to be done by hoping,
though I don’t know what happens if the cattle are hoping to stay where
they are!”

It was soon distressingly evident that such was indeed the high ambition
of the bullocks. They were very contented on the short, sweet clover and
rye grass; they saw no reason whatever to justify being driven towards
some unknown region. For a good many weeks they had been on the roads,
these long-horned Queenslanders, travelling through regions that were
all unknown. Most of them had been very comfortless—bare roads where
scarcely a picking could be obtained, or through runs where fierce
stockmen and unpleasant dogs were jealously indignant if they took so
much as a bite of grass or failed to cover each day the prescribed
number of miles for travelling stock. Now they had come at last into a
peaceful haven, where clover grew thickly, and a creek flowed for their
special benefit. Was it to be expected that they should tamely leave it?
On the whole, the bullocks thought that it was not, and that whoever was
so weak as to expect it must be taught by painful experience the
futility of so hoping.

The half-fat cattle went readily enough. The tracks were familiar to
them—the crack of a stock-whip was sufficient to start them lazily
along the way towards the gate. They had grown philosophic as they
attained weight; it was known to them now that when mounted people, with
dogs, express an inclination for bullocks to move in a particular
direction, it is as well to be acquiescent and move. But the
Queenslanders had learned no such lesson, or, if they had learned it, it
had been forgotten since they had exchanged the roads for Billabong.
Tracks meant nothing to them; they galloped madly hither and thither,
made off for the farthest corners of the paddock, with tails wildly
streaming in the air, and dodged back with a persistence calculated to
reduce the most patient drover to wrath and evil words. Their spirits
infected some of the staider cattle, and they also fled to the four
winds, with a lumbering agility wonderful in such mountains of beef. It
was quite too hot a day for such pranks, and their owner groaned as they
fled.

“You can see the condition simply evaporating from them,” he declared.

The heat did not seem to affect the Oueenslanders at all. But the horses
were soon sweating and the riders almost as hot, while the dogs became
almost useless, and sneaked off to the creek to wallow luxuriously in
the fern-fringed pools. Wally looked after them eagerly.

“Lucky brutes,” he uttered, “wish I could follow their example.”

He was tailing behind a dozen bullocks—eight of the quieter section and
four of the “stores.” For once they seemed inclined to go quietly, and
Wally began to breathe more freely, with visions of handing them over to
augment the little mob he could see Jim bringing alone, away to the
right. Then came a sudden descent before him, where a little hill ran
down into a grassy hollow. The Oueenslanders began to trot down it; then
the slope proved too much for them, and the trot broke into a canter and
merged to a stretching gallop, striking across the plain. There was no
chance of catching them—Wally could only bring up the rear, sending the
spurs into old Warder in his fruitless hope of heading them before they
should reach Jim’s mob, and upset their serenity.

The cattle had all the best of it. Here and there one dropped out of the
chase, panting, or broke back to try to reach the open country they were
leaving; but the leaders made for Jim’s little mob, even as the swallows
homeward fly. They scattered it hither and thither; heels flew up, and
hoofs pounded, as they tore in different directions, and not one the
right one. Jim’s eloquence failed him. He could only give Garryowen his
head in somewhat vague pursuit, since it could not be definitely said
which beast to pursue.

“Hard to know which has most call on a fellow’s time,” Jim muttered
grimly as he galloped.

Further across the paddock, Jean was having troubles of her own. The
width from fence to fence was all too great for five to guard; although
Mr. Linton had said she could not get lost—which she knew very well—it
was lonely enough in the wide space, catching only an occasional glimpse
of fellow-musterers to right and left across the undulating ground. The
bullocks had no sense of chivalry; they treated her with scorn and
derision, and her hopes of being of definite use in the muster faded
swiftly.

It seemed easy enough to bring along the bullocks directly in front, but
when Jean came to put the instruction into practice it was not nearly so
simple. Some went quite calmly, insomuch that swift affection kindled
for them in her breast; others merely looked at her, walked a few steps,
and began feeding again. Pressed more closely and shouted at very
energetically, they departed in divers ways, making it quite impossible
to pursue them all. She could only hope that they came in the path of
the other musterers and meet their due fate. Finally, a big spotted
brute, with a great raking pair of horns, doubled when, in her
ignorance, she failed to “keep wide” near him, and slipping past her,
made for the open paddock behind her. Jean dug her heels into Nan with
all her energy, wishing to her heart that they were spurred—a wish
slightly unfair to the brown mare, who was only too ready to do her
best. They fled in hot pursuit.

The bullock had made all possible use of his start, and he redoubled his
speed as the hoofs pounded in the rear. A rise ahead prevented his
seeing any fence. He pictured safety in the way he was going, could he
but outstrip pursuit—safety and peace, and good grass, away from
worrying humans and the rattle of stock-whip cracks. So he topped the
rise and raced on; and behind him came the brown mare, entirely beyond
Jean’s control now. Nan knew precisely what should be the duty of any
self-respecting stock horse, and she was very certain that no
featherweight upon her back should prevent her from doing it. She swung
outward just at the right moment—a movement which very nearly disposed
of Jean, who felt the saddle fleeting from under her, and only saved
herself by grabbing at the pommel. It taught her caution. She realized
that she could not at all tell what this determined steed was going to
do. Therefore she sat very tightly and kept a hand close to the kindly
pommel as they raced past the bullock. And it was as well she did.

Nan swung in sharply, and headed the bullock off. For a moment it seemed
as if he would race away diagonally across the paddock. Then he propped
uncertainly in his gallop for a moment, and immediately the brown mare
propped too, turning “on a sixpence” in a way that would certainly have
disposed of Jean but for her timely grip. As it was, she went forward
upon Nan’s neck, losing both stirrups as she went—and had barely
wriggled back into the saddle with a violent effort when the bullock was
ready for further action. He uttered a low bellow, moving his head
uncertainly.

“Shoo! Shoo!” cried Jean, wildly. “Get along! Oh, I wish I was a man, or
a dog, or a stock-whip!”

Something in the shrill voice checked the bullock, or else the sight of
the brown mare, eager to do battle again, made him realize the vanity of
bovine wishes. He turned sharply, and raced back along the way he had
come, with Jean in hot pursuit—atop of Nan, clinging for dear life,
with both feet out of the stirrups—Jean, oblivious of all save the joy
of conquest, and uttering spasmodic and breathless shouts of “Shoo!” The
bullock raced as though the end of the world were approaching for him.
Ahead was a group of other cattle; he shot into the midst of them and
pulled up, uttering an indignant bellow.

Nan slackened, visibly uneasy at the dangling stirrups, which had,
indeed, acted as flails, beating her with great ardour throughout the
race. Jean managed to pull her up, and to get her feet in again. Pride
rested on her crimson brow.

“Oh, I hope Norah saw!” she uttered.

Then, from some unseen part of the paddock she saw a riderless horse top
a ridge and race towards her.

“Oh!” said Jean, “oh! it’s Bosun!” Her voice was a little wail of
distress. She dug her heel into Nan, and cantered out to meet the
runaway, her heart in her mouth.

It was not Bosun, however, but Warder, Wally’s mount. He came to a
standstill as the brown mare and her rider appeared across his path, and
looked considerably ashamed of himself, since it is no part of the duty
of a stock horse to run from his rider, should misfortune overtake that
luckless wight. Then from the same direction came Jim, galloping, with a
broad grin on his face. He changed his course and came round when he saw
the two horses close together.

“Good girl, Jean!” he sang out. “I’ll catch him.” And Jean swelled with
joy at the carelessly given word of praise.

Warder stood quietly enough while Jim came gently on Garryowen, speaking
soothing words until he was near enough to grasp his rein.

“Thought I’d have a lovely chase after him,” Jim said.

“Is Wally hurt? Warder didn’t buck with him, did he?” Jean asked
anxiously.

“Not he—Warder’s no buckjumper,” returned Jim. “No—the silly old
mule—it was all his fault!”

“Whose—Wally’s?” Jean asked, as he paused.

Jim laughed.

“No, Warder’s,” he said. “Put his foot into a crab-hole and turned a
somersault—neatest thing you ever saw! Wal. shot about a hundred yards;
luckily he landed on a soft spot, for he’s not hurt. There he is, lazy
beggar; he ought to be coming to meet us.”

Wally held no such view. He was stretched at full length on the grass,
his felt hat pulled over his face. As they rode up he came slowly into a
sitting position.

“Bless you, Jimmy! Much trouble?”

“Don’t bless me,” Jim said. “Jean had him nearly caught.” At which Jean
flushed with embarrassment and pride, and said something entirely
incoherent.

“Come along, you lazy rubbish! I say!” said Jim, in sudden alarm,
“you’re not hurt, really, are you, old man?”

“Not a bit,” grinned his chum, jumping up. “Merely lazy, as you
truthfully remark, and besides, you were so busy that there didn’t seem
any need for me to be more than ornamental.” He dodged a flick from
Jim’s stock-whip, and swung himself into the saddle.

Far across the paddock they could see Norah in hot pursuit of a bullock.
Bosun was hardly trained after stock yet; so far he lacked the amazing
instinct that comes to horses, making them understand precisely what a
bullock will do next—often some time before the bullock himself knows.
The brown pony was only too willing to gallop; that was simple; but he
was weak in the delicate science of checking and heading a beast, of
propping and swinging so as to anticipate every froward impulse in his
bovine brain. It made Norah’s task no easy one, for the bullock was a
big, determined Queenslander, with a set desire for peace and freedom.
There was no chance of using a stock-whip, since Bosun was far too
excited to permit such a liberty. She could only gallop and try to head
him, and shout—her clear voice came ringing across the grass. Finally
determination in the pursuer proved stronger than the same quality in
the pursued, and the bullock gave in. He turned and trotted sulkily
back, with Bosun dancing behind him.

So they galloped and shouted and raced through the long hot morning
until they were all hoarse and tired, with tempers just a little frayed
at the edges. Even Jean and Norah were of opinion that there may be less
fun in mustering than they had dreamed. Bosun was a distinctly tiring
proposition in such work as this, his lack of training, coupled with his
excitability, making him anything but easy to ride. Many times a bullock
got away from Norah because she had been unable to turn her pony—since
Bosun saw no reason why he should not sail on to the end of the paddock
when once he got going. On one occasion he did actually get out of hand,
and bolted a long way, scattering the cattle in his mad career.
Altogether it was a strenuous morning, and they were all very thankful
when persistent effort succeeded in getting all the bullocks together
and through the gate, and so across the next paddock to a set of yards
built for just such emergencies, to save driving stock the long distance
back to the homestead.

“Eh, but I’m thirsty,” said Wally, slipping Warder’s bridle over a post
and turning to take Bosun. “Norah, you look jolly tired.”

“I’m all right,” Norah answered. “I only want tea, and buckets of it.
But this fellow makes your arms ache; he’s been trying to bolt all the
time. I’d have been more use riding an old cow, I believe.”

“Don’t you talk rubbish,” said Jim, leading Nan and Garryowen up to the
fence. “But I tell you what, old girl, you’re going to ride my neddy
after lunch. He’s quite a stock horse now, and won’t be nearly so hard
on your arms.”

“Well, I don’t like shirking,” Norah said, looking doubtfully at Bosun.
“He’s such a beauty, too, Jimmy—only he doesn’t understand yet.”

“Of course he doesn’t—you can’t expect it,” said her brother. “You
wouldn’t care for it if he went like an old sheep, naturally. He’ll be
all right after a little regular work with the cattle. Anyhow, you want
a rest.”

“And you’re sure you’re not too heavy for Bosun?” said Bosun’s owner,
doubtfully, looking at Jim’s long figure.

“I thought that had something to do with it,” Jim grinned. “Don’t you
worry, my child; I won’t squash your pretty pet!” To which Norah
responded by turning up an already tilted nose, and proceeding to unpack
the lunch valise, which had bumped somewhat cruelly on Warder’s saddle
all the morning, considerably to the detriment of the hard-boiled eggs.

Lunch was simple; they boiled the billy at a little fire in a green
hollow where there was no grass dry enough to risk burning, and drank
great quantities of tea in the shade of a big she-oak tree. At first
Norah and Jean declared that they were too hot to eat; but they revived
considerably after the first fragrant cup, and found Brownie’s
sandwiches very good. Then Jim emptied the inconsiderable remains of the
tea over the fire and stamped it out carefully, separating the embers;
and the two boys took the horses for the drink that could not be allowed
them until they had cooled down. After which the girls professed
themselves ready to start; but Mr. Linton ordered half an hour’s
“smoke-oh,” with a keen eye on two faces that were quite too sun-kissed
to look pale, but were certainly a little weary. So they all lay flat in
the shade, and all but the squatter went to sleep almost immediately,
while he sat propped against the she-oak trunk and smoked lazily. The
half-hour had stretched almost to an hour before he woke them.

“Come on, you sleepy-heads!” he said, smiling at them. “Time to get
busy.”

“Ugh-h—I’m stiff!” uttered Wally, wriggling, with an agonized
countenance. “I think I’ve been tied in a tight knot, judging by my
feelings.” A small twig caught him neatly on the back of the neck, and,
forgetting his stiffness, he sprang up and gave chase to Jim, who was
already at the horses.

“Oh, I’m so hideously hot!” Norah grumbled.

“Or hotly hideous?” called out Jim, who looked provokingly cool.

“Both, I think. All the same, that was a nice sleep. Don’t you feel
better, Jean?”

“Heaps,” said Jean, who was busy in removing burrs and fragments of
grass from her divided skirt. “At least, I will feel heaps better after
I’ve got over feeling as horrible as I do just now.” She pushed the hair
away from her eyes. “If only one could have a bathe!”

“We’ll have one to-night, in the lagoon,” Norah told her.

“You won’t have much chance of anything to-night except supper and bed,
if we’re not quick,” said Mr. Linton. “Come along—you’ve rubbed that
pony long enough, Jim. Get in behind those bullocks.”

He took his place at the drafting gate at the end of the race—the
narrow lane, high fenced, connecting the big yard, where the cattle had
been put, with two smaller yards. The boys whistled to the dogs and
slipped in through the fence, urging the bullocks down the race. There
Mr. Linton, with a quick turn of the gate, directed their further
progress—the Queenslanders into one yard, the older bullocks into the
other. Norah and Jean, debarred by the distinction of sex from active
participation in these joys, took up a commanding position on the cap of
the fence, occasionally emitting a warning yell when a bullock turned
back at the very moment when he should have been entering the race.

Drafting cattle is far more pleasant work after a shower of rain. Even
mud is better to work in than dust, which rises, and chokes and blinds
you, and annoys the bullocks, and makes the entrance to the race
puzzlingly obscure. Luckily these yards were not very often used, and
had a thin carpet of grass, otherwise the job would have been a more
difficult and lengthy one. As it was, when the cattle were finally
divided into their respective mobs, and the boys came out of the yard,
their features were somewhat indefinite, thanks to the coating of dust
that covered each cheerful countenance.

Mr. Linton rammed home into its socket the peg that secured the drafting
gate, and rejoined his assistants. They mounted—Norah this time on
Garryowen—and Jim let out the Queensland cattle, which immediately made
off in the direction of water. Withdrawn from the creek, not without
difficulty, they were hustled into the Far Plain and driven along the
way they had come that morning, with no chance of nibbling the sweet
green clover that was provokingly soft under their feet.

Near the slip-rails Mr. Linton turned to Norah.

“We won’t have any more trouble,” he said, “they’re tired, and will go
through into the Bush Paddock quietly. You and Jean can cut back if you
like, and let out the others.”

“All right, Daddy,” said Norah, happily. “And bring them along into this
paddock?”

“Yes, it will save time. You’ll find they’ll be only too ready to come.”

So Jean and Norah cantered back over the springy turf. The sun was
setting, and the trees sent long shadows far across the paddock. A
little breeze had sprung up from the west, swelling gradually to a cool
wind, that fanned their hot faces—it was quite easy to forget the heat
and burden of the day.

The big yard gate swung open—it was one of Mr. Linton’s “notions” that
there should be no gate on Billabong that should not open easily,
without forcing a rider to dismount. The cattle came out gladly,
stringing across towards the clover of their own home, Jean and Norah
behind them, happy in the certainty of really being able to render
service. Just as the last slow beast had wandered through the open
gateway, the three masculine workers came cantering back.

“Well done!” said Mr. Linton, with approval. “Did they give you any
bother?”

“Not a bit, Dad.”

“That’s right. But I’m afraid it’s going to be too dark for that bathe,
Jean.”

“Can’t be helped,” said that lady, philosophically. “There are tubs!”

“And there’s tea!” said Wally, thankfully. “I don’t know which I want
more at this moment.”

“I do, then,” said Norah, surveying him with critical eyes. “There isn’t
a doubt!”

           “Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men
           May read strange matters,”

quoted Mr. Linton, smiling. “Not fair to jibe at you, Wally, old man,
when you earned your stripes in a good cause.”

Wally put his hand up to his face, where little runners of perspiration
had made streaks in the grimy surface.

“I’m used to ingratitude,” he declared. “I’ve a good mind to make a
non-washing vow, like those Indian Johnnies and keep off soap and water
for seven years!”

“Then you’ll certainly have your meals out in the back yard!” Norah
assured him. They shook their tired horses out of a walk and cantered
home across the paddocks through the gathering dusk.




                               CHAPTER IX


                         A LITTLE YELLOW FLAME

There’s rest and peace and plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;
The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;
The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me—
But, please the Lord, on Monday morn I’m leaving Arcady.

                                          —_Victor J. Daley._

AS she had predicted, Mrs. Brown had not found idleness during the
morning hours. The individual who is popularly supposed to supply
mischief for unoccupied hands could never be said to number Brownie
among his clients. Jim was wont to say that she was a tiringly busy
person—with a twinkle in his eye. Her huge form moved with a quite
amazing lightness, and she was rarely to be seen sitting still. On the
infrequent occasions that she subsided into a chair she produced wool
and needles from some unseen receptacle about her person, and knitted as
though her life depended on it.

There had, however, been no time during this long, hot morning for such
gentle arts as knitting. Brownie was short-handed, the races having
taken away some of her helpers; in addition, it was baking day, and that
in itself was sufficient for any ordinary woman. The bread had gone into
the great brick oven comparatively early. By the time it came out there
were other things ready to go in—mammoth cakes and pies, and kindred
delicacies. No oven cooks with the perfection of a brick one. Brownie
never allowed its heat to be wasted on the days that it was lit for the
bread baking. Then “her hand being in,” she proceeded to compound lesser
matters—little cakes, cream puffs, rolls, whatever might be calculated
to appeal to the healthy appetites that would return to her that
evening. “They do take some cookin’ for, they do—bless them,” she
mused.

She was outside the kitchen, rooting in the dark recesses of the brick
oven with an instrument resembling a fish slice made into a Dutch hoe,
when an unfamiliar step sounded on the gravel behind her. At the moment
her occupation was quite too engrossing to be relinquished for any step.
She did not turn until her explorations had been crowned with success,
and she had backed away from the oven door, bearing on her weapon a
delicately-browned pie. She deposited it carefully on a little table
placed handily, shut the oven door, and faced round.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought you’d gone, Harvey.”

“Wasn’t any ’urry,” said Harvey, a short, weedy individual with a crafty
face. “Boss said I could ’ave some tucker.”

“He thought you was goin’ to get it hours ago,” said Brownie. “What have
you been doin’, hangin’ about like this?”

“Haven’t been doin’ anything,” the man answered sulkily. “Been campin’
on me bed; there’s no points in tearin’ off in this sort of weather. It
don’t hurt you, I suppose?”

Brownie stared at the insolent face much as she might have regarded some
weird curiosity among the lower animals.

“No,” she said, after prolonged contemplation, during which Harvey had
shuffled uneasily. “It don’t hurt me at all; only I happen to be in
charge of the place, and it’s my business to see Mr. Linton’s orders
carried out. So I think the best thing you can do, an’ the most
comferable for all concerned, is to take yourself off as soon as
possible.”

“Oh, I’m goin’—don’t you fret,” Harvey said. “Wouldn’t stay on the
beastly place, not if I was paid. A nice name I’ll give Linton in the
township—an’ the Melbourne registry offices, too! He’ll know all about
it when he wants to engage new men.”

“You poor little thing!” said Brownie, pityingly. “Funny now, to see you
that full of malice an’ bad temper—and to know how little notice any
one’ll take of you! All the districk knows the sort of employer Mr.
Linton is—he don’t never need to send to Melbourne for his hands. Why,”
said Brownie, becoming oratorical in her emotion, “there’s alwuz men
just fallin’ over themselves to get work on Billabong—an’ better men
than you’ll ever be! You go an’ talk just as much as you like—it’ll
never hurt my boss. But I wouldn’t advise you to get into Master Jim’s
way—him bein’ handy with his hands!”

“That pup!” muttered Harvey, malevolently; “why, ’e’s only a kid; I
guess I could manage him pretty easy if I wanted to.”

“If you want any tucker off me, I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in
your head,” warned Brownie. “Master Jim ain’t to be discussed by you,
not near my kitchen anyhow. If you ask me, I’ll tell you straight I
don’t think you’re fit to menshin his name!”

Harvey took a step nearer, almost threateningly. But Brownie had handled
too many insolent swagmen in her day to be in the least afraid of this
undersized little man, with the rat face.

“Now, don’t you be foolish, Harvey,” she advised. “I’m not likely to be
scared of you, or any one like you; and if I was, there’s old Hogg just
over the fence in the garden, an’ Lee Wing in the onions, an’ they’d put
you into the lagoon as soon as look at you if they caught you givin’ me
any cheek. That sort of thing don’t go down on Billabong.”

Harvey’s answering snarl might have signified anything unpleasant.
Brownie regarded him reflectively.

“Fact is,” she remarked confidentially, “I’m really a bit sorry for you.
I don’t know what kind of a mother you had, but it’s me certain belief
that she never spanked you half enough as a boy. You don’t strike me as
having had much spanking, an’ I’m not too sure as you wouldn’t be the
better for it now. What’s the good of goin’ on like this?—just a
useless waster! Whatever on earth do you think you’re goin’ to make of
your poor little life?”

“Ah, get out!” said Harvey, not at all impressed by this impassioned
oration. “What’s it got to do with you or any one else?”

“Very little,” said Brownie, majestically. “You ain’t likely to be in
danger of any one here breakin’ their hearts with worryin’ over you,
anyhow. Deary me! I hope Providence is with them turnovers in the oven,
or else they’ll be burnt black on me!” She waddled hurriedly into the
kitchen and rescued the tarts—not too late. Rising with some difficulty
from shutting the stove door, she found Harvey behind her.

“You’ll have to be off, Harvey, you know,” she said, firmly. “I ain’t
got time to talk to you, even if I wanted to, which I don’t; an’ Mr.
Linton’d be annoyed if he came home an’ found you still encumberin’ the
place. Take my advice an’ try an’ get another good job, an’ stick to it
this time. You’re young yet, you know, an’ there’s no reason why you
shouldn’t turn over a new leaf an’ do well.” (“Only, his face is agin
it!” she murmured to herself.)

“Aw, don’t go preachin’,” Harvey muttered. “There ain’t no chance for a
poor beggar of a workin’ bloke in this country——”

“Don’t you talk that kind of silly nonsense to me,” returned Brownie,
warmly. “If ever a country was God’s own country for a man not afraid to
use his hands, an’ with pluck to tackle the land, it’s Australia! I got
three sons on the land—an’ if I had thirty-three I’d put ’em all there!
But unless the Angel Gabriel came along an’ took you by the back of the
neck an’ shoved you, you’d never work—an’ I think even Gabriel ’ud have
his hands full. There, I ain’t got time for you. Your tucker’s here; I
got it ready early this morning.”

“Can’t I stop an’ have dinner?” he whined.

Brownie hesitated.

“No, you can’t,” she said at length. “Dinner’s not for an hour, and Mr.
Linton left pertikler directions that I was to have your tucker ready
so’s not to keep you from makin’ a start. He wanted you to get off the
place, an’ I won’t take the responsibility of keepin’ you when you ought
to have been gone hours ago. There’s enough tucker there for three
meals—the meat’ll only go bad on you, in this weather, if you don’t use
it.” She thrust the parcel of food—a generous bundle—into his hands.
“I’ll give you a bottle of milk, too, if you like,” she added.

“Milk be darned!” said Harvey, savagely. “I’ll let the districk know you
turned me out without a meal!”

“The districk’ll be interested,” responded Brownie, with great
composure. “Now, be off, or I’ll call the men—an’ Hogg’s temper’s none
too good these warm days!”

Harvey’s snarl was not a pleasant addition to an unpleasant countenance.

“Mark my words, I’ll——” he began.

“Mark my words, you’ll find the hose turned on you if you don’t go out
of here politely!” said Brownie, her good-tempered old face flushing.
“Get along with you, an’ don’t be a silly young man!” She turned her
back upon him decisively, and opened the oven door with a snap. Harvey
stood still for a moment, his evil features working furiously. Then he
shambled out of the kitchen and across the yard, pursued hotly by Puck,
the Irish terrier, who barked at his heels in extreme wrath.

“Wonderful how that blessed dog hates vermin!” uttered Brownie. She
watched Harvey until he was out of sight—seeing him pick up his swag
outside the gate and shuffle away down the track. Even the swag was
typical of him—badly rolled and lumpy, with ends sticking out of the
straps in various places. Puck came back presently, apparently
disheartened by this species of quarry, that was not even sporting
enough to show fight; and presently a bend in the tree-fringed track hid
the shambling figure.

“A good riddance!” uttered Brownie, turning from the window. “Wonder if
he favoured his pa or his ma?” Ruminating on this important point, she
returned to cleaner matters.

Harvey, however, did not go far.

It was very hot, and his swag, although it contained little enough, was
heavy upon his weedy shoulders. Even the bundle of food bothered him. It
took up his free hand, and made it hard to keep away the flies that
buzzed persistently about his face and crawled into the corners of his
eyes in maddening fashion. He tried balancing it upon his stick across
his shoulders, but the pressure of the stick hurt him, and the parcel
kept slipping about, and nearly fell more than once. He abused it with
peevish anger, including the heat, and Mr. Linton and Billabong
generally in his condemnation. Finally, he stopped and kicked the dust
reflectively.

“Blessed if I start in this darned heat!” he uttered.

He looked about him. To return to the house was clearly unsafe. He
scowled, remembering Brownie’s determined face, and her evident resolve
to rid Billabong of his presence. Ahead, there was very little cover for
a few miles, and Harvey was rapidly sure that he did not intend to walk
so far in the heat. Clumps of box trees were scattered about, but a man
sheltering in their shade was easily visible from the house, and he had
no mind to be visible. Where could a lone wayfarer dispose of his
unobtrusive presence?

Looking back, a little to the west of the stables, a thick clump of
low-growing trees caught his eye—lemon gums, planted by Mr. Linton as
shade in a little paddock where a few horses could be turned out when it
was necessary to keep them close at hand. They grew in a corner, hedged
in on two sides by a close-growing barrier of hawthorn. It was a
tempting place, cool and shady. A man might lie there unseen of any one,
although it was but a few chains’ distance from the stables.

Harvey glanced round. No one was in sight. Behind him the homestead
slumbered peacefully, its red roofs peeping from the mass of orchard
green. That abominable dog had retreated, much to his relief. Puck
always caused him to feel uneasy sensations in the calves of his legs
when he rent the air behind him with yelps. It occurred vividly to
Harvey that it would have been gratifying to have been able to kill Puck
before he went away. Then he left the track, and hurried across the long
grass to the little clump of trees.

He reached it unseen, and flung himself on the grass, dropping his swag
and bundle thankfully, and tucking himself as far back into the shade of
the hedge as the hawthorn spikes would allow. It was the only green
thing; the lemon gums looked dry and parched, and the long grass of the
little paddock was quite hard and yellow. Still, it was a good nook for
a lazy man; the trees hid him from the stables and the house, and the
hedge from any other point of view. He stretched out luxuriously—and
then jumped up with a nervous start, as an old kerosene tin, nearly
hidden under the hedge, rattled and banged as his boot caught it. Harvey
told the kerosene tin just what he thought of it, flinging it further
away in childish anger. Then he lay down again, and went to sleep, his
mean little face half hidden under his battered hat.

When he awoke it was long past the usual dinner hour, and he was hungry.
He unpacked Brownie’s parcel, abusing her in a muttered snarl as he did
so, and fell to work eagerly on the provisions. Then he dived into the
recesses of his swag, and produced a whisky bottle which he had already
visited several times during the morning, and washed the meal down with
the raw spirit. He tried to sleep again, but sleep would not come, so he
propped himself against the trunk of a lemon gum and smoked cigarettes
during the hot afternoon, occasionally seeking solace from the bottle.
After a time the latter gave out, which annoyed him greatly; he flung it
into the hedge, and continued to smoke.

As long as the whisky lasted Harvey had no complaint to make about his
day, which was, indeed, a picnic of the kind his soul most desired. He
considered that a man not compelled to work, and supplied with food,
whisky and cigarettes, has very little more to ask in this troublesome
world. It was regrettable that, even to obtain these, it had been
necessary to perform something even faintly resembling work. Still, work
did not exist on his present horizon; his cheque would last a little
while, and beyond that he did not trouble to think—at least, while the
whisky yet remained to him.

But when the bottle ran dry his contented mood rapidly fell away from
him. He had been dreaming gentle, whisky-assisted day-dreams of suddenly
rising to fame and fortune—the means he most favoured consisted in
buying a horse out of a costermonger’s barrow, for, say, 2_s._ 11_d._
and training it in secret until he won the Melbourne Cup with it. It
made him very happy, but he could not dream it unassisted; and the
bottle was empty, leaving him not quite sober, yet a very long way from
drunk—an unpleasant position. Instead of such joyous visions, cheerless
spectres came to him—work, and policemen, and bosses; all three equally
distasteful. He went over and over the recital of his woes—of Mr.
Linton, bloated capitalist and slave-driver, rolling in wealth and
grinding the poor beneath his large boot; of himself, Harvey, toiling
heavily for a pittance, his lot unredeemed by kindness or fair
treatment. Put in that way, it made quite a pathetic case. Harvey grew
sorrier for himself with every minute and more and more convinced of the
injustice of his lot. That Mr. Linton worked harder than any man he
employed, and that he himself had not made the smallest effort to earn
his wages, mattered to him not at all. The squatter represented the
hated class that owned money, while he had none; and the fact was
sufficient condemnation in Harvey’s eyes. He passed from the stage of
whining to that of showing his teeth—somewhat hampered by the fact that
no one was near to be impressed by the exhibition.

He had worked himself into a sullen fury by the time the sun suddenly
dipped behind the western pines, and he realized that it was late—that
he should have been on the track long ago. It made another item in his
list of grievances. Harvey hated walking—the fourteen miles to Cunjee
seemed a hundred as he sat on the grass and thought about it. Still, he
did not dare to remain until the others should come home—willing enough
to hurt them, could he find a secret chance, he was as little anxious to
face Mr. Linton and Jim as he was to meet Murty and the stockmen, whose
criticisms, he felt, would be pointed.

He lit a cigarette, letting the match drop carelessly, and a little
trail of fire sprang up in the grass in quick answer. Harvey put it out
with a casual blow from his hat; even he knew a man must not play tricks
with matches in summer. And then the whisky, working on his own evil
mind, put a thought into him, and he bit off the end of his cigarette in
sudden excitement.

It was a mad thought, but he toyed with it as he sat there, smoking
fiercely, until it did not seem so mad after all. Other men had been
punished for oppressing the poor. Other squatters had known what it
meant to offend the working man—had seen their sheep go unshorn, their
lambs undocked, their bullocks left untended. Other swagmen had done
what was in his brain to do—had left a fire carefully smouldering near
a station boundary so that it should get away into the long grass. It
had always seemed to him a particularly smart thing to do—the sort of
thing to serve a squatter jolly well right, and prove to him that he was
not going to ride rough-shod over every one. There would be exquisite
enjoyment in administering just such a lesson to Billabong’s owner. Yet,
how to do it?

He was not devoid of cunning. Risk to his own skin was the only thing
that really mattered to him. He turned over in his mind various plans,
and rejected all of them because he could not quite see his way out.
Once started in the long, dry grass, a fire would travel like a flash.
There would be no time for the man who lit it to make his escape, for
the alarm would have been given before he had gone half a mile. He could
not even plead an escaped spark from a camp fire. He had no billy, and
with the thermometer at 110 degrees in the shade, there was no possible
excuse for a man to light a fire, unless he wanted to brew tea. And
short shrift would be given to the “swaggie” careless with pipe and
matches in such weather, with the grass like a yellow crop over the
sun-baked district. It was really very difficult to be an incendiary,
with a due regard for your skin.

Then the old kerosene tin he had kicked away earlier in the afternoon
caught his eye, and he gave a low, triumphant whistle. There was an old
trick; he had heard of it in Gippsland, if a man wanted to light his cut
scrub before the law allowed him to burn it. You put a candle, alight,
under a tin, and then rode away, leaving the little sheltered flame to
burn slowly down until it came to the tinder-like grass. By that time
you were probably inspecting cattle at a farm ten miles off, so that no
one could say you had been near your own property to start the fire. It
was a very happy way of proving an alibi, and, whatever the neighbours
might think, particularly if your burn had spread to their paddocks and
involved them in loss, the police could say nothing to you.

“Why not?”

Harvey asked himself the question quite cheerfully. He had a candle. It
had occurred to him that the one in his room might be useful, so he had
packed it in his swag. The tin appeared to have been put there by a
thoughtful Fate. Everything was playing into his hands. Already it was
almost sunset. The candle was nearly new, and it would burn long enough
to let him get a long distance away. Even if the cracks of the old tin
should show a faint glow, no one would notice it behind the clump of gum
trees. And once burned to the grass—well, the grass would do the rest.

He took out the candle, and made a little hole in the ground to act as a
socket, pressing it tightly into position. Round it he cut the tall tops
of the grass, so that the blaze should not come too soon, laying them
round the base—a carefully-prepared little mat of tinder. Then he
rolled up his swag and made quite ready to start.

He lit the candle. The flame burned steadily in the still, hot air.
Then, gently, he inverted the kerosene tin over it, peeping through a
hole in the side to make sure that the little yellow flame was still
alight. It seemed a little weak—perhaps there was not enough air. So he
slipped a stick under one edge, tilting it very slightly, yet enough to
admit a breath. He nodded, pleased with his improvement.

“I guess that’ll about fix you, Mr. David Linton!” he muttered.

There was a hole in the hawthorn hedge near him. He pushed his swag
through and crawled after it. No one was in sight. He cast a hurried
look round. Then he rose and almost ran from the spot—from the rusty
kerosene tin and the little yellow flame. The twilight shrouded him—a
mean figure, slinking in the shadow of the hedge.




                               CHAPTER X


                                MIDNIGHT

      When the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek courses,
        And revels with harsh, hot sand,
      I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
      I loose the horses, the mad red horses,
        And terror is on the land!

                                       —_Marie E. J. Pitt._

DUSK fell, and the stars came out to ride in a blue-black sky, before
the sound of horses’ feet, galloping, floated to the quiet house at
Billabong. Mrs. Brown came out on the verandah, one hand at her ear,
listening.

“Here they are—an’ thank goodness!” she uttered. “I’m never easy in me
mind when they’re out on them young horses—not as anything ever
happens, but who’s to say it isn’t goin’ to? It’s always a relief, like,
to see them come scrimmagin’ in!”

Hogg, a dim figure in the gloom of a big clump of hydrangea, merely
grunted. Norah considered that a serious realization of the claims of
his name had induced Hogg to practise grunting. It was a fine art with
him, and capable of innumerable shades of expression.

Just now he was hunting snails—his dour face occasionally revealed in
an almost startling manner by gleams from the tiny lantern he carried.

“Watter will always bring them,” he remarked.

“Eh?” asked Brownie, sharply.

“Ay. The place was free a week back—an’ noo they’re crawlin’ all
through it—rapacious beasts!”

“What on earth are you saying, man?” demanded Brownie, bristling.

“Tes the snails, Mistress Broon. Whiles, ’a wes thinkin’ there wes none;
but sin’ ’a’ve been soakin’ this pairt o’ the gairden they’ve made ma
life a burrden. ’A ken fine there’s nae gairdener wull get to heaven gin
he has to deal much in life wi’ snails!” said Hogg, desperately.

“Nasty beasts!” said Brownie sympathetically. She shuddered as a
crunching sound came from under Hogg’s boot, and fled indoors; and the
Scotchman worked on, pondering upon the peculiar and painful
susceptibilities of women. “It makes ma heart glad to scrunch ’em!” he
reflected, demolishing half a dozen of his enemies with a massive boot.

The riders trotted into the stable yard, tired, but cheerful.

“Coming home was the best part of the day,” said Norah, happily,
slipping off and beginning to unbuckle Bosun’s breastplate, leaving
Garryowen to Jim. Garryowen had carried her like a bird; but Norah had a
fancy for letting her own property go.

“I think you can put Bosun in the stable to-night,” her father said;
“Monarch and Garryowen, too; they deserve a bit of hard feed.”

“And don’t Nan and Warder?” protested Jean.

“Yes—but they aren’t used to it,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “These
three are pampered babies, and the others are matter-of-fact old
stagers.”

“Nan’s a dear!” said Jean, indignantly. She caressed the brown mare’s
long nose.

“I’ll slip over after tea and feed them,” Jim said. “They’re a bit hot
now.”

“Very well,” his father answered, leading Monarch into the dark recesses
of the stable and returning for Bosun. “Better leave the others in the
yard, too, until you come over; then you can give them some chaff, just
to set Jean’s mind at rest.” He pulled that lady’s hair gently. “Make
haste, we’ve kept poor Brownie unconscionably late.”

Brownie showed no signs of having been delayed. She met them smilingly,
and called Wally “poor dear!” when he simulated extreme fatigue. Tea was
a mighty meal, and before it was over Norah and Jean felt their eyelids
drooping. It was still very hot in the house. Outside, a wind began to
blow fitfully from the west.

“Go to bed, both of you!” ordered Mr. Linton, as they rose from the
table and went out through the long windows upon the verandah. “You’re
both knocked up. What’s that light moving?”

“That’s Hogg, snail hunting,” Jim answered.

“I’ll be fined for working him overtime some day,” said his father.
“Most of them are only too glad to knock off, but Hogg’s a demon to
work.”

“This isn’t work, it’s sport!” grinned Jim.

“I should think Hogg’s dreams would be haunted by the screams of
slaughtered snails!” Wally said. “Wonder how many of their scalps he’s
entitled to wear at his saddle bow—slain in gentle and joyous combat!
He’s a mighty hunter.” He yawned, cavernously. “Jim, if you want me to
help you feed those horses before I go to sleep you’d better hurry.”

“Come on,” Jim said, swinging himself over the low railing of the
verandah. “Then I’ll race you to bed, if you like. Good-night, kids!”

“Kid yourself,” said Norah, in great scorn. “Jean, first into the bath
gets it!” Uttering this mystic prediction, she kissed her father
hastily, and fled upstairs, with Jean toiling in her wake. Sounds of
much splashing kept the bathrooms lively for some time. Then Billabong,
clean, refreshed and profoundly sleepy, tumbled into bed and became
oblivious of the world.

                         *    *    *    *    *

Norah woke from a confused dream of Hogg, mounted on an immense
Queensland bullock, and chasing a battalion of snails down Mount
Kosciusko. Variety was lent to the vision by the fact that Kosciusko had
become an active volcano, and was in wild eruption behind the Scotchman,
who was silhouetted blackly against a background of burning lava. _And
the snails were screaming._

For a moment she did not think she could be awake. The ridiculous dream
had been vivid, and still the glow filled her room. Then again came the
sound she had dreamed, and Norah was suddenly broad awake, and, flinging
herself out of bed, fled to the window. She uttered a cry, and tugged at
Jean frantically.

“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Jean sleepily.

“Quick, tell Jim! Call him! Oh, hurry, Jean, the stables are on fire.
I’m going—the horses!” She was groping for shoes and flinging on a
coat. Then she tore downstairs, shouting as she went. From the stables,
as she stumbled out upon the verandah, came again the sound of her
dreams, and she caught her breath in a sob. For no one who has ever
heard it can forget the horror of a horse’s scream.

The stables were burning fiercely. One end, the westward end, that held
the buggy house and harness rooms, was a sheet of flame; but the fire
had not yet fairly seized upon the whole, although the door of the loose
boxes showed trails of smoke coming from within. She could hear the
trampling of hoofs, jostling, terrified, and then a long whinny of utter
fear, rising again to a scream. Sobbing, she wrestled with the stiff
bolt of the door.

Across the garden came a shout—Jim’s voice.

“Come away from that, Norah! Come back, dear. They’ll trample over the
top of you.” He was running desperately towards the little figure
against the lit building.

“They’re burning!” said Norah, sobbing. The fastening yielded, and she
flung one door back, unable to see anything for the dense smoke. She
called the horses by name, pushing open the lower door, and had barely
time to jump aside when Monarch and Bosun bolted out, frantic with fear.
Further back, the scream came once more.

“Oh, it’s Garryowen!” Norah gasped, “and his door’s shut; and if I don’t
go in, Jim will.” She took a long breath, a child’s fear fighting
against pity and love. Then she put her arm up, as if to guard her eyes,
and stumbled into the smoke.

Within, it was almost impossible to breathe. Fierce little shoots of
fire came through cracks in the wall that showed a mass of flame beyond;
and the heat was choking and deadly. Already the roof was burning; the
hay in the loft above had caught, and the flames were shooting fifty
feet above the stables. In his box, Jim’s big bay thoroughbred was
rearing and kicking, mad with terror. Even when Norah had managed to
open his door, he would not come out to face the unknown horrors. She
called him, trying to steady her voice—knowing that to venture within
his box in his maddened state was little short of suicide. From outside
she could hear Jim’s voice, shouting for her, sharp with anxiety.

“Oh, I’ll have to leave him!” Norah sobbed. “The fire’s coming through
the roof. Oh, Garry, dear, do come out!”

Above the loose box the ceiling split open for about a yard, and a
shower of burning fragments came down. They struck Garryowen on the
quarter—and the great horse, screaming, plunged through the open door
and out like a whirlwind to the glimpse of star-lit sky that showed
through the further doorway. Behind him Norah staggered feebly, brushing
burning particles from her hair—holding one hand across her mouth in
the vain effort to keep out the choking smoke. Within sight of safety,
consciousness left her; she tripped, falling face downward on the wooden
blocks.

Jean’s terrified voice at his door had awakened Jim almost before Norah
had flown downstairs. The glow in his room did not put the fear into his
heart that flashed there at the stammering words—

“Norah’s gone over!”

“Norah—she mustn’t!” the boy gasped. He flung himself past Jean,
shouting to her to warn the rest of the house, and raced across to the
burning stables. At the gate of the yard Monarch and Bosun almost were
upon him—they swerved in their maddened gallop, missing him by a hair’s
breadth as he ran. But there was no sign of the little sister.

He peered through the smoke wildly, calling to her. For all that he
knew, his own horse was already out, safe in some dark corner of the
yard; that Norah had gone into the burning building did not enter his
head. He searched for her, shouting her name more and more loudly. A
sudden terror came upon him lest the horses should have knocked her down
as they rushed out—he sprang to the open doors, in sick fear of finding
her hurt—senseless. But nothing was visible—nothing but the rolling
clouds of flame-shot smoke. He paused, irresolute.

Then he heard Norah’s voice at Garryowen’s box, and even as he leapt
forward, amazed and despairing, came a clatter of hoofs on the wooden
pavement, as the bay horse bolted out in his last wild dash for safety.
His shoulder just brushed Jim as he plunged through the doorway, but the
touch was enough to send the boy staggering back, almost falling. He
recovered himself with an effort, dashing into the stable.

Beyond him, above Garryowen’s loose box, the roof split gradually, and
the roar of inrushing flames filled his ears. They lit up the dark
interior, for a moment even stronger than the cruel smoke. Then he saw
Norah at his feet. He picked her up, holding her with her face pressed
against him to save her from the burning fragments that filled the
air—staggering out, grim and determined, with his breath coming in
choking gasps. Then his father’s voice rang in his ears, and he saw
Wally’s face dimly and felt their hands as they drew him and his burden
to safety.

He put Norah down on the grass gently, a limp, unconscious figure. A
voice he did not recognize as belonging to him was gasping something
about water, and he heard Wally’s swift feet, that seemed to go and come
all at once——. They were splashing water on Norah’s face, but she did
not move; and suddenly he heard a dry sob break from his father, more
terrible in its agony than any sound could ever be again. Perhaps it was
in answer to it that Norah’s eyes flickered a little and presently they
opened more widely—red-rimmed eyes, half blind—and she smiled at them
faintly. Her smoke-grimed lips moved in words that sounded like “all
right.”

Jim got to his feet and moved over to the fence, his shoulders shaking
as he gripped the pickets.

“I thought she was dead,” he said; “I was jolly well sure she was dead.”

Voices and shouting were coming from the men’s hut. Behind him a long,
thundering crash echoed to the sky as the stable roof fell in. Then his
father’s hand was on his shoulder.

“Steady, old chap,” said David Linton, “she’s all right. Get to the hose
in the garden quickly, Jim. The house has caught.”




                               CHAPTER XI


                       THE BATTLE UNDER THE STARS

               This is the homestead—the still lagoon
                 Kisses the foot of the garden fence,
               Shimmering under a silver moon
                 In a midnight silence, cold and tense.

                                     —_W. H. Ogilvie._

SARAH, the housemaid, was at the big bell of the station, ringing it
wildly. Long after every man and woman on Billabong was awake and busy,
Sarah continued to ring. She said afterwards that it seemed to ease her!

A flying fragment from the burning loft had been carried by the wind
across the gardens to the oldest part of the homestead—wooden rooms
that were now used as storerooms and out-offices. In five minutes they
were blazing fiercely.

Jim and Wally had raced for the garden fence, vaulting it, and landing
in the midst of a bed of pansies.

“Lucky for us they weren’t roses!” gasped Wally, picking himself up out
of the soft soil. “A fellow wants to have on more than pyjamas for this
sort of a lark!” They tore on, ploughing over Hogg’s most cherished
flower beds.

“Where is that blessed hose?” Jim uttered, wrathfully. He dived into
various dark corners where taps existed. Then he stopped, frowning.

“Hogg was mending it. Confound the delay!” he said. “Start with the
little one, Wal.; you know, it’s near that palm you were climbing. I’ll
find Hogg.” Shouting, he ran round the corner of the house, and collided
violently with the gardener, hurrying to meet him with the great rubber
coil in his hands. The shock sent them both staggering, and Hogg sat
down abruptly.

“Ye took me—fair i’ the wind!” he gasped. “Run on, laddie. A’ll get ma
breath presently.”

Flames were shooting from half the windows upstairs when Jim at length
got his hose to work. The fire had caught the wooden balcony, spreading
from it to the upper rooms, and downstairs the kitchen was burning, and
the back verandah had caught. Mr. Linton, running over after carrying
Norah far out of the way of heat, and leaving her in Jean’s care, saw
how the flames were being sucked into the house through the wide-open
back door.

“Won’t do!” he muttered. Dashing in through the smoke, and gripping the
almost red-hot door-handle with his felt hat, he managed to slam the
door. He staggered off the verandah just as the flooring collapsed.

Black Billy, his eyes apparently starting out of his sable face, was at
his elbow.

“Run round and shut the front door, if it’s open, Billy!” Mr. Linton
said, coughing.

“Plenty!” murmured Billy. He disappeared round the corner of the house,
a black streak of fear.

On the eastern side the window of Mr. Linton’s office stood open. The
squatter swung himself through it with the lightness of a boy, and ran
to his desk, which stood open, its roll-top flung back. It held papers
that must not be risked—he thrust them into his overcoat pockets
hurriedly; then, spreading the cloth from a little table on the floor,
he emptied the drawers upon it, working by the dancing glow of the
flames that lit up all the surroundings. Already the heat and smoke were
almost unbearable.

“The safe’s fireproof,” he muttered, glancing towards its
corner—“that’s a comfort, anyhow!”

The room was becoming untenable. Clouds of smoke rolled in from the
windows and crept, snake fashion, under the door. On the side of the
room nearest the fire the plaster began to crack, and the paper
shrivelled on the wall. It was difficult to breathe—David Linton’s
panting gasps seemed to choke him. He knew he could do no more. He added
to the heap on the table cloth the portrait that always stood upon his
desk—Jim and Norah’s mother, sweet and young, smiling from her silver
frame. Then he gathered all into a bundle and groped his way to the
window.

Every available hose was already at work. The hiss of the water, falling
on the flames, sounded like snakes angry at being disturbed. Beneath the
office window, flames were licking at the wall; the woodwork at one side
was blazing and crackling. David Linton hesitated, one hand on the
sill—it was hot, and his load made him awkward.

From the garden came Jim’s shout.

“Half a minute, Dad! Don’t try to get out yet!”

The stream of water from his hose played suddenly upon the burning
woodwork, splashing on the sill, and sprinkling the man who stood
waiting. Above him the flames died out sullenly. Jim played on the hot
bricks of the wall for a moment, in fear less already the fire in the
house should be finding its way into the office—then he shouted again,
deflecting the stream, and Mr. Linton climbed out, bringing his bundle
carefully after him. He carried it across the garden, nodding at his
son.

Behind the house, Murty O’Toole and Brownie had organized a bucket
brigade.

“I can’t carry buckets up to much,” Brownie observed, “but I can pump a
treat!” She worked the force-pump manfully, never ceasing, though the
heat from the burning house made the metal portions of the pump too hot
to touch, and her plump old face was crimson, and her breathing
pitifully distressed. Sarah and Mary were in the line, passing the
brimming buckets to the men with the easy swing of young bush-trained
muscles. Mr. Linton, arriving at a run, shook his head.

“There’s not a hope of saving this part,” he cried. “We’d better
concentrate on the front. Brownie, you’re not to work like that—go over
to the pepper trees and look after Norah. No—I’d rather you did——” as
Brownie hesitated, unwillingly. “It would really be a relief to me to
know you were with her—she said she had no burns, but I don’t see how
she can have escaped without any.” Even at that moment a twinkle came to
his eye, for at the hint Brownie uttered a dismayed exclamation, and
fled away across the yard to her nursling. With Norah needing her, the
house might burn, indeed!

“We’ll save what we can from the front rooms, Murty,” the squatter went
on, leading the way with rapid strides. “Some of you get to work with
the buckets—there are four of them hosing. It’s a mercy the water
pressure’s good.”

They flung open the French windows in the front of the house. Already
every room was filled with smoke; the men dashed in and out, holding
their breath—bringing out silver and pictures and books first—the
things that no insurance money could replace. Jim, from his post near
the tap, smiled a trifle to see his father’s first load—his own silver
cups, trophies of his years at school. Stopping at the edge of the lawn,
Mr. Linton bowled them down the sloping grass, and hastened back for
more.

From the window of the drawing-room came Dave Boone and Black Billy,
staggering under the piano. At the edge of the verandah Billy’s end
slipped and jarred heavily upon the kerb, the strings setting up a
demoniacal jangle. Billy uttered a yell of terror, and bolted down the
lawn, being recalled with great difficulty by Mr. Boone, who expressed a
harassed wish to “break his useless black neck.” But the dusky one
firmly refused to touch the piano again.

“That pfeller debbil-debbil!” he said. “Baal me hump him any more.” He
rescued the drawing-room fire-irons with heroic determination, while Mr.
Linton came to the assistance of the bereft Mr. Boone, whose wrath was
tending towards apoplexy.

Lee Wing held the nozzle of one hose firmly directed upon a dangerous
point. He was a peculiar spectacle. The prudence characteristic of the
gentle Chinaman had induced him to put on as many clothes as possible
before leaving his hut, and he was attired in at least three suits. They
were uncomfortable, but he had the consolation of knowing where they
were; and a spark might send his hut up in smoke at any moment. Upon his
bullet head were four hats, each pulled down firmly. His pockets bulged
with miscellaneous possessions, his pigtail floated behind him. If the
worst should come to the worst, Lee Wing was clearly prepared to start
back to China.

His hereditary enemy, Hogg, worked not far off. As a rule the feud
between the gardeners did not slumber, but just now they were as
brothers. Hogg’s mind was too full of woe over the destruction of his
garden to be troubled by what he was wont to call contemptuously the
Yaller Peril, and Lee Wing, his trim expanse of vegetables well out of
harm’s way, felt something resembling pity for his competitor, whose
flower beds were mere highways for trampling feet. Even as they looked,
Billy dashed out of the house carrying a heavy carved box—Jim’s
handiwork—and dropped it upon a delicate rose bush with a loud,
satisfied grunt. At the spectacle of slaughter Hogg gave a heavy groan
and a sudden involuntary movement of the hand that held the nozzle of
his hose. It turned the stream of water from its course—a matter of
which Hogg, gazing open-mouthed at the destruction of his hopes, was
quite unconscious, until a wrathful shout brought him back to earth with
a start. Then he realized that he was hosing Jim vigorously, deaf to his
very justifiable remarks.

“What on earth are you up to?” sang out the dripping Jim. He burst out
laughing at the Scotchman’s dismayed face. “I’m not sorry for the bath,
Hogg, but the house needs it more!”

“Losh!” gasped Hogg, gazing at his handiwork—paralysed past any
possibility of apologizing. He swung the stream of water again to the
fire, muttering horrified ejaculations in broad Scotch.

The stable had almost burned itself out. A dull, red glow came from the
smoking bed of coals that smouldered angrily between the broken and
blackened brick walls. One of these had fallen, with a crash that echoed
round the hills; the others still stood, black holes gaping in them
where windows had been, like staring eyes that watched the ruin of the
pride of Billabong—for there had been no such stables in the district.
Harvey’s little plan had hit even harder than that ingenious gentleman
had anticipated.

Beyond the fences the cattle stood in interested groups, fascinated by
the fire; further off were the horses, thrilled with more fear than the
stolid bullocks, but unable to tear themselves from the mysterious glow.
But Monarch and Garryowen and Bosun were away at the farthest corner of
the homestead paddock, quivering and starting yet, their hearts still
pounding at the memory of the terrible moments in the burning stable;
and on Garryowen’s quarter were round, burnt patches, while half of his
tail was singed off. Yet pain was not so dreadful to the big
thoroughbred as Fear—fear that he could not understand, that had come
to him in the darkness, and was yet knocking at his heart.

At the house the fire was slackening. Billabong was built of solid
brick, so that there was not a great deal of inflammable material for
the flames to fasten upon; and they had been discovered soon—not
allowed, as in the stables, to obtain a firm hold. The defence had been
prompt and thorough. David Linton blessed the forethought, coupled with
the love of his garden, that had made him equip the homestead with water
laid on from the river as well as with many tanks. They had needed it
all.

He was at the hose now, having relieved Jim, to whom the business of
standing still and holding a nozzle had been no light penance, despite
the necessity of the proceeding. One of the men had taken Wally’s place,
and the boys had dashed off on a tour of the homestead, to look for any
possibility of a further outbreak. David Linton looked at what remained
of his house, his mouth stern—going back in memory to the time of its
building, and the old, perfect companionship that had been by his side.
Now the rooms that he and his wife had planned were black, smoking
ruins, and the roses she had planted were shrivelled masses on the wall.
There was no part of the house that did not have its memories of her, so
vivid that often it seemed to him that he saw her yet, flitting about
its wide corridors and the rooms that even until now had borne the magic
of her touch. All the years the home had helped him to fight his
loneliness and his longing. Now——. He stared at it with eyes suddenly
grown old.

Then across the grass came a little odd figure—Norah, still grimy with
smoke, and very shaky, with Brownie’s arm near her to help, and Jean not
far off. Norah, her coat open over her blue pyjamas, and her hair, in
her own phrase, “all anyhow,” about her, and her grey eyes swimming as
she looked from the house to her father’s face. David Linton put down
the hose and held out his hand to her silently, and Norah clung to him.

“Oh, Daddy, poor old Daddy!” she whispered.

Jim came round the corner with long strides; even odder than Norah, for
he had not waited to put any overcoat over his pyjamas, and he had been
drenched and dried, and blackened and torn, until he resembled a
scarecrow in an advanced stage of disrepair. He gripped his father’s
free hand.

“It’s not so bad, Dad!” he said, cheerily. “Lots of the old place left.
We’ll all build it up again, Dad!”

David Linton smiled at his children, suddenly.

“Right, mates!” he said. “We’ll build it up again!”




                              CHAPTER XII


                               BURNT OUT

              And the creek of life goes wandering on,
                  Wandering by;
              And bears for ever its course upon
                  A song and a sigh.

                                       —_Henry Lawson._

A DROVER on the road with store cattle miles away saw the glow in the
sky that night, and reported it next morning to a farmer driving in to
Cunjee; and before noon half the township seemed to be out at the
station.

Little Dr. Anderson, in his motor, was the first to appear. He found the
Billabong inhabitants straying about the ruins to see what remained to
them. The overseer’s cottage and the men’s hut had given them shelter
for the remnant of the night after the fire had been finally
extinguished, except Mr. Linton and Jim, who remained on guard until
morning.

Within, the devastation was only partial. Most of the rooms in front
were practically untouched, though all had been damaged by water. The
back of the house had suffered most; little but the walls were left. Jim
brought a long ladder for further explorations, for the stairs were
unsafe, being burnt through in two places. He found that the rooms
belonging to his father, Norah and himself bore traces of flood rather
than of fire. The walls were cracked with heat, but otherwise they were
intact. But the water had done its worst, and he groaned over the
spectacle of Norah’s pretty room, its red carpet a vision of discoloured
slush, and the white furniture stained and blistered. All its little
adornments were lying in confused heaps, swept down by the water. It was
a gruesome sight.

Within the wardrobe and chest of drawers, however, clothes were unhurt.
Jim took up a rope and lowered bundles down to his father, so that when
Norah and Jean awoke, very late in the morning, it was to find clean
raiment laid out for them by Brownie, and breakfast waiting for them in
Mrs. Evans’s neat little kitchen.

“Isn’t it a mercy?” Jean confided to Norah. “Last night it didn’t seem
to matter at all running round before all Billabong in a nighty and a
coat, but I went to sleep wondering how they’d look in the daytime!”

Brownie and the maids were the most to be pitied, for they had lost
everything but a few cherished possessions, snatched up as they ran out
of the house. Mary and Sarah were not hard to clothe—but Mrs. Brown was
a different proposition. The united wardrobes of Mrs. Evans and Mrs.
Willis, the men’s cook, contrived something in the nature of a rig-out
by dint of ripping out gathers and tucks and using innumerable safety
pins. “I’m covered, if not clothed!” said Brownie, “an’ thankful to be
anything!”

Mr. Linton had resolutely put away his trouble, and was inspecting the
remains with a keen, businesslike face.

“It’s a matter of restoring rather than rebuilding,” he told Dr.
Anderson, who was spluttering with indignation still, more than an hour
after his arrival. “The insurance should cover the damage, I fancy; and
the back of the house can be built after more modern notions, which
won’t be a disadvantage. The stables? No—they will go up again
precisely as they were. And the place will look the same, in the main;
we don’t want it altered. It will look abominably new, of course; our
old mantle of ivy and virginia creeper is destroyed, and the walls will
be bare for a long while. Poor old Hogg is mourning over his dead roses
and the general havoc in his garden.

“Well, you take it calmly!” said the little doctor, explosively.

David Linton shrugged his shoulders.

“No good doing anything else,” he answered. “And, after all, I have such
immense cause for thankfulness in getting Norah out of that confounded
place unhurt, that nothing else really matters. It’s a nuisance, of
course, and what I’m to do with the youngsters’ holidays I don’t know;
it’s pretty rough on them. But—good Lord, Anderson! I want to go and
feel the child whenever I look at her, to make sure that she’s really
all right! It seems incredible—I never saw so hideously close a shave!”

“Norah’s absolutely matter of fact over it,” the doctor said. “I rebuked
her in my best professional manner for doing such a mad thing, and she
looked at me in mild surprise, and remarked, ‘Why, if I hadn’t, Jim
would have gone!’ It seemed to finish the argument as far as she was
concerned. Wonder if your fellows have got Harvey?”

“Oh, they’re bound to get him,” the squatter answered. “And I wouldn’t
care to be Harvey when they do.”

Murty O’Toole had commenced detective operations with break of day. He
had not ceased to abuse himself for failing to be at the stables in time
to help.

“A set of useless images,” said he, in profound scorn. “Slapin’ an’
snorin’ like so manny fat pigs—an’ Miss Norah an’ Masther Jim on the
shpot! Bad luck to the heat an’ the races!—ivery man jack of us was
aslape almost before we was in bed, ’twas that tired we was. But that’s
no excuse!” Murty refused to be comforted, and only derived faint solace
from the determination to find out the cause of the fire.

It did not require sleuth-hound abilities. The little paddock had burned
in patches, for here and there were green expanses of clover that had
checked the fire, and the hawthorn hedge had helped to stop it at the
boundary; but the west wind had taken it straight across to the stables,
and in the morning light the brown, burnt ground led Murty quickly to
the clump of lemon gums. Behind them a kerosene tin stood, inverted, and
the burn began there. When the stockman picked it up the blackened
square of charred grass beneath it showed out sharply.

“That ain’t the kind of thing that happens wid an accident,” said Murty
between his teeth. He looked further.

Behind the burnt ground, the place where a man had lain was easily
visible in the long grass. There were cigarette butts in plenty, and a
little further away an empty cigarette box. Murty pounced upon it in
triumph.

“Humph!” he said. “Harvey smokes that brand—an’ no wan else on
Billabong.”

Then the whisky bottle, half hidden in the hedge, caught his eye, and he
picked it up. He was sure now. The smell of fresh spirit was still in
it; and he had seen the bottle in Harvey’s room two days before. And,
with that, black rage came over Murty’s honest heart, and for five
minutes his remarks about the absent Harvey might have withered that
individual’s soul, had he indeed possessed such a thing. Then Murty
replaced his evidence, and went for Mr. Linton.

He led the men away from the homestead an hour later, each as keen and
as enraged as himself.

“Mind, boys, you’ve promised not to hurt him,” David Linton said, “He’ll
get all that’s coming to him—but I won’t have the station take the law
into its hands. We can’t be absolutely certain.” The men were certain:
but they had promised, unwillingly enough. They went down the paddock at
a hand-gallop, with set, angry faces.

Wally had ridden into Cunjee, to send telegrams and letters, and with an
amazing list to be telephoned to Melbourne shops, since the township
could not rise to great heights in the way of personal effects,
saddlery, or even groceries. Billabong was, in patches, blankly
destitute. Not a decent saddle was left, save those belonging to the
men: buggies, harness, tools, horse feed—all had gone in the
destruction of the stables. Norah and Jean were completely hatless,
their head gear having been downstairs; and as Jim was wont to keep most
of his every-day possessions in a downstairs bathroom where he shaved
and dressed, he had nothing left but his best clothes, and a Panama
sternly reserved, as a rule, for trips to Melbourne.

“Nice sort of a Johnny you look, to be wandering round ther—ruined
ancestral hall!” Wally told him derisively. “You might be a bright young
man on the stage. It’s hardly decent and filial for you to think so much
of personal adornment at a time like this!” Further eloquence was
checked by sudden action on the part of his friend, who was too unhappy
over his own grandeur to bear meekly any jibes on its account. He had
headed the telephone list with urgent messages for riding breeches and
leggings, and a felt hat of the kind his soul desired. There was
something little short of appalling to Jim in finding himself suddenly
without any old clothes!

Following Dr. Anderson came riders from other stations, policemen from
two or three scattered townships, and many other people anxious to help,
so that the fences near the homestead were soon thickly occupied with
horses “hung up” in every patch of shade. There was, of course, nothing
to do. Nor could Billabong even maintain its reputation for hospitality,
since it had been left almost without provisions. The storeroom
containing the main quantities of groceries, as well as the meat house,
had been amongst the first parts of the house to catch. Bags of flour
could be seen, burst open, in the ruins, and thick masses of what looked
like very badly-burned toffee, and had been sugar. The men’s hut had fed
the exiles, and further supplies would be brought out from Cunjee by
Evans in his buggy—the only vehicle, except the station carts and
drays, left on Billabong.

“It’s really rather like being cast on a desert island,” said Jean.

Norah laughed.

“I guess it’s like that to all the people who have come out,” she said.
“Just fancy, Jean, we can’t even give them a cup of tea. There’s milk,
and that’s all there is. Isn’t it awful?”

But the visitors had not come to be fed. They condoled, and looked round
the ruins, and made strong and unavailing comments, and then, in the
Australian fashion, offered all they had, from their houses to their
buggies, to fill in any deficiencies. Invitations to find shelter at
neighbouring places poured in upon Mr. Linton and his family. The
squatter would not leave the homestead, but he considered the question
of sending Jean and Norah to spend a week in Mrs. Anderson’s friendly
care, finally referring the matter to the girls themselves, and finding
them so horrified at the idea that he promptly withdrew it.

“I don’t want to crowd Evans’s cottage out altogether,” he said, half
apologetically.

“Well, Mrs. Evans has a spare room, and she lets us wash up, and I’m
going to bath the baby to-night!” said Norah. “And she wants us to
stay—and Jim and Wally and you are going to sleep in the tents, anyhow.
Oh, Daddy, don’t send us away. I would hate it so!”

“All right, all right, you needn’t go!” rejoined her father, laughing.
“But it will be very dull for Jean: you can’t ride or drive, and the
cottage isn’t as comfortable in this heat as Billabong.”

But Jean reassured him, hastily. She had no desire to migrate to a world
of strangers.

“It is hot, though, Daddy, that’s a fact,” said Norah. “I was
thinking——” She broke off, watching him a little doubtfully.

“When you think in that tone, I have generally no chance of escape,”
said he. “What is it this time?”

“Well, there’s another little tent.” Norah hesitated, half laughing.
“Jim would put it up and fix up bunks for us. Couldn’t we come and join
your camp down there?” She pointed towards the lagoon, where Jim had
already taken two small tents and was hunting about for ridge poles. The
bank looked cool and shady, fringed with groves of wattles and big box
trees. “We could keep our things up at Mrs. Evans’s cottage, and dress
there: but it would be lovely to sleep in a tent. That little room is
certainly hot.”

Mr. Linton pondered. The lagoon was only a hundred yards from the
cottage. Certainly, there was no great objection to the plan. And Norah
was still bearing traces of the previous night, in white cheeks and
heavy eyes: it was hard to refuse her anything in reason.

“Well, you may,” he said, “if you can arrange matters with Jim.”

“Oh, can we, Daddy? You are the blessedest——!” said Norah. Suddenly he
was alone. Two strenuous figures in blue frocks descended upon the
hapless Jim.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Jim asked, looking up as they raced down upon
him. “Not another fire? And aren’t you two hot enough without doing
Sheffield handicaps across here?” He had borrowed a pair of blue
dungaree trousers from the wardrobe of Mr. Evans, and was, in
consequence, much happier.

“Want you to put us up a tent,” Norah said, cheerfully. “You don’t mind,
do you, Jimmy?”

Jim whistled. “What does Dad say?”

“Says we can if you’ll fix it. You will, Jimmy, won’t you? We’ll help
you ever so. It would be so lovelier than sleeping in a hot little
room!”

“Oh, all right,” said her easy-going brother. “You’ll have to make
yourselves scarce in the mornings, you know—this is our bathing place.”

“Yes, we know. We’ll do whatever you say,” said Norah, with amazing
meekness. “You’re a brick, Jimmy. Shall we carry down the tent? I know
where it is.”

“No, you won’t,” said Jim, severely. “You can’t try to commit suicide
over-night and then make yourself a beast of burden in the morning. Wal.
and I can bring it when he comes out; he ought to be back soon. Just you
sit down in the shade and think of your sins.”

“That won’t keep me busy,” Norah retorted. But she did as she was told,
and they sat peacefully under a big weeping willow until Mrs. Evans
summoned them to dinner.

After lunch there was nothing to be done at the homestead. Mr. Linton
had gone to Cunjee in Dr. Anderson’s motor to transact much business and
talk on the telephone to Melbourne insurance people and building
contractors. Wally appeared about three o’clock, hot and dusty, and
reported the condition of the township.

“Every one’s talking fire,” he said. “The police and half the men are
out after Harvey. I’ve never seen Cunjee so excited—it seems quite
appropriate that they’ve still got the Christmas decorations in the
streets! They’re considerably withered, of course, but it seems to
indicate that something’s in the air. I guess Harvey will have a lively
time when they catch him.”

“Wish I could be in at the death,” said Jim, grimly. His father’s wish
had kept him from joining the pursuit, but he had stayed unwillingly.

“Yes, it wouldn’t be bad fun, would it? Wonder is they haven’t got him
already. He must be pretty well planted,” Wally said. “He’s certainly
the man you’ve got to thank: if he’d a clear conscience he’d be in
Cunjee now, instead of nobody knows where. Whew—w, it is hot! Come and
have a swim, Jim.”

“No swim for you yet awhile,” Jim told him, grimly. “You’ve got to come
and fix camp.”

“Me?” asked Wally, blankly. “Of all the unsympathetic, slave-driving
wretches——”

“Yes, that’s so,” grinned his chum. “All the same, you’ve got to come.”

“I felt there was something in the wind,” said Wally, lugubriously. “I
left you as beautiful as a tailor’s block, and looking very like one,
only woodener, in your best suit; and I find you in dungarees and a
shirt, and hideously happy. It isn’t fair, and me so hot. Isn’t he a
brute, Norah?”

“Not this time,” laughed Norah. “You see, it’s our tent you’ve got to
fix. Go on, and we’ll get a billy from Mrs. Evans and brew afternoon tea
for you down by the lagoon.”

So they spent the hot hours in the shade, while the boys made the little
camp ship-shape, their tent and that of Mr. Linton close together near
the bank, and the girls’ a little way off in a clump of young wattles.
Jim fixed up bunks in bushman fashion, with saplings run through bags
endways, and supported on crossed sticks.

“You won’t want any mattresses on those,” he said: “they’re fit for
anyone. What about blankets, Norah?”

“Brownie’s been drying the ones you amateur firemen soaked last night,”
said his sister, unkindly. “They’re all water-marked, of course, but
they’re quite good enough for camping.”

“First rate,” Jim agreed. “We’ll get ’em. Come along, Wally.”

“More toil!” groaned that gentleman, who had been working with the
cheerful keenness he put into all his doings. “Why did I come here?”

“Poor dear, then!” said a cheerful, fat voice. The creaking of a
wheelbarrow accompanied it, and preceded Mrs. Brown, who came into view
wheeling a load of bedclothes.

“Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!” exclaimed Wally. He
dashed to take the barrow, and was routed ignominiously.

“Never you mind—I can manage me own little lot,” said Brownie,
cheerfully. She pulled up, panting a little. “Lucky for me it was all
down hill; I don’t know as I could have managed to get it up a rise.”

“You oughtn’t to have wheeled that load at all,” Jim said, with an
excellent attempt at sternness. It appeared to afford Brownie great
amusement, and she chuckled audibly.

“Bless you, it pulled me here!” she answered. “I come down at no end of
a pace. Now haven’t you got it all just as nice as it can be. Makes me
nearly envious!”

“We’ll fix up a tent for you, if you like,” Jim told her. “Just say the
word.”

“Not for me, thank you,” said Brownie, hastily. “This open-air sleeping
notion is all very well for them as likes it—but I’m used to four walls
an’ a winder. I like something you can lock—an’ where can you lock a
tent, Master Jim?—tell me that!” She propounded this unanswerable query
with an air of triumph. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to any bunk to put
me into it, bunks not bein’ built on my lines. I’d hate to come down in
the night, like that there Philistine idol in the Bible.”

“Why, you wouldn’t have far to fall!” said Jim, laughing.

“Thank you, but any distance is far enough when you’re my weight,”
Brownie responded, with dignity. “Now, Miss Norah an’ Miss Jean, seein’
as how I’ve got my breath again, I think we’d better start bedmaking.”

“Don’t you bother, Brownie; we can fix up our own,” Jim said,
politely—and greatly hoping that his politeness would have no effect.
It had none.

“Humph!” said Mrs. Brown. “Handy you may be with tools an’ horses,
Master Jim, but I never yet did see the man or boy that was handy with
bedmaking. I’ve noticed that bedclothes seem to paralyse a man’s common
sense when he starts to make a bed; he don’t seem to be able to realize
what relation they have to the mattress. Generally he fights with them
quite desperate, and gets them nearly tied in knots before the job’s
done. So just you two lie there peaceful, an’ me an’ the young ladies
will do it in two twos.”

The boys’ bedmaking ambition was of no soaring nature, and they were
very content to “lie peaceful,” watching the sun dip behind the trees
that fringed the lagoon. Then came Mr. Linton, who nodded approval of
the workmanlike camp.

“First rate!” he said, warmly. “For destitute and burnt-out people, we
shan’t fare too badly.”

“Rather not!” Jim answered. “How did you get on, Dad?”

“Oh, all right. Telephone was as indistinct as usual, but I managed to
say a good deal of what I wanted through it. There will be an insurance
man down to-morrow.” Mr. Linton smiled at the bedmakers, who came out of
the last tent and settled down under the trees thankfully. “They’ve
found Harvey,” he concluded.

“Found the brute, have they?” Jim exclaimed. “What did he have to say,
Dad? Did they hurt him?”

“Harvey had had luck,” said Mr. Linton, slowly. “He’d hurt himself
first.”

“How? Tell us, Dad.”

“Well, they hunted most of the day before they got him. They had every
road searched before noon, the police were in communication with all the
townships in the district, and there was no sign of him. Then the men
left the roads and went across country, hunting up the river and along
any creek, and through scrub. But I don’t think Mr. Harvey would have
trusted himself in scrub without a horse.”

“Not he!” Jim agreed.

“Murty found him. He was riding across the Duncans’ big plain, and
thought he heard a coo-ee; but there was no cover anywhere, and he
couldn’t see a man wherever he looked. But he rode about, and found him
at last in a little bit of a hollow. Murty said you might have ridden
past it a hundred times and never have seen anyone. Harvey had shouted
once, but when he saw that it was Murty he was afraid to call again, and
tried to lie low.”

“Couldn’t he walk?”

“He broke his leg last night,” Mr. Linton answered. “The poor wretch has
had a pretty bad time. He was jumping over a log, he says, and came down
with one leg in a crab-hole, and it twisted, and threw him down. He
didn’t know it was broken at first, but he found he couldn’t use it. So
he crawled away from the log, being afraid of snakes, and got a couple
of hundred yards into the paddock. Since then he’s kept still.”

“What—out in the open?” Jim asked.

“Yes; not a scrap of cover. And think of the day it’s been—it was 112°
in the shade in Cunjee—and Harvey wasn’t in the shade. He told Murty he
was badly thirsty before he got hurt, and had been looking for water.
His leg is in a bad state, and he must have had a terrible day. Murty
came in for the doctor, and we went for him in the car—of course, Murty
could do nothing on horseback. Harvey was a bit delirious by the time we
got to him. Anderson says he’ll be three months in hospital.”

“Whew-w!” whistled Wally. “Three months!”

“Then he’ll have three munce to reflect on the error of his ways!” said
Brownie, implacably. “Oh, I know me feelings aren’t Christian, an’ I
don’t set a good example to the young; but what did he want to go and do
it for?”

“Break his leg? But did he want to?” Jim grinned.

“You know very well I don’t mean his wretched little leg,” Brownie said,
testily. “He never had no call to burn us all out. Now he’s broke his
leg, an’ you’ll think he’s an object of sympathy an’ compassion, an’
nex’ thing Miss Norah’ll be visitin’ him in the ’Ospital an’ holdin’ his
hand an’ givin’ him jelly!”

“By gad, she won’t!” uttered Norah’s father, with satisfying emphasis.
“There are limits, Brownie. But it’s all very well for you to talk—if
you’d seen the poor little weed you’d have been sorry for him.”

“Not me!” Brownie answered, truculently. “I only got to think of Miss
Norah in that horrid stable, an’ every soft feelin’ leaves me, like a
moulting hen.” Brownie’s similes were apt to be mixed, and nobody marked
them. “Does he say why he did it? He’s got nerve enough to stick out
that he never lit it at all!”

“Oh, no, he hasn’t—not now,” said Mr. Linton. “He admitted it to Murty
meekly enough, and Murty says he was awfully taken aback at hearing the
amount of the damage; he said he only thought of burning the grass.
Whether his concern is for my loss or the possible results to himself,
I’m not clear. I don’t regard him as exactly a philanthropist.”

Brownie snorted wrathfully as they rose to go up to the cottage. The sun
had set, and Mrs. Evans was calling from the hill.

“I don’t give him credit for no decent motives at all,” she said. “He’s
bad right through—an’ don’t you ask me to be sorry for him—he’ll have
three munce takin’ it easy in ’Ospital, livin’ on the fat of the land
an’ doin’ no work—an’ that’ll just suit Harvey! I got no patience with
that sort of worm in sheep’s clothing!” She subsided, muttering darkly,
and Wally offered her his arm up the hill, while Jim wheeled the barrow.

Brownie dropped her voice as they neared the cottage.

“Ah, well,” she said—and paused. “I don’t suppose them gaol ’Ospitals
is exackly dens of luxury. If you an’ Master Jim, Master Wally, think as
how a little strong soup or meat jelly might go in to that poor, wicked,
depraved little wretch——?”

“Fattening him for the slaughter, eh, Brownie?” asked Wally, gravely.

“Yes, that’s it,” said the fierce Mrs. Brown, accepting the suggestion
with ardour. “P’r’aps he mightn’t get what he deserves if he looked pale
an’ thin at his trile!” She mused over the matter. “Wonder if they feed
’em on skilly when they’re in ’Ospital,” she pondered. “An’ a leg like
that. Well, well, we’re all ’uman, after all, an’ likely his mother
never did much by him—he looks as if he had growed up casual! You find
out about that soup, Master Wally.” And Wally nodded, his eyes kindly as
he smiled at the broad, motherly face.

“Makes you feel a bit small, though,” he confided to Jim later on.
“Because I’m not in the least sorry for Harvey. I think he deserved all
he got, and more, and these beggars don’t mind gaol. Suppose I’m a
hard-hearted brute!”

“Well, I’m another,” Jim responded. “When I think of young Norah—and
the horses! I guess my poor old Garryowen had about as bad a time as
Harvey. Says he never thought of the house! Well, he lit the grass three
hundred yards from it, with a west wind blowing—that’s all! When I can
work up any sorrow for Harvey I’ll let you know!” And the stern and
unmoved pair sought the lagoon for a final swim before “turning in.”




[Illustration: “‘Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!’”]




                              CHAPTER XIII


                               BEN ATHOL

           There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track,
             And silver the moonbeams glisten,
           The great Bush sings to us, out and back.
             And we lie in her arms and listen.

                                       —_W. H. Ogilvie._

A WEEK went by—a week of blinding heat, ending in a cool change,
accompanied by a gale of wind that almost blew the tents and their
occupants into the lagoon. Then the weather settled to glorious
conditions, neither hot nor cold—long days of sunshine, and nights
chilly enough to make the campers enjoy a fire by the water’s edge while
they fished for their breakfast.

But, on the whole, it was dull. The new saddles had not arrived from
Melbourne, so that riding was out of the question. In any case it was
deemed wiser not to ride Monarch and Garryowen and Bosun too soon. Norah
and Jim had them yarded each day, and they caught and handled them,
dressing Garryowen’s burns, and petting all three—talking to them and
leading them about while they hunted for the milk-thistles horses love.
Gradually the quivering nerves steadied down, and the memory of their
terror faded. But Garryowen would never face fire again; a tiny blaze
was too much for him, and even smoke sent him into a panic. Even
kindness could not make him forget the moments when he had been a rat in
a burning trap.

They fished and walked—moderately; walking was not a Billabong
characteristic; and helped Mrs. Evans and Brownie, and worshipped the
Evans baby—that is to say, Jean and Norah did, and Jim and Wally
pretended not to; and they watched Hogg glowering as he worked in his
ruined garden, and wished business did not detain Mr. Linton during
nearly every hour of the day. It was hard to settle to anything.
Possibly they were feeling a natural reaction after the strain of the
night of the fire. But as none of the four would have known what
reaction meant, no one suggested it.

They were all in the boat one exquisite evening, floating lazily among
the water lilies on the lagoon, and pretending to fish—a transparent
pretence, since frequent snagging on the lily stems had made every
angler disgusted, and had brought all the lines out of the water. Then
Mr. Linton appeared on the bank and they pulled in and took him on
board, giving him the place of honour in the stern.

“This is the most peaceful thing I’ve done since we became a
burnt-offering,” he said, as they drifted away from the shore. He lit
his pipe and leaned back contentedly. “Well—business is done!”

“Thank goodness!” from Norah.

“I quite agree with you,” said her father. “To be burnt out is bad
enough, but it’s an added penance to be forced to put in time as I’ve
been doing. I’m sick of the sight of insurance people, and policemen,
and architects, and contractors!”

“Have you made all arrangements, Dad?” Jim asked.

“So far as I can. But the men I want to employ can’t begin rebuilding
for three weeks at least, possibly a month; and then the job will be a
long one.”

“Then I won’t see it before I go back to school!” came from Norah,
disgustedly. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No; and I’m sorry, too,” said her father. “But it can’t be helped. The
fire has done unpleasant things to your holidays, my girl.”

“Just you wait until I begin growling!” Norah said, laughing. “I’m
having lovely holidays, truly, only I’m disappointed that I can’t see
the house.”

“Well, I’ve a plan,” said David Linton, slowly.

Norah sat up so briskly that the boat rocked violently.

“Have a little sense, Nor.!” came from Jim. “Sit still, or you’ll be
smacked and turned out!”

“Get out yourself!” said his sister, inelegantly. “When Dad has a plan
in that voice it is time to sit up! Tell us, Dad.”

Mr. Linton laughed.

“How about Ben Athol?” he asked.

“Ben Athol!” Jim whistled. “By Jove, Dad, that’s an idea!”

“Oh!” said Norah. “Didn’t I tell you it was time to sit up!”

Ben Athol towered from the low ranges to the north of Billabong, beyond
the stations and out to the wild country that was No Man’s Land because
of its steepness and inaccessibility. “Old hands” told stories of well
grassed valleys in the ranges, where stock might be pastured; of a
mountain river, flowing clear as crystal all the year round, in a way
very unlike the usual habit of Australian rivers. But comparatively few
white men knew anything about the country between the hills. Blacks were
reputed to camp there—some miserable, scattered families, who came into
the townships as winter approached to beg for food and blankets,
sometimes to hang about all through the cold months, a thievish, filthy
pest.

Snow lay for the winter months upon the brow of Ben Athol. In spring,
when the warm sun melted the great white cap, it slid away gradually,
and the big peak stood out, dark blue among the lesser hills. Always it
seemed to Norah like a friend.

For two years they had talked of climbing it. But the expedition
required some organizing, for it was three days’ ride even to the last
township that nestled at the foot of the hills. Then came a day’s stiff
climbing for horses, after which it was only possible to proceed on
foot, if one wanted to reach the peak. Few were adventurous enough to
want to do so.

“Well, I think we may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, when his excited
family calmed down. “I have been turning over various plans in my mind
for the last few days, for we can’t stop here; it’s too dismal to look
at the old place. We’re all in good form, fit for such a ride. I don’t
quite know about Jean.”

“Oh, please,” said Jean, in a small shriek. “I can, quite easily. Truly,
Mr. Linton.”

“I’m sure she’s all right, Dad,” Norah put in. “She wasn’t a bit stiff
after that long day we had in the Far Plain.”

“Well, that was a pretty fair test,” Mr. Linton remarked. “Anyhow, we
can’t start for a few days, so you had better ride a good deal, to get
into form. The saddles will be out to-day. But we shan’t use them for
the trip—new saddles aren’t advisable for a journey like that—we’d
probably have the horses with sore backs.”

“Rather,” Jim said. “I’m never really friends with a saddle until it has
been re-stuffed.”

“Oh, they are like new boots—they must get accustomed to a horse,” Mr.
Linton answered. “We’ll have to exchange with the men. Murty will see
that the new ones are looked after. We’ll use the old ones from to-day,
so that you girls can find out which are the most comfortable for you.”

“All right,” nodded Norah. “When do you think we’ll start, Dad?”

“This is Thursday—we’ll get away on Monday morning,” her father
replied. “We’ll take Billy, to lead a packhorse and make himself
generally useful. It will not be necessary to carry a great amount of
provisions, because we can lay in a stock of food at the various
townships as we go. Atholton is the last one, at the foot of the ranges,
and I’ve sent a note to the storekeeper there, telling him to have
various things ready for us. Until then we need only have a day’s
rations. We’ll take a tent for you girls——”

“Oh, need you, Dad? Can’t we put up a wurley?” Norah begged.

“No,” said Mr. Linton, firmly. “We don’t know if we’ll always be in
timber to make wurleys, and it’s as well to be prepared for bad weather.
That little tent is no trouble to take, and, as it’s waterproof, it will
make an excellent covering for the pack. We’ll take some fishing tackle.
They say the fishing in that mountain stream is very good. For the rest,
Norah, you and I will have a heart-to-heart talk with Brownie. I believe
it will make the old soul quite happy to have to cook for an expedition
again.”

The time until Monday seemed all a cheerful bustle of preparation. Jean
and Norah rode each day, generally with Wally in attendance, since Jim
and his father had much to do together. There were jobs of moving cattle
from one paddock to another; of riding round the Queensland bullocks,
now settling down contentedly in the Bush Paddock, and only becoming
excited when the three riders tried to count them; of inspecting the
fences, with sharp eyes alert for a broken panel or a sagging wire. No
one at Billabong need ever ride aimlessly; there was always work of this
kind—work that the three regarded as the best possible fun. And always
they talked of next week’s expedition, and made quite a hundred thousand
plans in connection with it. Jean had never been camping out in her
life, and, considering how calm a person she was ordinarily, it became
almost alarming to behold her state of simmering excitement.

Mr. Linton sternly hunted his flock to bed early on Sunday evening, and
dawn, had scarcely broken next morning when they were astir, Norah and
Jean running hurriedly to the Cottage to dress, while Murty dismantled
their little tent, and had it, with the bags that formed their bunks,
neatly packed and made ready for transport. Breakfast was despatched
hastily by all but Mr. Linton, who declined altogether to bestir himself
unduly, and demanded of his excited charges if they had visions of
catching a train? Finally, they were all in the saddle, the horses
fidgeting and dancing with excitement—save the packhorse, who looked
upon the world with an embittered gaze, and Black Billy’s scrawny
piebald, old Bung Eye, who was supposed to be proof against any kind of
excitement whatever.

“Now do come back safe an’ sound, all of you!” Brownie begged. “Me
nerves have had enough to bear lately; I don’t want any broken heads or
cracked legs. An’ if you find a gold mine out there, then I’ll give
notice, if you please, sir, an’ take out a miner’s right, an’ go off
makin’ me fortune!”

“Anybody in this party finding a gold mine is hereby ejected summarily!”
said Mr. Linton, promptly. “The penalty would be too heavy to make the
find worth while.”

“We’ll live and die poor, but we’ll keep you, Brownie!” Jim told her.

“Me own prospects don’t seem to matter much to you, do they?” retorted
Brownie, enjoying herself hugely. Occasionally it gave her immense
delight to toy with the fiction of leaving Billabong—knowing very well
indeed, as did they all, that a team of bullocks would scarcely have
been strong enough to tear her away. “Often I says to meself that I
might end me days as a prospector—there’s no knowin’ how much gold is
lyin’ about in them ranges for the pickin’ up.”

“If it’s there, Brownie, I will bring you a necklace of nuggets with my
own fair hands,” said Wally. “Steady, you brute!”

Brownie beamed over the portion of the speech addressed to her.

“Thank you—an’ take care of that horse, dearie, for I know he ain’t
safe,” she said anxiously—to the great delight of Jim, and Wally’s no
small embarrassment. The men grinned widely.

“The halters is in the pack, sir, an’ likewise the hobbles,” said Murty.
“If y’ don’t be watchin’ that black image of a haythen on Bung Eye,
he’ll put the wrong hobbles on Bosun—there’s a small, little pair I
made special for the pony. He’ll get his feet out of nearly anny other
hobbles on the place.”

“Thank you, Murty!” from Norah. Murty beamed.

“A good ride to ye all,” he said, “an’ don’t be afther breakin’ your
neck on thim ridges, Miss Norah. ’Tis the only neck like it on
Billabong, an’ we can’t spare it, at all.”

“We’ll take care of her, Murty,” said her father.

“Bedad,” said Murty, “I have not forgotten that wan time ’twas y’rsilf
did not take care of y’rsilf in that very same place! How am I to be
thinkin’ anny of ye safe afther that misfortunate time?”

David Linton laughed.

“Ah, Monarch and I have learned sense now,” he said. “He won’t get rid
of me in the same way again.”

“Divil a wan of me knows!” said Murty, darkly. “Well—that ye may come
home wid whole bones, annyhow! Is it gettin’ up a search party we’ll be
if ye’re not back this day week, sir?”

“Certainly not!” said the squatter. “If we find Brownie’s gold mine,
there’s no prophesying when I shall get my party away from it!”

“Then ye’ll find hersilf an’ me joggin’ out in the old dray to meet ye,”
Murty averred. He took his hand from Bosun’s bridle, and stepped back.
Good-byes floated to the little group by the cottage as the riders
cantered down the track.




                              CHAPTER XIV


                              ON THE TRACK

A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—
Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the
  skin.

                                           —_V. J. Daley._

THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock belonging
to a station Mr. Linton knew well.

“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he said.
“It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first
day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of good
water in the creek over yonder.”

So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and across the
long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time of the
year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The horses were
short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was pitched quickly.

The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near which
the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for bathing—a
deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over a sunken log
at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply planned to stand on
while you were drying. Most Australian creeks are unkind in this
respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or the few available
places are so muddy that the difficulty after a bathe is to keep clean.

“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the hole
hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much mistaken.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t leave
any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”

“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim
grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and there’s
really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why don’t you
take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”

“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the lady referred to,
longingly.

“Don’t they appreciate you? I’m like that!” Wally said. “I often think
I’ll die without any one finding out my true worth.”

“Jolly good job for you if they don’t, old man!” quoth Jim, retreating
hastily, and cannoning with violence into his father as he dodged round
a gum tree. Explanations ensued, and the party settled down to fish,
soon catching enough to make tea a memorable meal. Then they lay about
on the grass and talked until it was bedtime—a period which came early,
though no one would admit any sense of fatigue.

It was a still, hot night—so hot that the girls slept with the tent
flap tied back, and were openly envious of the men of the party, who
disdained to erect a “wurley,” and slept bushman fashion out in the
open, with their blankets spread in a soft spot, and their saddles for
pillows. Black Billy disappeared along the creek, camping in some select
nook after his blackfellow heart. Then silence fell upon the camp, and
all that could be heard was a mopoke, steadily calling in a dead tree,
throughout the night.

Norah was the first to awaken. It was daylight, but only faintly;
looking through the opening of the tent she could see the sun coming
slowly over the edge of the horizon, flushing all the eastern sky with
gleams of pink and gold. A little breeze blew gently. She slipped
quietly from her bunk, put on a light overcoat and went out barefooted
into the sweetness of the morning.

There was an old moss-grown log near the tent, and she sat down upon it.
Just beyond the belt of trees that marked the creek, the yellow paddock
stretched away, unbroken by any fence, so far as her eye could reach.
She could see grazing cattle here and there, and a few half-grown steers
were standing in a little knot and staring towards the camp with
curious, half-frightened eyes. From further down the bank came the chink
of hobbles, and the chime of the bell on old Bung Eye’s neck. Near the
tent her father lay sleeping; a few yards away were Jim and Wally, far
off in the land of dreams. The clean bush scent lay over everything; the
scent of tree and leaf and rich black earth, where the night-dew still
lingers. Just below her the creek rippled softly, and the splash of a
leaping fish sent a swirl across the wide pool. Norah sighed from very
joy of the place, and the beauty of the morning, and the certainty of a
happy day ahead.

Then she became aware that some one was awake—in the curious way in
which we become conscious that the thoughts of another have entered into
our solitary places. She looked round, and beheld one intent eye
regarding her from the end of the roll of blankets that represented
Wally. For a moment the eye and Norah continued to watch each other; at
which point Norah suddenly realized that it was faintly possible that
Wally might feel a shade of embarrassment, and modestly withdrew her
gaze. She did Mr. Meadows great injustice. He yawned widely, sat up, and
wriggled out of his blankets. Then, discovering that Jim’s mouth was
slightly open, he proceeded to place within it three dandelions, which
accomplished, he fled while his unconscious victim was waking up and
spluttering. Wally sat down on the log beside Norah, with a face like an
unusually lean cherub.

“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing. “Dandelions taste
abominably—at least that milky stuff in them does.”

“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny things you seem to have lived
on!”

“Poor old Jimmy!” said Norah, disregarding this insinuation, and bending
a glance of pity on Jim, who was coughing violently, and evidently
prepared for battle. Mr. Linton had wakened, and was regarding his son
with curiosity.

“It’s a pneumonia cough, I should say, sir,” explained Wally,
considerately, from the log. “Nasty lungy sound, hasn’t it. Shall I get
you some water, my poor dear?” At this point the outraged Jim arose and
hurled himself upon his tormentor, who dodged him round a bush until Jim
managed to pick up a thorn with his foot, when he retired to a log for
purposes of investigation.

“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!” he growled.

“Not too many larks,” commanded Mr. Linton, who had also cast off his
blankets. “We’ve got to get away as early as we can, so as to have a
long spell in the hottest part of the day.” He shook himself vigorously.
“I think I’m too old for sleeping without a mattress.”

“So am I,” said Wally, who was sitting cross-legged on Norah’s log.
“That bit of ground looked the softest I could see, but it found out
every bone I have before I’d been there an hour. It would be a
tremendous advantage to be fat! I was afraid at last that my hip bone
would come right through, so I got up and scraped a little hole for it.
Then I was much more comfortable, except when I wriggled in my sleep and
failed to hit the hole.”

“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah averred.

“I should think so—sleeping in the lap of gilded luxury—at least in a
beautiful sacking bunk!” said Wally, indignantly. “Then you get up at
your elegant leisure and jeer at those whose lodging was on the cold,
cold ground! Women were ever thus!” He choked, dramatically, and rose.
“James, if you’ve finished operating, are you ready to come and bathe?”

“I must wake Jean,” said Norah, disappearing within the tent. Then they
scattered up and down the creek for their swim—not a matter to be
dawdled over, for even in the summer morning the water was very cold.
Jim returned, fresh and glowing, before the girls were ready to vacate
the tent, and proceeded to loosen its fastenings in a way that caused
them great anguish of mind, since it threatened to collapse bodily upon
them. The last stages of their toilet were performed hastily, and
without dignity.

“Can’t be helped,” said Jim, imperturbably, as they emerged, wrathful.
“Got to strike camp, and this is my job.” He brought the tent to earth
with a quick movement. “Help me to fold this up, Nor.”

“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.

“I left him diving for the soap,” Jim grinned. “He was pretty cold, and
didn’t seem exactly happy; but I couldn’t wait. Here he comes. Did you
get it, Wal.?”

“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still inclined
to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue. “He’s just
the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly dry, out on
the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness; and the brute
actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive for it: fact is, I
believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in again after it!”

“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.

“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He proceeded to
roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.

Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was over the
pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled through
country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire fence bounded
each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit for wheeled
traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big station properties,
on which the homesteads were far back; so that they scarcely saw a house
throughout the day, except when now and then they passed through sleepy
little townships, where dogs barked furiously at them and children ran
out to stare at the riders. They were typical bush children, who
scarcely ever saw a stranger—lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and
shy as hares, and quite incapable of giving an answer when addressed.
They paused in one township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post
office to send a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were
safe.

The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered in the
light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark of
distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a little,
ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally falling
to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide, through
which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the township contained
any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how they contrived to
transact their postal business. It was very certain that Brownie could
not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic pressure had been
applied to her.

Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a small
shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic simplicity
was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-doorway, after
Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.

“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall,
freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her
“fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is, I
was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just
corkin’!”

“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard, please.”

“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request. She
propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for
conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as nature
or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair ringers! That
big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa ridin’
him?”

“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”

“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty workmanlike,
don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair question?”

“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want——”

“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”

“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”

“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up there,”
said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will y’, do
y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what people
’ll do for fun!”

“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me have a
postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.

“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without removing
her face from the little window she fished in an unseen receptacle and
extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.

“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating. “Can I
have one—and some ink?”

“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the
office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This
one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided
skirts comf’table to ride in?”

Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.

“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the
postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me father
won’t let me get a pattron an’ try an’ make one. Yours don’t seem to
mind.”

“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said Norah, writing busily.

“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the postmistress. “Never know
where you have them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”

Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal to detailed explanation.

“Thought so. An’ you’re re’ly goin’ to try old Ben Athol! Wonder if
you’ll ever get there,” the postmistress pondered. Her freckled face
suddenly widened to a smile. “Look at that blackfeller, now! Well, if he
ain’t a trick!”

Billy was jogging up the street on old Bung Eye, smoking vigorously.
Behind him, taking the fullest advantage of a long halter, the packhorse
led, very bored by Life. The township children shouted and ran, but
nothing affected Billy’s serenity. He passed out of sight, and the
Postmistress, oblivious of further possible wishes on the part of her
customer, quitted her little office and rushed outside to gaze after
him. In this pleasurable occupation she was not alone, since three parts
of the township was hanging over its front fence, gazing likewise.

From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third time—this time with
something peremptory in its note.

“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her card into the slit marked
“Letters,” and ran out, receiving voluble farewells from the
postmistress as she fled.

“Good-bye!” Norah called. She swung herself upon Bosun’s back, and
trotted down the street with Jim. Already the others were some distance
ahead.

The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust of their going died
away.

“Wonder who they were?” she pondered. “Well, at least, there’s the
postcard!” She opened the letter box, and drew out the documentary
evidence, receiving not much information from Norah’s hastily-scrawled
lines. She turned the card over.

“Well, I’m blessed!” she gasped. Keen disappointment was in her voice.
She pondered for a moment and then hurried out, locking the office door
firmly, and affixing to it a battered notice, which read: “Closed for
dinner.” The fact that she had already dined did not trouble the free
and independent soul of the postmistress.

Half an hour later the sound of galloping hoofs on the road behind them
made the Billabong party look round. A cloud of dust resolved itself
into the vision of the postmistress, mounted on a raking chestnut, and
somewhat bulky in appearance, by reason of the fact that she had slipped
on a habit skirt over her other apparel.

“She’s waving,” said Norah, much puzzled. “Let’s pull up.”

They waited. The postmistress arrived with a wide and friendly smile.

“Thought I’d never catch you up!” she panted. “Blessed if you didn’t
forget to put any address on that postcard you wrote!” She produced the
card, a good deal crumpled by the vicissitudes of travel.

“Well, I am a duffer!” ejaculated Norah. “But how awfully good of you to
come after us!”

“It was indeed,” said Mr. Linton, warmly. He produced a pencil, and
Norah scribbled the address and handed the card back. “Uncommonly kind
and thoughtful. We’re very much obliged to you. I hope it didn’t give
you very much trouble?”

“Not a bit!” said the postmistress, genially. She read the address with
care, and tucked the card into her bodice. “Fact is,” she said, “I was
just dead keen to know it meself! Well, I must be gettin’ back—me
office is shut up, an’ the coach is nearly due. So long!” She wheeled
the chestnut, galloping back to the township.




                               CHAPTER XV


                         THE HOUSE BY ATHOLTON

                  The little feet that run to me,
                    The little hands that strive
                  To touch me at the heart, and find
                    The heart in me alive.

                  O God! if hands and feet should fail!
                    If Death his mist should fling
                  Between my heart and the touch of
                    The little living thing!

                                    —_R. Crawford._

IT was late in the afternoon of the third day, and in a cloud of thick
dust the riders were hurrying along the road towards Atholton. Ahead
they could see the scattered roofs of the little township, showing white
among the trees; but everything was obscured by the dust that swirled
and eddied, now tearing away before them in a cloud sixty feet high, or
seeming to stand still all around them, blinding any vision for more
than a few yards. Behind a leaden sky glowered through the dust clouds,
or was revealed, darkly purple, when they rose for an instant to swirl
and scurry, and grow dense again, as the shrieking wind came in a fresh
gust.

Three days of gradually mounting heat had worked up to a tempestuous
change. All day, riding had been anything but pleasant. Even in early
morning the air had been still and heavy, after a night of breathless
heat. They had left camp not long after sunrise, intending to rest
during the middle of the day; but the weather had tried the horses; they
had travelled badly, sweating before they had gone a mile, so that
progress was slow. Mr. Linton had cut the noon “spell” ruthlessly short.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing uneasily at the sullen sky.
“This means a big storm, and it’s very doubtful if we can escape it,
even now. As far as I remember there’s no shelter at all between here
and Atholton, and there is too much big timber along the track to be
safe in a storm. Billy, you travel the slowest—cut along!”

Billy proceeded to “cut,” not unwillingly. He hated storms, even as a
cat, and firmly believed that thunder was the noise of innumerable
“debbil-debbils,” let loose dangerously near the inhabitants of earth,
and at any moment likely to fall on the just and the unjust. He mounted
Bung Eye and jogged off along the track, the packhorse toiling in the
rear. Ten minutes later saw the rest of the party in pursuit.

From the first it was evident that the ride would be a race with the
storm. Mr. Linton made all the haste that was possible for the horses;
but the way was long and the heat so breathless that it seemed cruel to
urge the poor brutes along. A purple cloud came up out of the west, and
spread up and up; then a murky haze obscured the sun, yet brought no
lessening of heat. Finally came a low sighing of faraway wind, and long
before it struck them they could see distant tree-tops swaying and
bending before the fury of the blast. They came to a sharp turn in the
road, facing eastwards.

“Thank goodness, there’s Atholton!” uttered Mr. Linton, pointing at the
roofs far ahead. “We may get off with dry skins if we gallop.”

They shook up the horses. Even as they did so, the beginning of the
storm was upon them in a furious gust of wind that gathered up the loose
summer dust of the road and carried it high into the air. It was
impossible to see more than a few yards ahead except between the gusts.
They rode blindly, trusting to their horses, and fairly sure that on
such an afternoon there would be no other obstacles of traffic on the
lonely bush track. On either side the thick timber creaked and groaned
in the wind, and occasionally a sharp crack told of a limb or a treetop
breaking under the strain. Then the horses bounded as a sharp crackle of
thunder came out of the west and ran round the sky in a heavy, echoing
roll, followed by a vivid flash of lightning. Heavy drops began to fall,
splashing into the thick dust underfoot.

“Gad! There’s a house!” said Mr. Linton thankfully. “Make for the gate,
Jim.”

A hundred yards ahead a white cottage stood near the track, in the midst
of a pleasant orchard. As they clattered up to the road gate, a woman
came out upon the verandah and waved to them energetically, beckoning
them in. Garryowen propped at the gate, and Jim swung it open. The sky
seemed to split with another thunderclap as they rode through, and then
came rain, like a curtain, blotting out everything behind them.

The woman rushed down to the little garden gate as they raced to it.

“Let the young ladies come in here—quick! There’s a shed over there for
the horses.”

“Off you get, girls!” Mr. Linton said. Jean and Norah slipped to the
ground, yielding their bridles into ready hands, and ran up the garden
path behind their hostess. The rain was pelting upon the iron roof of
the little cottage with a noise like musketry.

“I don’t think you’re very wet,” panted the woman. She darted into the
house, returning with towels, and rubbed them down as they stood on the
verandah, despite their protests.

“We’re truly all right,” Norah told her. “Thank you ever so much. But
what luck! Five minutes later and we’d have been soaked to the skin but
for your house. And it isn’t a joke to get everything wet through when
you’re camping, as we are, and travelling as light as possible.”

“I should think not,” said their hostess—a tall woman, whitefaced and
delicate in appearance, with tired grey eyes, that had black half
circles beneath them. “Fact is, I’ve been looking out for you—the
storekeeper in the township was telling me Mr. Linton’s party was to
come through Atholton this evening. I’ve been thinking about you all the
afternoon, wondering if the storm would catch you.”

“You were very good,” Jean told her, shyly.

“Oh, I don’t know. There isn’t so much to think about in these
places—one’s glad of any excitement. I’d have been more excited if I’d
known it wasn’t only men riding. It’s a big ride for you two girls.”

“We’re used to it,” said Norah. “It’s been lovely, until to-day; that
has certainly been a bit hot. It’s hot still, isn’t it?”

“Close as ever it can be,” said the woman. “But the rain’ll cool it.”
She peeped round the corner of the verandah, putting her head into the
rain. “They’re all right in the shed, horses and all. Will you go into
the house and sit down and rest?”

“I think it’s nice out here,” Norah said, hesitatingly.

“Well, it is better than inside—the house is heated right through,”
said the woman. “Wooden houses cool quickly, but they heat like an oven,
don’t they? I’ll bring out chairs.” She disappeared—her movements were
curiously quick—and came out laden. They sat on the verandah, with the
pelting rain beating all round them, and a sense of wet coolness
gradually coming over the hot atmosphere.

She was anxious to talk—this gaunt, hungry-eyed woman of the Bush. She
went from one subject to another almost feverishly, asking them a
hundred questions—of home, of school, of the life that was so busy
hundreds of miles away from her lonely home in the timber. And always
her eyes wandered restlessly, as if she were seeking. Once she failed to
answer a question, staring before her with a strained look that was half
expectancy and half despair. Then she came back to attention with a
start, and begged their pardon.

“I—I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t quite hear what you were
saying.”

The storm began to wear itself out after a while, and she took them into
the house, saying that they would be glad of a wash and brush up while
she made some tea. She showed them into a neat little bedroom, and
brought a brimming can of hot water.

“Just you make yourselves quite at home,” she said. “Don’t hurry; I’ll
call you when I got tea made.” She went out, closing the door.

It was a bright little room, with a cheap blue paper on the walls, and
crisp, fresh curtains at the window. Everything was poor, but spotlessly
clean.

“Isn’t it nice?” Jean said. “It smells of lavender and things!”

“And as if the window were always open,” said Norah, approvingly. “I
like it—and I like her, too. Don’t you, Jean?”

“Yes—I do,” Jean said, slowly. “She—she’s a bit queer though, isn’t
she?”

“She’s got a scared sort of look,” Norah said, trying to find words.
“Perhaps she’s had a lot of trouble. Ever so many women in the Bush do,
I think. But I like her eyes, though they’re so tired.”

“They’re mother-y sort of eyes,” said Jean, her thoughts suddenly flying
to her own mother, in far-off New Zealand. “I wonder if that’s her
little girl?”

A photograph smiled at them from a cheap frame on the wall—a little
laughing child, taken in the stiff, conventional manner of the country
photographer, yet dimpling into merriment as if at some suddenly happy
thought.

“Oh!” said Norah. “What a dear little youngster! Isn’t she a darling!”
She faced round as the door opened, and their hostess came in, bringing
clean towels. “We’re just in love with this,” she said, indicating the
photograph. “Is she your little girl?”

The woman put down the towels in silence. Her face was working, and
before the misery in her eyes Jean and Norah shrank back aghast. There
was a moment’s dreadful silence. Then she spoke in a strained, unnatural
voice.

“She was—once,” she said. “But she’s dead. We lost her. She’s dead.
Dead!” Suddenly she was gone, the door slamming behind her.

The girls looked at each other dumbly, horror-stricken.

“Oh, I say!” said Jean, presently. “Oh, weren’t we idiots! I’m so sorry
we asked her.”

“Poor thing!” Norah said, her voice a shade unsteady. “Oh, poor thing!
Did you see how terrible her eyes were?”

Jean nodded. “There couldn’t be anything more awful than to have a
kiddie like that, and then for it to die,” she said. “No wonder she
looks so—so hungry. I wish we hadn’t asked her.”

“So do I,” Norah said. “It must have hurt her dreadfully—and she’s been
very kind to us. But how could we guess?”

“I don’t half like going out,” said Jean. “I wish we could slip away.”

“We couldn’t do that,” Norah said, shaking her head. “Come on. We’d
better hurry, because Dad and the boys will be over. The rain has nearly
stopped.”

They found the rest of their party in the kitchen, when they made their
way out presently, considerably refreshed. Their hostess was bustling
about, setting out cups and saucers. She met their half-nervous glances
quite cheerfully.

“Perhaps you two would butter some scones for me,” she said. She smiled
at them—a kindly look that told them they had nothing to worry about.
And Norah and Jean took the task thankfully.

“Now what are you going to do?”

Their hostess asked the question of Mr. Linton across the empty teapot.
It was a large teapot, but it had been filled and emptied twice. Now
every one was feeling better.

“You can’t go camping to-night,” she went on. “The ground will be
soaking and you’d get your death of cold. Besides, it may rain again; I
don’t believe it’s all over yet.”

“Oh, camping is out of the question,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have
to find shelter in the township, that’s all. I suppose there’s an
hotel?”

“If you call it one,” said the woman, sniffing. “Sort of bush shanty, I
should call it—and not too good a specimen at that. Very rough style,
and not too clean—and that’s putting a pretty fine point upon it. You
couldn’t possibly take these children there.” She nodded in a friendly
way at Jean and Norah.

“H’m—that’s awkward,” said the squatter. “Are there any farms about
that would take us in?”

“I don’t know of any. Most of the people about here have small houses
and they’re pretty crowded.” She hesitated. “If you gentlemen could
manage at the hotel, I’d be very glad to have the girls here.”

“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Linton said, hesitating in his turn. She
read the shade of doubt in his eyes.

“You know my husband, I think,” she said; “he’s Jack Archdale, that used
to be boundary rider at the Darrells’ station.”

“Why, of course!” said Mr. Linton. “And you—weren’t you teaching in the
State school at Mulgoa? I seem to remember hearing of Archdale’s
wedding.”

“Yes, Mr. Darrell gave us a great wedding,” said Mrs. Archdale, smiling.
“Five years ago, nearly; we came up here soon after.” Her face clouded
momentarily, as if remembering. “Jack’s doing contract work; he’ll be in
after a while. So, will you trust your belongings to me, Mr. Linton?”

“Only too gladly,” said the squatter, in a voice of relief. “It’s
exceptionally lucky for us, Mrs. Archdale. One has to take risks of
finding rowdy bush inns when one goes for wild expeditions, but I
confess I’m glad not to have to take the girls there. I’m greatly
obliged to you.”

“Oh, it’s a real treat to me,” she said. “It’s lonely here; I don’t seem
to make great friends with the township people, and Jack’s away all day;
and you can’t be always scrubbing and cleaning a house of this size, to
keep yourself occupied. You don’t know how glad I’ve been of a talk with
them already—and they took pity on my questions!” She flashed a smile
across at Norah that suddenly made her tired face quite like that of the
little laughing child in the photograph. “You won’t mind staying with
me?” she asked, a little wistfully.

“We’ll be awfully glad to,” Norah said. As a rule, she was a little shy
of strangers, but there was something about this woman that made her
feel more like a friend; and Norah was desperately sorry for the brave
heart behind the haggard eyes.

It was a little hard to say good-bye to Mr. Linton and the boys, seeing
them ride off to the township in the clean, rainwashed dusk. But they
found plenty to do in helping their hostess, although she would have had
them sit still and do nothing. And there was an odd fascination about
her—about her quick voice and quick movements, and quaint, unexpected
streaks of merriment, that set them laughing very often. Archdale was a
big, silent fellow, who evidently worshipped his wife’s very shadow. His
eyes scarcely left her as she flitted about the kitchen preparing the
evening meal. The photograph that they had seen was in every room—a big
enlargement of it in Mrs. Archdale’s bedroom. It even smiled from over
the polished tins upon the kitchen mantelpiece, and sometimes Norah saw
the father’s eyes wander to it sadly.

After tea they talked on the front verandah, having made a joint
business of the washing up. Jack Archdale went to bed soon. He had had a
long day’s work in the heat. But his wife kept Jean and Norah up a
little longer, always talking. A strong restlessness never left her. It
was evidently hard for her to sit still, and to keep silent a harder
thing yet. Still, she made them so merry when she talked that they
forgot that they were tired, and were sorry when at last she packed them
off to the fragrant little bedroom with the blue walls.

“I do like her,” Jean said. They were tucked into bed together, the
moonlight coming in through the open window, and making a white ray
across the sheet.

“She’s just a dear,” Norah agreed. “But, oh! hasn’t she sorry eyes!
Don’t you wish one could make her forget?”

“My word!” said Jean, with emphasis. “But no mother ever could forget
losing a little kiddie, I expect. And she hasn’t got any others.”

There came a tap at the half-open door, and Mrs. Archdale came in. She
sat down on Norah’s side of the bed, which was nearest the door. The
moonlight fell on her face, showing it quite colourless.

“You’re quite comfortable?” she asked. “That’s right. I thought I’d like
to see. I like some one to tuck up. I thought I’d come and—and tuck you
up.”

Something in her voice kept them silent. But Norah put out a
half-nervous hand, and Mrs. Archdale took it and held it.

“And—and tell you about her,” she said.

Then she was silent again. Outside in the paddocks a curlew was calling
wearily across the timber.

“I’m sure I must have frightened you this afternoon,” she said at last.
“I was dreadfully ashamed of myself.”

“Please, don’t!” Norah whispered. “We shouldn’t have asked you.”

“Why not? If I can’t stand being asked, I have no business to keep the
pictures about. Only—you see it was on just such a day as this that we
lost her—fearfully hot, and ending in a big thunderstorm. Just like
to-day—and whenever one comes, I go nearly mad. I can’t keep still, and
all the time I’m listening and looking. I know it’s terribly foolish,
but I can’t help it. Jack knows; he always understands, and he doesn’t
go away from me these days unless he can’t get out of it.”

She stopped, and they felt her shivering.

“You see, we lost her in the scrub,” she said, dully.

“What!”

“She slipped away into the timber. She was only just three, and no
little child has much chance in the Bush. How would they have? It’s so
big and lonely, and cruel—oh, how I hate it! We hunted—we were hunting
so soon! and all the district turned out, and we got the black trackers.
But it was so hot—and then the big storm came up, and when it was over
there were no tracks.”

She ceased, looking out of the window—so long silent that it seemed
that she had forgotten them.

“So we never found her,” she said at length, quite calmly. “The Bush
just took her and swallowed her up. We looked for weeks; long and long
after all the other people had given it up—and they didn’t give up
soon—Jack and I were hunting. All day long, and often all night too;
calling and calling, as long as we thought that she could answer. And
after that we hunted, only we did not call. And then, like a fool, I got
brain fever, and while I was ill the big Bush fires came and burnt all
that part of the scrub. It’s fifteen months ago, now.”

Jean was sobbing softly. But Norah could only cling to the hard,
work-worn hand she held, very tightly.

“I often think how lucky mothers are who see their kiddies die,” the
tired voice went on. “They know they helped them as much as was
possible, and they have their graves to look after. I haven’t got
anything—no grave, and no memories. Then I think of her lost and
wandering in that horrible green prison—tired and frightened, and
calling me; and I don’t know how much she suffered. Why, it scares men
to get lost in the Bush—and my little Babs was only three. If I
knew—if I knew that she died easily. It isn’t fair on a mother not to
know, when she was such a baby thing. It isn’t fair.”

She had quite forgotten them now. It was as if she was talking to
herself.

“Jack wants to go away from here,” she said. “But I can’t go. I can’t
go. I always keep thinking that some day when I am walking through the
scrub I might find—something. And then at least I would have the little
grave. It would be easier than having just nothing. Jack doesn’t like me
to go looking, now. But I have to keep on. When you’ve put your baby to
bed every night for three years—kissed her and played with her—how she
used to laugh!—and heard her say her little prayers, and tucked her in,
you can’t settle down to leaving her alone at night out in the timber.
You just can’t do it.”

Again the voice ceased, and she sat staring out of the open window.
After a long while she got up, still holding Norah’s hand.

“Good-night,” she said. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you. But I had
to, somehow. If it hadn’t been this kind of a day I could have told you
lots of funny little things she used to do.” And with that dreadful
little speech on her lips she went away.




                              CHAPTER XVI


                           BEYOND THE PLAINS

                The little feet have left the house,
                  The little voice is still;
                Without, the wan, wind-weary boughs;
                  Within, the will
                To go and hear the wee feet tread
                Within the garden of the dead.

                                       —_R. Crawford._

THERE were no traces of storm when the girls awoke next morning. Mrs.
Archdale came in with tea as soon as she heard their voices. Her face
was quite smiling and happy.

“Very likely that dear old ‘Brownie’ of yours would say I shouldn’t give
you early tea,” she observed. “And I’m sure she’d be right. But I do
love it myself, and I’ve only got you for one morning, so I had to bring
it! Jack says I’ll ruin my system with tea, and all I can say is, it’s a
beautiful ending for a system!”

No one quarrelled with the tea or with the wafers of buttered toast that
accompanied it. Mrs. Archdale talked briskly while the girls ate.

“It’s just a perfect morning,” she said. “Blue sky and a little breeze,
and everything so clean and beautiful! You will have a lovely ride into
the ranges. I’ve often threatened to make Jack take me up Ben Athol, but
he regards me as quite insane when I mention it. But I should love to
go.”

“Come with us,” Norah cried.

She shook her head.

“Oh, I couldn’t leave my old man,” she said. “We never go very far away
from each other now. Some day I will persuade him to go, and perhaps
we’ll find the remains of your camp. But the blacks won’t have left much
of it.”

“Are there many blacks?” Jean asked, wide-eyed.

“No, very few. Two or three families, I believe. They used to be in one
of the aboriginal settlements, and sometimes they go back there in the
cold weather; but they won’t stay there when the spring comes, and they
say two or three camp in the hills all the year round. Sometimes they
come down to Atholton and hang about the township for a week or two
begging for food and old clothes; but they are a perfect nuisance, and
they’d steal your very clothes-lines! So everybody hunts them, and after
a while they clear out.”

“Do they come out here?”

“It’s a bit far from the township for them to come much,” Mrs. Archdale
answered. “One young darkey, who calls himself Braggan Dudley, visits us
occasionally, and tries to sell us very badly-made boomerangs; and his
old mother makes rush baskets rather well. I buy the baskets, and scorn
the boomerangs. But last time Mr. Braggan came he helped himself to one
of Jack’s hats. Unfortunately for him, Jack happened along at the
moment, and made things lively for him with his stock-whip; so I don’t
fancy we shall see much of the gentleman in future. Not that you can
tell—they have cheek enough for anything.”

“I hope we’ll run across some of them,” Jean said. “I haven’t seen any
Australian blacks.”

“Don’t get excited over the prospect,” Mrs. Archdale told her. “They may
have been worth seeing when they dressed in paint—not that they often
wore so much as that!—and roamed the forest before the white people
came; but in their present state of half civilization they are as
miserable a set as you could imagine. I haven’t met any that are not
whining, thieving, pitiful creatures—filthy beyond imagination, too,
most of them. There used to be a woman in the ranges of a rather better
type—she had been employed as a housemaid on one of the stations, and
had learned some decent ways, though, of course, she ran off and married
a blackfellow. But she must have gone back to one of the settlements, I
fancy; at any rate I haven’t heard anything of her for two years or
more. I’d like to know what became of Black Lucy; she wasn’t at all a
bad sort.”

Mr. Linton, arriving with the boys at an early hour, had more to say on
the subject of the blacks.

“Green—the storekeeper—tells me it won’t be safe to leave our camp
unprotected,” he said. “Those wandering natives are a perfect
nuisance—there’s nothing they won’t steal. That ends Master Billy’s
chance of getting to the top of the peak. He’ll have to stay and mind
camp, poor chap. Still, he’ll think himself terribly important, and if
any of his dusky brethren should come along he’ll quite enjoy hunting
them off; so he’s not altogether to be pitied.

“Was the hotel bad?” Norah inquired.

“Don’t allude to the hotel!” Wally said. “We’ve had a busy night, and
we’re all soured—and sore!”

“Oh, you poor souls!” Norah said. “Did they feed you decently?” At which
Jim and Wally gave vent to a simultaneous groan, charged with bitter
recollection.

“It was pretty dreadful,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “I think we’re
fairly certain to want an early lunch!”

They said good-bye to Mrs. Archdale reluctantly, with many thanks and
promises to see her on the return journey. She held Norah’s hand a
little, looking at her wistfully. The others had ridden on down the
hill.

“Would you mind if I gave you a kiss?” she asked, hesitating over each
word. “I haven’t kissed any one but Jack since—since . . .” Her voice
trailed off into silence.

Norah bent down from the saddle quickly, and the poor woman flushed at
the touch of the fresh young lips. She stood looking down the track long
after the riders had vanished into the timber.

Atholton was not an exciting city. It consisted of a few scattered
houses, most of them bark-roofed, since the cartage of roofing iron to
this remote district was an expensive matter. No railway was within
sixty miles, and communication with the outer world was by means of a
coach, which ran twice a week. The _Peak Hotel_ was the high-sounding
appellation of the inn, where Mr. Linton and the boys had suffered many
things. The Atholton inhabitants referred to it briefly as The Pub.
There was a store, combining various matters; within its small compass
could be found groceries, drapery, bread, meat, saddlery, and the post
office; while at a pinch the storekeeper would undertake a commission
for a plough, a tombstone or a piano. The only other business
establishment was a blacksmith’s shop, where just now the smith was busy
in shrinking a tyre for the wheel of a bullock dray. The bullocks, a
fine team of ten polled Angus, were drooping their black heads wearily
outside, the heavy yokes falling forward on their necks. Their driver
propped his long form against the doorpost, and exchanged district news
with the smith.

At the store Black Billy might be seen adjusting to the pack-saddle a
bundle done up in sacking, and containing provisions. The storekeeper
came out as the party rode up; after the manner of Bush storekeepers,
all agog to talk.

“’Mornin’, Miss Linton,” he said, addressing Jean and Norah impartially.
“Lovely day you’ve got for your ride, now—haven’t you? All the same, I
wouldn’t mind bettin’ you’ll be pretty tired before you get up to the
peak of old Ben Athol.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Norah said. “We don’t mind getting a bit tired.”

“In a good cause?” finished the storekeeper, chuckling at his own
lightsome play of words. “Well, some have one idea of a lark, and some
have another; I can’t see much meself in climbing up that stony old
hill, but it’s all a matter of taste. And how did you get on at Mrs.
Archdale’s?”

“She was very kind to us,” Norah answered, warmly.

“Not a kinder woman in the districk,” said the storekeeper, producing a
fragment of black and ancient tobacco, and proceeding to cut up some.
“Pity she’s gone a bit queer. I was tellin’ your Pa last night how rummy
she’s got since their youngster died, an’ I believe I fair worried him
about you. But, of course, Mrs. Archdale’s all right—she’s only a bit
queer on that point.”

“I don’t call her queer,” Jean burst out, indignantly. “She can’t help
thinking about her little girl, of course.”

“But she’s just awfully nice!” Norah seconded. “And she was as good to
us as ever she could be.”

“There, now, I told your Pa she would be,” said the storekeeper, quite
unmoved. “Keeps that little home of hers like a new pin, too, don’t she?
Of course, Mrs. Archdale’s a cut above the ordinary—had a bit of
education, and all that. And, as you say, no one could blame her for
frettin’ about that poor little kid. Such a jolly little youngster she
was—always had a laugh for you. I can tell you the whole districk was
cut up over that youngster’s loss—an’ it wasn’t for want of huntin’
that the poor little body was never found. Of course, that’s what’s on
her mother’s nerves.”

“One can’t wonder at that,” said Mr. Linton.

“No, of course you can’t. Bad enough for a child to die; but not to be
able to give it decent burial makes it mighty rough—especially on a
woman. Not the first, by a long way, that has never been found in these
ranges, they’re that thick an’ full of gullies; but the wonder was we
didn’t get little Babs Archdale. All the districk was out. There wasn’t
a yard of scrub unbeaten for ten mile, I don’t think.”

“Poor little baby!” said Norah, very low.

“Ay. An’ the mother—my word, I don’t reckon any of us as were huntin’
’ll ever forget Mrs. Archdale’s face. She’s not the kind as shows her
feelin’s very ready; an’ that made it all the worse. Poor soul! Poor
soul! An’ after we’d had to give up, and the black trackers had gone
back, an’ every one knew it was hopeless, she an’ Jack kept on looking,
night an’ day I dunno at last what old Jack was most afraid of—not
findin’ her or findin’ her. Twas a relief to every one when we heard the
mother had gone down with fever. She was ravin’ for weeks.”

The storekeeper dropped his voice, looking round.

“An’ there’s a yarn,” he said. “I dunno if it’s true. Some people say it
is. Half her time Mrs. Archdale’s off in the scrub alone; an’ the yarn
is that she’s got a little cross stuck up in the ground in some gully,
an’ ‘Babs’ carved on it; an’ she keeps flowers there, like as if it was
really her little kiddie’s grave. An’ they say she goes down there an’
just sits still an’ looks at it. I dunno. Old Jack can’t know anything
about it, or he’d never leave her; but it ain’t the kind of thing you
like to think of a woman doin’—not a woman you like. An’ all this
districk thinks the world of Mrs. Archdale.”

Norah rode beside her father, and they were silent long after they had
bidden the storekeeper good-bye and left the roofs of Atholton low among
the timber as they mounted into the hills. She looked up at him at last.

“Oh, Dad,” she said; “if only any one could help her!”

“Ay,” said David Linton. “But that’s beyond human power, my little
girl.”

“I think she liked having us, Dad,” Norah said, half shyly. “That’s
nothing, of course, unless it kept her from thinking. Can we go back
there for another night on our way home?”

“If you like, dear,” he said. “But you’d rather camp, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think so—not if she’d like us. She asked me if she could kiss
me, Dad.”

“Did she?” Mr. Linton said. “Poor lonely soul! It would really be better
if Archdale took her out of the district altogether—if she’d go. But
that would be the difficulty, I expect. I could give him a good billet
on Billabong if he’d take it. I’ll be looking for a storekeeper next
month.”

“Oh, I wish he would,” Norah exclaimed. “But I don’t think Mrs. Archdale
would ever leave here She feels she’s a bit nearer that poor dead baby,
perhaps.”

Above them they could catch glimpses of the track as it rose spirally
into the hills. Atholton nestled back into the very foot of the ranges.
Scarcely half a mile from its last house the flat country ended, and the
hills, tier on tier, rose ahead. Indeed, only for a little while was
there any real track. A few isolated mountain farms were perched on tiny
flats among the ridges, but as soon as the last of these was passed the
wheel track, rough as it was, ended abruptly, and there was only a rough
Bush path. Sheep had made it originally, and it had been widened by
drovers bringing down stock; but at best it was narrow and uneven, and
often the scrub grew so closely on either side, that it was only
possible for two to ride abreast.

It was too exquisite a day to be sad. Later the sun would be hot, but
now the jewels of last night’s rain still hung, trembling, on leaf and
bough, and caught the sunlight in liquid flashes. As they rode brushing
the dewy branches, they seemed to shake loose the hundred scents of the
Bush, and the sharp fragrance was like a refreshing draught. There were
not many wild flowers left, but there was no sameness in the scrub, that
showed varying shades of colour—tender green of young branches;
grey-green and blue-grey of the gum trees, shading to bronze in the
distance; on the topmost boughs of young saplings translucent leaves
that showed against the sunlight, yellow and red, and glowing crimson.
Overhead a sky of perfect blue, deep and pure, wherein sailed piled
masses of white cloud, flushed with pink where the rays fell. And all
about them birds that sang and chirped and whistled, flitting busily in
the green recesses of the scrub; such tame birds that it was evident
that few humans came this way to break into the peace and safety of
their hills.

“I guess we’ve had our last canter for a day or two,” Jim said. “Nothing
but climbing now. How’s the pack standing it Billy?”

“Plenty!” said the sable retainer, vaguely. “Baal that pfeller
slip—Boss packed him on.” His grin suddenly was a streak of light in
the darkness of his countenance.

But for the deep whisperings of the Bush it was a land of silence. They
had mounted above the last of the hill farms; no longer the faint
bleating of sheep came to their ears, or a cattle call sounding through
the timber. Here and there they caught glimpses of a steer, poking
through the scrub in search of the sparse native grass; but presently
there were no more fences, and they had climbed into the country that
was No Man’s Land.

No one would have had it. Even the easily pleased rabbit would have
found scant pickings on the stony soil. The scrub became scanty and
gnarled—the winds that blew across the face of the ranges in winter
twisted the saplings into queer, bent shapes, and whirled the very earth
from their roots. The horses, unused to such unkind ground, slipped and
stumbled on the sandstone outcropping here and there. Sometimes there
were gullies where the growth was dense—often the site of some old
landslip, or a deep cleft between two hills; and sometimes the sound of
falling water carried their eyes to where a spring, concealed in some
rocky hollow, sent a miniature fall drip-dripping down a steep
slope—its margin daintily green, with little plants striving for a hold
among the stones.

They camped for lunch early, seizing a patch of deep shade, where a
great blue gum grew out of a gully—the only big tree visible among the
sparse scrub. A huge boulder had sheltered it as a sapling, protecting
it until it had won strength sufficient to outgrow the kindly refuge,
and fling its great head towards the sky. The boulder lay at its feet
now, and the riders camped in its shadow. Near at hand a spring trickled
softly into a rainwashed hole, which brimmed over, sending a silver
thread of water down among the stones below. There was little or no
grass for the horses; but for this halt they had carried a small ration
of hard feed for each horse, and the sweating steeds welcomed it
eagerly. The night camp was to be made on a flat further up, where, the
storekeeper had told Mr. Linton, they would find grass.

Through the afternoon they climbed steadily. Soon it was easier to walk
than to ride, since riding was no quicker—and to lean forward grasping
a handful of your horse’s mane to ease the strain on his back, and
prevent yourself slipping over his tail, is not an especially
fascinating pastime, when pursued for any lengthy period. So they led
the horses, stumbling over the rocky pathway—though stumbling was a
somewhat exciting matter, as, if you fell, your steed would probably
walk upon you, since you would be apt to roll back under his fore feet.
It was a tiring day, even though the fresh mountain air helped them to
forget the sun, beating down hotly upon their shoulders. They enjoyed it
all—the English race, all the world over, has a way of taking its
pleasure strenuously. No one thought of wanting the way made easier.

Then, just as Mr. Linton was casting somewhat uneasy glances at the
weary horses, and wondering how much more acrobatic ability would be
demanded of them, they came to a belt of deeper scrub, where moisture
was suddenly perceptible in the soil that for hours had been arid and
dry. For a few moments they climbed through it, in single file, and then
a turn in the narrow track led them out upon a little plateau lying in a
nook among the hills. Not more than fifty yards square, it showed green
against the rugged slopes beyond. Water, unseen, trickled musically, and
a few trees were dotted about.

“Whew-w!” whistled Jim. “What a ripping place to camp!”

“Couldn’t be better,” his father said, with relief.

“I’m going to stay here for a week!” Wally declared, casting his hat
upon the ground.

“Then you’ll be living on gum leaves most of the time!” retorted Jim.
“Perhaps you might get a monkey-bear if you were lucky.”

“I could stand devilled bear very well indeed, just now,” responded his
friend. “Never met such hungry air in my life—in the words of the poet,
there’s nothing in the world I couldn’t chew!”

“Well, that may be the poet’s opinion, but you’re not going to chew
anything here until camp is fixed,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “Jean has
us all beaten—her saddle is the first off.”

“Jean will get beastly unpopular if she’s not careful,” said Wally,
favouring the energetic Jean with as much of a scowl as his cheerful
countenance would permit. “These horribly-good people nearly always come
to a bad end, and nobody loves them!” A tirade that left Jean quite
unmoved, as she inquired of Mr. Linton if Nan were to be hobbled?

Besides the tent, there was a “wurley” to be put up to-night. The boys
were inclined to scorn this at first, but found later on that they were
glad of its shelter, for the keen mountain air was very different to the
milder temperature of the plains, and their stock of blankets was not
large. They built it of interlaced boughs, thick with leaves, and when
finished it looked most inviting. By that time Jean and Norah had tea
ready, and the camp fire was glowing redly in a rocky corner.

They sat about it afterwards, singing every chorus they could remember,
to a spirited accompaniment by Wally on the penny whistle. The whistle
was pitched in a higher key than Nature had rendered possible for most
of the singers—a circumstance which did not at all impair the
cheerfulness of the quartet, though Mr. Linton threatened to flee into
the fastnesses of the bush if the “obbligato” were not discontinued.
Black Billy, washing cups at the spring, and gathering kindling wood for
the morning fire, grinned all the time in sympathy with the freshness
and merriment of the young voices. They rang out cheerily, their echoes
dying away on the lonely slopes. Never had such sounds disturbed the
brooding silence of old Ben Athol.

To David Linton, lying awake in his “wurley” in the moonlight, gazing
dreamily out at a star that trembled in the west, it seemed that the
last chorus still lingered on the night air:—

             “Wrap me up in my stock-whip and blanket,
               And say a poor buffer lies low—lies low,
             Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,
               On the plains where the coolibars grow.”




                              CHAPTER XVII


                         THE PEAK OF BEN ATHOL

                 By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
                   With stock-whip in his hand,
                 He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,
                 The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,
                   In Rough-and-ready Land.

                                   —_A. B. Paterson._

“OH!” said Jean, despairingly. “I wish to goodness I hadn’t been born
fat!”

“Very possibly you were not,” Jim’s voice said. “Don’t lay all the blame
on your parents; it seems to me more an acquired habit on your part.”
His cheerful face came over the edge of a boulder, and peeped down upon
her.

“’Tisn’t my fault at all!” said Jean, indignantly. “You know very well I
hardly ever eat butter or potatoes, and I love them both. We’re all fat;
and Dad and Mother are the fattest!”

“It must be the New Zealand air,” said Jim, regarding her with interest.
“Perhaps, if we turned you out into a poor paddock for a while, you’d
come down in condition. Not that I’d advise it, because we like you as
you are—but I hate to see you worried.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass!” responded the harassed Jean. “This isn’t a time
for polite conversation—I want to get over that horrid old rock. And
I’m so hot!”

“Well, didn’t I hear your bleat of woe, and come back to help you,
though I was making for the peak like the gentleman in ‘Excelsior,’ you
ungrateful woman?” asked Jim. He swung his long legs over the boulder,
and came scrambling down to where she stood. “Poor old thing! It’s
pretty steep, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a poor old thing, and I won’t be pitied,” retorted Jean with
indignation. “I haven’t got long legs like all of you, but I can climb
hills, for all that. I only want a leg-up over this boulder.”

“Of course you do,” said Jim, in his best soothing manner—which was
wont to have anything but a soothing effect. “Lend me your foot, Miss
Yorke, and be prepared to put some spring into your portly frame. One,
two, three—up you go!” He hoisted her deftly, and with a quick movement
Jean had scrambled to the top of the rock.

It was one of a hundred similar sandstone boulders scattered over the
side of the hill. Sometimes, by dodging through crevices and under
jutting points of rock, it was possible to avoid them; but often they
lay so thickly that to skirt them was impossible except by a detour too
long to be practicable. There was not much vegetation to be seen. Grass
was practically non-existent, but tough young gums grew here and there
among the rocks, with twisted stems, finding a foothold in some
mysterious manner by thrusting deep twining roots into the crevices.
There leafage was too sparse and stunted to give any real shade, and the
sun beat down with blinding force; though it was not yet noon, the rocks
were hot under the touch.

Ahead, straggling forms could be seen pushing their way upward. Wally
and Norah were in the lead, by virtue of long legs and tough muscles;
then came Mr. Linton, with whom Jim had been climbing until he heard
Jean’s small “bleat” of distress, and turned back to help her. The camp
was far below: for a long time they had lost even the faint curl of the
smoke of their fire, where Billy had been left disgustedly washing up
the breakfast things, and with strict orders to remain on guard
throughout the day.

Mr. Linton and the boys carried valises strapped across their shoulders,
containing food and water. Already it had been found necessary to
husband the latter, since climbing on such a day was thirsty work, and
the supply of water bottles was not large. To brew tea at the Peak was
considered out of the question; that was a luxury to be anticipated on
getting back to the camp. Even now, Jean looked longingly at Wally’s
diminishing burden, and solaced herself indifferently by chewing an
exceedingly dry gum leaf, which tasted very strongly of eucalyptus, and
made her, if anything, thirstier than before.

There were scarcely any small birds in this high region—cover was too
scarce, and food supply correspondingly low. Once they caught sight of
an eagle-hawk, sailing leisurely across a path of blue sky, visible
between two hills; and, even as they looked, his wings ceased to beat,
he hovered, motionless, for a moment, and then fell like a stone,
swooping on some prey descried in a distant gully. Occasionally there
were holes that looked like rabbit-burrows, and sometimes an opening
that marked the entrance to a wombat hole: but of wild life they saw
nothing, save here and there a lizard sunning itself on a patch of warm
rock, and sliding off with incredible rapidity at the unfamiliar sound
of voices.

“As for the blacks,” said Jean, resentfully, “I believe it was only a
yarn about them—or they’re all gone. We haven’t seen even a trace of a
camp.”

“Well, there’s a good deal of room for a camp or so to exist without our
coming across them,” Jim answered, wisely. “But I think it’s quite
likely there are none left—why on earth should they stay in country
like this when they can be fed and housed decently at one of the
settlements? Of course, the gentle black is a peculiar sort of chap, and
hates to be shut up within four walls. Still, I think this sort of thing
would scare even a native back to civilization.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Jean made answer. “I did want to see some.”

“There’s old King Billy at the Darrells’ station,” Jim told her, kindly.
“He lives there, and reckons he owns it. If you like, we’ll get him
trotted out for your inspection. He’s our Billy’s father, and I’ve no
doubt he’d be glad to call on his loving son, especially if he thought
his screw had just been paid.” Which handsome offer did very little to
appease Jean’s longings, even when Jim supplemented it with a further
proposal to make the monarch appear in war-paint and utter horrifying
tribal yells. After having been acquainted with William, junior, it was
difficult to expect any romantic attributes in his royal father.

Ben Athol was a deceptive mountain. Often the summit seemed quite near,
as if but a few yards more would land them at their destination. This
was cheering, and led them to climb with great ardour, each striving to
be first over the toppling edge that appeared to be the margin of the
crest. But when it was surmounted, it was found to be only a shoulder,
and the actual Peak loomed high above them yet. This occurred so often
that it moved Wally to wrath and eloquence.

“I never saw anything rummier than the anatomy of this blessed hill,” he
said. “It’s got as many shoulders as an octopus ought to have, only
they’re all on the same side! I think we’ll be climbing it like this
till the end of time, and never getting any forarder. Do you think it
would pay to cut round and try to climb up its chest instead?”

Jim said, “Don’t be personal!” and patted him on the shoulder with such
friendly force that the orator, who chanced to be sitting on the extreme
edge of a boulder, slid off, and continued sliding until he found Mother
Earth—which happened with some force. This led to reprisals, and by the
time that the combatants, somewhat dusty, had adjusted their
differences, the remainder of the expedition was some distance up the
Peak.

It was the Peak itself, and the last pull was a steep one. All the
ground was heaped with stones, great and small. To dodge them was out of
the question, and every foot of the way had to be climbed. There were no
trees here, though on the very summit a few clung amid the rocks. It was
hot work, crawling, climbing, slipping—the rough sandstone grazing the
hands that clung to it and the knees as they scrambled across. But it
was the top. Jean and Norah raced for the last few yards—a contest
abruptly ended by the latter’s catching her foot in a crevice and
falling headlong. Jean arrived at the Peak by herself, and looked round
in some astonishment, to behold her chum rising from the earth and
ruefully surveying a hole in her skirt.

“Oh—I’m sorry!” said the victor, laughing and flushed. “Are you hurt,
old girl?”

“Only my feelings—and my skirt!” laughed Norah, inspecting a grazed
hand as a matter of lesser moment. “It’s a good thing we packed needles
and cotton.” She came up beside Jean, and caught her breath in quick
ecstasy. “Jeanie! what a view!”

The ranges lay beneath them, rolling east and west. Darkly green, their
clothing of timber hid all ruggedness and inequalities, and only that
waving expanse of foliage rippled softly from their feet. Here and there
a peak, higher than its fellows, reared its crest, or a giant tree flung
a proud head skywards; but there was little to break the softly-rounded
masses of green. But out beyond the hills, the plains lay extended, mile
on mile, spreading away illimitably. Dark lines winding sinuously over
their bosoms showed the timber bordering the courses of creeks and
rivers. Once a sun ray caught a glint of blue where a lake rippled
thousands of feet below. On one lonely plain a belt of pines made a dark
mass, easily distinguishable, even at so great a distance. On all was
silence—so profound that it was easy to imagine that the green country
lying below was as desolate and uninhabited as the rugged Peak where
they stood.

David Linton, coming up silently, looked out long over the country he
loved, one hand on Norah’s shoulder. Then he sat down on a boulder and
lit his pipe, still watching and silent, as the blue smoke trailed away.

The boys arrived hastily, flushed and panting.

“Beat you!” gasped Wally.

“Dead heat, you old fraud!” Jim retorted.

“Be quiet, you duffers,” said Norah, affectionately. “Come here and look
across the world!”

So they looked—and were impressed even into silence for three minutes,
which is a remarkable tribute to be exacted by any landscape from any
boy. Then Nature reasserted itself.

“I could drink in that view for hours,” said Wally, with fervour, “if I
weren’t so thirsty!” He undid his bundle in haste, and looked longingly
at the water bottle. “May we all moisten our lips just once, Mr.
Linton—one little moist?”

“We’d better take stock,” responded that gentleman, coming out of his
reverie, and proceeding to unstrap his load. “Jim, how much have you got
left?”

They inspected the supply, which was found to be barely sufficient to
assist in washing down luncheon. This once settled, they threw care to
the winds, and demolished all, since going down hill would be a quicker
matter, and the heat less than on the journey up. “Horses travel well
when there’s water ahead, so perhaps I may expect the same from you!”
remarked Mr. Linton, to the just indignation of his party, who averred
that his willingness to allow the water to be finished proceeded solely
from anxiety to have no load to carry down.

It was still hot when they left the summit. Resting there was scarcely a
comfortable business; there was little shade, and the rocks were uneasy
places for repose. “Better to have another spell on the way down, when
we strike a good place,” said the leader; and the others chorussed their
agreement. So they went down, slipping and sliding on the
boulders—digging their heels into a patch of earth whenever one was
discovered soft enough to act as foothold. It was not without risk, for
the Peak was steep, and a false step among the stones would probably
have resulted unpleasantly. David Linton was free from minor anxieties
concerning his irresponsible clan, holding the happy-go-lucky Australian
belief that worrying does not pay; still, he breathed more freely when
the descent of the Peak itself was accomplished, and a slightly easier
slope lay before them. Broken legs are at all times awkward—but to
carry a broken leg down a mountain side is not a performance to be
lightly contemplated.

He pulled up an hour later.

“Well, I have no idea as to the views of the clan,” he remarked. “But I
am going to have a spell. It is borne in upon me that I am getting old,
and that I have not had a smoke for a long time.”

“You’re not old, at all, but we’ll all have a spell,” Norah responded.
They had halted in a shady spot, where native grass tried to grow, and
there were stones of a convenient shape to serve as seats. The Peak
loomed far above them, grim and remote, although they were yet on its
side. They had climbed down so far that the view all round was blotted
out, since now they were below the level of the timber-crowned hills
that clustered round Ben Athol. Already the fierceness of the sun had
gone, and there was even a breath of chill in the shady stillness where
they rested.

They lay on the ground or found stony seats, and for half an hour talked
lazily or did not talk at all, as the spirit moved them. Jim and his
father were deep in a discussion of bullocks. Suddenly Norah, who had
been industriously biting the tough grass stems, as an aid to thought,
scrambled to her feet.

“I want to go and explore,” she said. “Who will come?”

“Me,” said Jean and Wally, simultaneously, and with painful disregard of
the King’s English.

“Not I, I think,” said her father. “I want to finish my pipe.”

“Then I’ll keep you company,” Jim said. “Don’t get lost, you kids!”

“Kid yourself!” remarked Wally. “Then we’ll meet back at the camp, sir?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Don’t get far off the track, Wally,” said Mr.
Linton; “and take care of my daughters!” He smiled at Jean.

“I’ll keep ’em well in order, sir,” said Wally. “Observe, children, Papa
has put you under my charge!” Whereat Norah tilted her nose
disdainfully, and they scrambled off among the rocks.

The prohibition against getting far from the path made exploration
limited—not that there was much to be gained by exploring, since one
part of the hill seemed precisely the same as another. Very rarely, a
lean mountain sheep appeared, to scurry off among the timber in bleating
affright at the strange apparitions; but in general the scrub and the
rocks were monotonously alike, and travelling, once off the sheep track,
was considerably more difficult. So they made their way back to it,
resolving that exploration was a mistaken ideal, and journeyed down hill
cheerfully.

Wally paused when they were beginning to think that the camp must be
close at hand.

“Cease your foolish persiflage!” said he, severely. “I’ve an idea.”

“Never!” said Jean, with open incredulity. “Where?”

“It’s this,” said Wally. “Somewhere in my bones it is borne in upon me
that young Billy is asleep. Let’s see if we can’t take him by surprise.”

“All right,” Norah said, twinkling. “But why you should think poor old
Billy is snoring at the post of Duty is more than I can say, unless
you’re thinking that in similar circumstances you’d be sleeping
yourself!”

“There may be something in that,” said Wally, regarding the supposition
with due consideration. “If Billy has kept awake all day he’s a hero and
a martyr, and I should like to crown him with a chaplet of ‘prickly
Moses,’ laurel leaves being unobtainable. Anyhow, let us creep upon him,
and make him think he’s attacked by sable warriors, clad principally in
ferocity.”

They went on softly, in single file. The path was easier, as the slope
became less acute; an hour earlier, quiet walking would have been
impossible, owing to shifting stones that had a way of rattling down
hill at a touch; but now they could prowl, soft-footed, through the
scanty undergrowth. It was, perhaps, five minutes later when the first
glimpse of the green plateau came into view, and at a signal from Wally
they stole forward noiselessly, halting in the shadow of the scrub that
fringed its edge.

It was immediately evident that Wally’s instinct had been entirely
correct. Black Billy had succumbed to the heat, or the soporific effect
of the eucalyptus scents, or his own loneliness—or, very possibly, to a
combination of all three. He lay on his back under a little tree, his
battered old felt hat pulled over his eyes, and his skinny limbs flung
carelessly in the abandonment of sleep. His mouth was wide-open, and
snores proceeded from him steadily.

“Sweet child,” said Wally admiringly. “Nothing lovelier than a sleeping
cherub, is there? What did I tell you, young Norah Linton? Grovel.”

“I grovel,” whispered Norah, laughing. “Poor old Billy, he must have
been horribly dull.”

“Not he, lazy young nigger. Plenty to eat and nothing to do is a
blackfellow’s heaven,” responded Wally, in an energetic whisper. “Hold
on until I collect my breath for a yell.”

Norah caught his arm.

“Wally! Look there.”

From behind the tent suddenly emerged a figure, looking round
cautiously. As she straightened up they could see her face plainly—a
black woman, shapeless and bent as in the manner of all black “gins,”
when their first youth is passed. Her broad face, hideous in its dark
ugliness, shone with the peculiar polish of black skins. She was dressed
in rags, principally of sacking, amidst which could be seen the remnant
of an old print frock that had once been red; a man’s felt hat covered
her matted hair ineffectually, since here and there stray locks stuck
out of holes in the crown.

“Great Scott,” Wally whistled. “And that young beggar, Billy, snoring.
Well, Jean, there’s your noble savage, anyhow, and I hope you like her.”

“Why, she got a picaninny,” Norah whispered eagerly.

As the woman moved they could see a tiny form clinging to her skirts on
the other side. She faced round presently, and they saw the small
aboriginal—a queer mite, in rags of sacking also, and a piece of the
same elegant material tied over its head.

No one could have said off-hand that it was boy or girl—it was merely
picaninny. Elfish eyes looked out from a tangle of black hair under the
sacking. One little dark hand clung to the black gin’s skirts; the other
grasped a tiny boomerang that was evidently a toy. There was something
uncanny in its perfect silence and caution of the little thing.

“Rum little beggar!” Wally whispered. “Fine Australian native in the
making! Jean, are you impressed?”

“The woman’s awful,” Jean murmured back. “But the baby’s a jolly little
chap. I wonder if he’s a boy or girl”—a confusion of genders which sent
Wally off into a fit of silent laughter that was almost alarming, since
it made him apoplectic in appearance.

“Do be quiet!” Norah whispered. “She’s certain to hear you.”

But the black gin was quite unsuspicious of the watching eyes. She poked
about the camp, here and there picking up some trifle and concealing it
somewhere about her rags. Billy’s recumbent form she avoided carefully,
and her eyes never left him for more than a moment. She wandered softly
about the tent, longing, yet fearing, to untie the flap and make more
detailed investigations. And always at her side trotted the picaninny,
clinging to her skirt and entirely unconcerned by the adventure, except
in its silence and stealthy movements.

Presently, however, it stopped suddenly, released its hold, and sat down
on the ground with a comically knitted brow. The gin looked down, an
impatient frown on her heavy features. The little creature was evidently
concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up; it
was searching for it, twisting itself to try to get a view of its
case-hardened sole. The gin cautioned it with uplifted finger, and
leaving it on the ground, stole off on a further tour of exploration.

The black baby was evidently very cross. It frowned and twisted over its
foot, and seemed to be telling the splinter, under its breath, its
unbiassed opinion of it. Meanwhile, the lubra was lying flat on her face
beside the tent, groping under the canvas with one hand, and her soul
apparently charged with hope. Norah and Jean watched her, choking with
laughter, since, so far as they knew, she could only encounter a bunk.

“You’ll have to take steps if she tries another spot, Wally,” Norah
whispered.

“Right-oh!” was the noiseless response, given somewhat absently. Wally
was watching the picaninny. He turned to Norah in a moment.

“That’s a rum little blackfellow,” he said. “See its foot; I’ve never
seen a darky with a foot like that, and we used to live amongst ’em in
Queensland. They’re all just as flat-footed as a—a platypus. But look
at the instep that rum little black coon has got; it’s as high an instep
as I’ve ever seen, and the foot’s quite pretty.”

Norah looked as desired. The dusky baby was still contorting on the
grass, fishing vigorously in its foot for the offending splinter. Its
face was turned towards them, but bent so intently over its task that
they could scarcely see it. There was no doubt that the small foot was
pretty—a slender foot, with arched instep, incongruous enough, sticking
out of the sacking rags.

Then, as they watched, success rewarded the picaninny’s efforts. The
hard little fingers, with talonlike nails, found the head of the
splinter, and drew it carefully out. The child looked up triumphantly, a
smile breaking out suddenly and illuminating all its dark face. And at
sight of the smile Norah gave a great start, and cried out aloud:

“Wally—did you see! It isn’t a picaninny at all! It’s Mrs. Archdale’s
baby!”




[Illustration: “The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn
or splinter its bare black foot had picked up.”]




                             CHAPTER XVIII


                        THE WURLEY IN THE ROCKS

                     And yet there is no refuge
                       To shield me from distress.
                     Except the realm of slumber
                       And great forgetfulness.

                                  —_Henry Kendall._

QUICK as they were, the black woman was quicker.

She was lying full length on her face when Norah’s startled voice rang
out across the camp. Almost with the first word she was on her feet,
twisting to an erect position with a quick movement curious in one so
ungainly. Like a flash, also, the child was running to her, screaming
with sudden terror. The gin caught her up with a swift clutch, and in
three strides had gained the shelter of the scrub.

“Oh, Wally, run!” Norah cried.

But Wally was running. His long legs took him across the grass so
swiftly that he seemed to gain the scrub almost at the same instant as
the lubra. Behind him came Jean and Norah, scarlet with excitement. They
pulled up sharply.

There was no sign of any one. The spring that had its source near the
plateau trickled out at the side, and the scrub grew more densely than
anywhere else. It seemed to have swallowed up their quarry. Not even a
broken or trembling branch or a mark in the bushes told where she had
gone. They listened, their hearts thumping heavily.

Then, from the left, came the sound of a breaking twig, and Wally turned
in its direction, and went crashing through the undergrowth, the girls
at his heels. For a moment he feared that he was on the wrong track;
then, with a great throb of relief, he caught a glimpse of a faded red
print skirt, and ran wildly on.

Once he looked back with a quick call.

“Don’t get bushed if we miss each other. I’ll coo-ee!”

“Right!” Norah had no breath for more.

They ran madly through the scrub, dodging, twisting, scrambling among
the saplings and bushes. The stones were the worst; they cropped out of
the ground, often with a coating of dry lichen or dead leaves disguising
their outlines, and it was almost impossible to dodge them, running at
top speed, in the gloom of the trees. A dozen times the pursuers tripped
and went sprawling over the unseen and unyielding obstacles, only to
pick themselves up, bruised and shaken, to run harder than ever, to make
up for lost time.

The black gin always kept before them. Sometimes they caught a glimpse
of her red skirt, and once Wally saw her across a little cleared space,
fleeing silently, with the child clasped to her breast; but generally
she was out of sight, and they could only follow her by sound. She ran
with all the stealthy cunning of her race, her bare feet making little
noise when contrasted with the crashing of her pursuers, who shouted to
her loudly and unavailingly to stop. Nor did she ever run in a straight
line—like a hare she twisted and doubled, though always as if she had
some definite end in view, for, despite her tortuous course, she always
kept to the same direction. The child uttered no sound; the woman ran as
though she had no burden.

Norah fell behind presently; not only was the pace too much for her, but
she feared to leave Jean, who was lagging far in the rear. She waited
for her to catch up, and they jogged on together, listening anxiously
for Wally’s voice.

Wally had set his teeth, suddenly indignant at being outpaced for so
long by a woman—“a black one at that!” he uttered, forgetting that no
woman, save a black one, would have had the slightest chance of keeping
ahead. The pride of the schoolboy, to whom none of his mates had been
able to show the way on the football field, surged up in him, and he
flung himself forward, shouting. He knew he had lost sight of Norah and
Jean—and they must not be left to run the danger of getting “bushed.”
The chase must end.

He was gaining yard by yard—the pad of flying bare feet came closer and
closer. Then he heard a heavy fall, and a loud, piteous cry—a child’s
cry—that sent the honest blood surging to his heart. He was almost upon
the black woman as she picked herself up, clinging to the child—and
then she doubled suddenly, twisting herself through a gap between two
great boulders. Not quite quickly enough; had the boy been a dozen yards
further off he might never have seen where she disappeared. But he was
on her heels, following. Then he knew that the chase was over.

They were in a tiny triangular space, nearly filled by a “wurley” formed
by roofing in the stones with boughs, and leaving a few upright ones as
a doorway. The boulders hemmed it in. The place was hardly larger than a
dog kennel at Billabong—searchers might have passed it a hundred times,
never guessing that there was any space left among the masses of rock.
It had evidently been inhabited a long while, for the ground was beaten
hard, and it reeked with the “blackfellow” odour that is worse than the
majority of smells. The black gin dived into the tiny hut, and faced
about; Wally could see her fierce eyes gleaming—could hear her breath,
loud, panting gasps. He was panting himself; the “Coo-ee!” he uttered,
turning towards the direction where he had last seen the girls, quavered
a little. He sent it echoing through the bush twice before an answer
came. Then the boy’s heart gave a throb of relief as Jean and Norah came
into view.

“Got ’em!” he said, indicating the “wurley” with a jerk of his hand.
“Moses! can’t that lady run! I’d like to enter her for the Oaks! Are you
girls all right?”

They nodded.

“Is it—is the kiddie——?”

“Blest if I know!” said Wally, laughing. “You said so, and so I ran. If
it isn’t some one else’s youngster, then the lady in here has a mighty
uneasy conscience on some other score, that’s all. But if you’ve given
me that little jog-trot for nothing, young Norah——!” He broke off,
endeavouring to look threatening.

“Why, I saw it laugh!” said Norah. “And it was the face of that
photograph and Mrs. Archdale’s face rolled into one!”

“Never saw Mrs. Archdale with a face as black as that,” Wally rejoined.
“You aren’t complimentary, Nor. Let’s have a look at them, anyway.”

But the black gin cowered back in her den, and refused to move.
Persuasion and threats alike were unavailing. Finally Wally shrugged his
shoulders.

“Awfully sorry to pull your house about your ears, ma’am,” he said. “But
if you won’t come out, it’ll have to be. Look out, you girls—I shall
stir up awful smells!”

He fulfilled his prediction as he pulled away the interlacing
boughs—hygienic principles are not in vogue in an aboriginal “wurley.”
It was pitifully scanty—a moment’s work sufficed to reveal the lubra
and the child she grasped firmly. She tried to hold its face against
her—but the baby wriggled free at the strange voices, facing the grave
young faces.

Now that they were so close only a glance was needed to show that this
was no black picaninny. A dark stain covered the child’s face and its
legs and arms: but through it the features were those of the baby who
had laughed to them from the blue wall of the little room at Mrs.
Archdale’s. And there was no fear in the wide, dark eyes that met
theirs—but rather an unspoken greeting, as though instinct told her
that she was once more among her own kind. Norah held out her hand to
her; but the black gin cowered back, holding the little body yet more
closely.

“Mine,” she said; “that pfeller picaninny mine!”

“_Qui s’excuse s’accuse_,” said Wally, in his best French. “We never
said she wasn’t, old lady—’twas your own guilty mind. That feller Mrs.
Archdale’s picaninny, Black Mary.”

“Mine,” she said, sullenly, fear glowing in her eyes. “Baal you take
her?”

“Baal I’ll leave her?” retorted Wally. “You give it me that picaninny,
one time, quick!” He swung round at a step behind him. “Thank goodness,
here’s Billy! I don’t think I’m much good at international
complications.”

Billy grasped the situation in a few words. Then he addressed a flood of
guttural remarks to the black gin, who shrank visibly from him, and
answered him, trembling. He turned to Wally.

“That pfeller, Lucy,” he said, briefly. “She bin marry mine cousin, Dan.
S’pos’n’ she have picaninny, it tumble-down (died) one-three time. So
Dan he gone marry Eva.” He told the small tragedy of Black Lucy,
unconcernedly, and the lubra listened, nodding.

“So that pfeller Lucy plenty lonely,” went on Billy. “Then, s’pos’n him
meet li’l white picaninny down along a scrub, him collar that pfeller.
That all. Every pfeller lubra want picaninny,” finished Billy in a bored
voice, as if marvelling at the ways of womenkind.

There was a long pause. At last Wally spoke, hurriedly.

“Well—she knows we’ve got to take the kiddie, anyhow, doesn’t she?”

“Mine bin tell her that,” said Billy. “She bin say not.”

The black woman broke in, in a high, shrill voice.

“Not take her. That li’l pfeller, picaninny belongin’ to me.”

“Picaninny’s mother’s wanting her,” Norah said her voice pitying.

“Mine!” said the black woman, uncertainly—“mine!” She held the child
closer, rocking her to and fro; and the children stared at her, not
knowing how to solve the problem.

Billy had no illusions. He grasped the gin’s arm, and jerked her to her
feet.

“Baal you be a fool?” he said, roughly. “S’pos’n’ p’liceman come, you
bin find yourself in lock-up, plenty quick! P’lice bin lookin’ for you
this long time ’cause you bin steal picaninny.”

She winced and shivered, looking at him with great stupid eyes, like an
injured animal’s.

“You come and see my father,” said Norah, gently, putting one hand on
her arm; and somewhat to their surprise, the gin came, making no further
outcry, but holding the child to her. So they went back through the
scrub. Billy led them swiftly, making but a short distance, in a
straight line, of the long and tortuous race that the fugitive had led
them. It seemed a very few minutes before they saw the canvas of the
tent shining white through the trees, and heard voices beyond.

Quite suddenly, the black gin stopped. For a moment she held the child
to her so savagely that the little thing cried out in pain. She muttered
over her.

“My li’l pfeller picaninny!” she said. “Mine!” She turned to Norah.

“Mine bin good to her,” she said, thickly. “Baal mine ever beat that
one!” Just for an instant she stood looking at them in dumb agony. Then
she put the child down with a swift gentleness, and, turning, fled into
the gloom of the Bush.




                              CHAPTER XIX


                             THE LAST NIGHT

                 The gray gums by the lonely creek,
                   The star-crowned heights,
                 The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak,
                   The cold white light,
                 The solitude spread near and far
                 Around the camp-fire’s tiny star,
                 The horse bells’ melody remote,
                 The curlew’s melancholy note
                   Across the night.

                                   —_G. Essex Evans._

“WELL, she’s a queer little atom,” said David Linton, surveying the
treasure trove. “Strong and healthy, too, I should say, if one could see
anything for stains and dirt. She’s inconceivably dirty. Has she made
any remarks on the situation?”

“She seems to approve of you, at any rate, Nor.,” said Jim. “What on
earth are you going to do with her?”

“Bath her,” said Norah promptly. “Thank goodness, Mrs. Archdale isn’t
going to see her looking like that!”

“I don’t fancy the poor soul would worry over that point of view,” said
her father. “But bath her, by all means—you’ll certainly require to do
so, as she’ll have to be in your tent all night.”

“A mercy we’ve got the washing-up tin,” remarked Norah, looking with
approval at a half kerosene tin which had formed a somewhat disputed
part of their pack; “and ammonia—I’d never get her clean without it.
Brownie put in a bottle in case of insect stings.”

“You’ll need it all,” Jim said, grimly. “Will she speak, Nor.?”

“She won’t say a word so far,” Norah answered. “I wonder if she has
forgotten how? A baby like that would forget nearly everything in a year
and a quarter, wouldn’t she?”

The child stood in the midst of the group, one hand clinging tightly to
Norah’s finger. She had said nothing since she had been suddenly left
among the strangers. As the black woman rushed away from her she had
made an instinctive movement to follow her, but Billy had been too
quick, his hand falling on her tiny shoulder before she had taken two
steps. At his touch the little thing had given a terrified start, and
then, moved by some hidden instinct, had fled to Norah, whose hands were
held out to her. Since then she had not relinquished her grip on Norah’s
finger. She gazed from one to the other with great, unwinking eyes.

“Perhaps she hasn’t forgotten her name,” Jean suggested. “Try her.”

So Norah knelt down before the ragged little figure.

“Babs!” she said softly. “Babs!”

The baby looked at her. Something like a gleam of recognition came into
her eyes. But beyond that she would give no sign, and at last Norah gave
up the attempt.

“I’d better bath her now,” she said; “her hair must be quite dry before
she goes to sleep. Billy, you boil the billy quick as you can.”

“What on earth are you going to dress her in?” Jim asked. “You can’t put
those rags on her again.”

“I should think not!” his sister answered, eyeing the malodorous tatters
disgustedly. “Jean and I will fix up something.”

“You had better fix it up out of a blanket, then,” her father observed.
“I don’t suppose she has encountered water for fifteen months—and we
don’t want her to take a chill.”

“All right,” said Jean, nodding wisely. “I’ve got an idea, and we have
needles and thread.”

“Then we can leave it to you two,” said Mr. Linton, with relief.

“You can,” said Norah. “Only keep the supply of hot water going!”

They needed all they could get, and the soap was at a low ebb and the
ammonia bottle empty before they made little Babs Archdale clean. At
first she objected strenuously to the process, and her screams rent the
air, and she struggled furiously, so that it took both attendants of the
bath to hold her, and much soap went in her eyes. But once her hair was
washed and tucked up out of her way, she suddenly became good, and
submitted happily to their ministrations, revelling in the warm soapy
water.

They stripped her rags off with gingerly movements, and Jean carried
them on a stick into the scrub. All the child’s skin was stained with
some dark juice and grimed with the dirt of long months; but it yielded
to the scrubbing, and Babs emerged from the final rinsing water a very
different being from the grubby picaninny who had gone in—the white
skin of her shining little body a startling contrast to the deep
sun-brown of her face and arms and legs. Norah rolled her in a towel and
tossed her upon a bunk in the tent, rubbing and patting her gently, in
sheer happiness over the slender, sweet-smelling little form. Out of the
final towelling, Babs sat up, glowing and dimpling. She broke into
sudden, happy laughter.

“Oh, you darling!” Norah said, catching her up. “Jean, isn’t she just
lovely? Babs! Oh, I do want your mother to see you!”

Babs looked at her, opened her mouth, and then closed it.

“Muvver!” she said, quite clearly. “Muvver!” At which Norah and Jean,
unable to contain their emotions, hugged each other very heartily—to
the great delight of Babs, who sat upon the bed like a piebald Cupid and
dimpled into laughter again at this strange pair.

Over the tangled curls both girls worked despairingly, while Babs
submitted with a stoicism that said much for her sojourn as an
aboriginal.

Norah stopped at last, and put down the comb.

“I think we’re a pair of duffers,” she said. “We might work all night at
that mop, and it wouldn’t be right—indeed, I believe most of it will
have to be cut off. But can’t you imagine how Mrs. Archdale will just
love doing it!”

“Well, it’s clean, at any rate,” said Jean philosophically. “And that’s
the main thing.”

It was a quaint little figure that they led out for inspection; and the
boys roared with laughter, to the great disgust of the object of their
mirth, who tucked her damp head into Norah’s neck and refused to face
the audience for some time. Finally she condescended to sit on David
Linton’s knee and inspect his watch—and brought down rounds of
delighted applause by suddenly bending forward and “blowing” in the
time-honoured fashion for the case to be opened.

“Jean, may I employ you as a tailor?” Wally asked, solemnly.

The small person was attired in a fearful and wonderful garment
contrived by Jean out of a soft blanket—coming high round her neck, and
ending in brief trouser legs, from which the bare, brown knees emerged.
Over it she wore a linen coat of Norah’s—the sleeves turned back almost
to the shoulders, and a world too wide for the tiny arms that seemed to
be lost within them. But there was no doubt that Babs was happy and
comfortable, albeit not clad according to the dictates of fashion.

“It’s peculiar, isn’t it?” said Jean, surveying her handiwork. “Most of
it is sewn together on her, and she’ll have to be unpicked for her next
bath. Don’t you think I was clever to manage to get the pink stripes
right down the front?”

“You’re a genius!” Wally said, greatly impressed. “There is, however, a
sterner side to it. Do I not recognize my blanket?”

“You do,” said Jean. “It happened to be the softest. Anyway, you’ve got
another, and it’s going to be a hot night.”

“A fair exchange isn’t any robbery,” said Norah, with striking
originality. “The other part of Babs’ attire is in the scrub, if you’d
care for it!”

“I scorn you both,” said Wally. “It’s an abominable thing to be made a
philanthropist against one’s will!” He fell to tickling Babs’ brown toes
with a stem of grass, to the great delight of the mite.

She was quite friendly with them all by the time tea was ready, when she
displayed an appetite that would, Wally averred, have shamed a
hippopotamus, and ate until she bulged visibly, and Norah had fearful
visions of her exploding. Nothing, apparently, came amiss to her, and
her cheerful desire to eat anything whatever led to harrowing
conjectures as to what could have been her principal diet during her
life in the scrub.

“Kangaroo rat and wallaby, most likely,” Jim remarked; “varied with
fish, in various stages of preservation, and nice succulent tree-grubs!”

“Be quiet, you disgusting creature!” said Wally, in extreme horror. “You
spoil my appetite.” He helped himself to a mammoth slice of cake.

“Looks like it!” Jim grinned. “Well, Babs can’t furnish you with details
of her late guardian’s menu, I suppose; but I wouldn’t mind betting it
didn’t vary much from my ideas.”

“Bless her!” said Norah, fatuously. “We’ll give her everything we’ve got
that’s nice now to make up.” She tempted Babs with a chocolate, and Babs
swiftly fell before the temptation.

“I think you’d better call a halt,” observed Mr. Linton. “That child has
eaten as much as any two of the party—and she’ll be asleep in about a
minute. You ought to put her to bed, Norah—we shall want to make an
early start for Atholton.”

Babs was nearly asleep by the time Norah had tucked her into her bunk.
She clung to her finger still, and drowsily put her face up to be
kissed—a forgotten instinct, coming back as consciousness slipped away.
And all through the night she nestled to her closely, one little hand
clinging to her sleeve. Norah did not sleep much. She did not want to;
it seemed to her that she dare not cease protecting the tiny dreaming
mite for this last night—to keep her safe for the morrow, that meant
such bewilderment of joy for the forlorn hearts in the little cottage by
Atholton. At the thought she thrilled with an eagerness that left her
almost trembling. Even the short few hours seemed long to wait—thinking
of Babs Archdale’s mother.

“But it’s only one more night!” she whispered. “You’ll know soon.” She
smiled in the moonlight, raising herself a trifle to watch the little
face nestling near her.

David Linton slept across the tent doorway this night.

“Just as well,” he said. “I wouldn’t risk to-morrow for the Archdales
for all Billabong!”

And out in the gloom of the scrub, where the moonlight scarcely filtered
through the tracery of boughs to the boulder-strewn ground, a woman
crouched, lonely, in her ruined wurley among the rocks. Sometimes she
muttered angrily; sometimes her wild eyes, fiercely stupid, closed in
sleep, and then her hands moved restlessly, seeking for a little body
that no longer lay against her breast. She was outcast, loathsome, a
pariah; every man’s hand would be against her, and only the wild hills
left to her for refuge. But perhaps the calm stars, that see so many
lonely mothers, looked down pityingly upon this black mother, who had
been lonely, too.




                               CHAPTER XX


                           DOWN THE MOUNTAIN

               Oh, little body, nestled on my heart!

                                          —_M. Forrest._

THEY fixed a saddle-pad for Babs in front of Norah, and she rode proudly
into Atholton. The horses did not make her afraid at all; indeed, she
welcomed them with shouts of glee, appearing a little doubtful as to
whether they were pets or things to eat—but in either case greatly to
be desired. And when she was mounted before Norah, with one hand
clutching a lock of old Warder’s mane and the other holding Norah’s
finger, she had nothing left to wish for. She chuckled at frequent
intervals; any object along the track, from a kookaburra to a lizard,
moved her to little shouts of laughter, though it was painfully certain
that she wished to devour the lizard. “I never saw such a merry baby,”
said Jean.

Gradually words came back to her. At first they caught fragments of
native dialect, chiefly unintelligible; but, with the talk about her,
and the kind voices that spoke to her, English words returned brokenly
to the baby tongue. She answered quite soon to her own name, looking up
whenever she heard “Babs” with a quaint, elfish half smile; and before
breakfast was over she had made a hesitating attempt at “Norah”—finding
the “r” altogether too hard a stumbling block. Her vocabulary was not
large, but she made the most of it. And all the time as they rode down
Ben Athol, Norah taught her one word—leaning forward, holding her
closely, one arm round the quicksilver little body. One word, over and
over again—_Mother, Mother, Mother_.

Norah never could have told much about the way down. It was steep, she
knew, and stony; she was glad old Warder was surefooted, since to him
was left most of the responsibility of the track. There were birds
singing everywhere, in the Bush and in her own heart; there was blue sky
overhead, and a little breeze that just redeemed the day from heat. It
could not have been otherwise than a perfect day. But for Norah there
was no view beyond the mat of black curls against her breast; no thought
beyond the one that surged and sang within her. An old verse beat in her
happy brain—“For this thy brother was dead and is alive again; and was
lost and is found.”

“Contented, my girl?” David Linton asked, riding beside her.

“I’m happy,” Norah answered, and smiled up at the tall man on the great
black horse. “I’m not quite contented yet. But I will be, soon.” Then
Babs developed a determination to ride Monarch, and lurched forward so
suddenly that she only saved her by a spasmodic grip that included some
of Babs, as well as her clothing—to the no small indignation of Babs.

“Don’t be ambitious quite so early, my lass,” said Jim, gravely,
regarding the scarlet and wrathful picaninny with a judicial air. “Time
enough to hitch your waggon to a star when you’re a bit older.” Hearing
which profound reflection, and understanding no syllable of it, but
deciding that she liked the voice in which it was proffered, Babs
promptly transferred her affections to Garryowen, and was with
difficulty restrained from transferring herself as well. Norah evaded
both difficulties by seizing advantage of a tiny stretch of flat ground
and, cantering across it, thereby so entrancing her passenger that she
was never again satisfied with anything so ordinary as a walking
pace—which was unfortunate, as to canter down Ben Athol demanded
four-footed agility usually withheld from all but circus horses. There
was no lack of excitement in riding with Babs Archdale.

They lunched on the lower slopes of the mountain—cutting the spell
short, since Norah’s restlessness to be gone made it impossible for her
to sit still. Then, still in the early afternoon, they saw the roofs of
Atholton below them, half hidden in the timber.

On the flat, just where the hills ended, they shook up their horses and
cantered quickly over the half-mile that lay between them and the
village. Scarcely any one was in sight; Atholton slumbered peacefully,
oblivious of intruders. The storekeeper, shirt-sleeved and with pipe in
mouth, lounged on his verandah, and greeted them jovially as they came
up, Jim and his father in the lead.

“Got back, have you?” he said. “And had a good trip, by the looks of
you!” His eye travelled back to Norah. “Didn’t knock you up, Miss
Linton——” His voice stopped abruptly on a note of amazement. Staring,
he was silent, and his pipe clattered from his mouth to the ground.
“Why!” he gasped. “Good Lord—you’ve got little Babs Archdale!”

“Let us have a frock of some kind for her—quick as you can, Green,”
said David Linton. “Anything will do.”

“I’ll take her in,” said Norah, slipping from the saddle, and carrying
into the shop the extraordinary vision in the suit and blanket. They
emerged in a few moments, the blanket hidden by a brief dress of blue
print; and Babs reluctantly consented to allow the strange man to lift
her up to Norah again. Mr. Green found his tongue, with some difficulty.

“I never heard of such a thing in all me born days!” he said. “Gad! to
think of Mrs. Archdale——” He stared after them, open-mouthed, as they
clattered off, swinging round the bend of the track. The sound of the
cantering hoofs echoed in the still afternoon air as Mr. Green, leaving
his store to its own devices, hurried off to tell the township.

Near the cottage David Linton pulled up.

“There are too many of us,” he said. “You three youngsters found her—go
and give her back!” Jim and he moved into the shade of a big messmate
tree, and the others rode on.

The little white cottage was fresh and inviting, the garden gay with
flowers. The front door stood open; at any moment they looked to see
Mrs. Archdale’s tall figure come out upon the verandah. Suddenly Norah
found she was trembling, and that the cottage wavered mistily before
her.

At the garden gate they got down, and Wally tied up the horses. There
was no sign of any one. But Babs gave them no time to wonder. The gate
was ajar, and she flung herself at it, uttering shrill little squeals of
joy, and raced up the path.

“I say—catch her!” Wally said. “The shock may be too much for Mrs.
Archdale.”

Babs was battering at the steps of the high verandah as Norah caught
her. She wriggled fiercely in her arms.

“Down!” she said. “Want down!”

“Wait a minute, darling!” Norah begged her. “Wally, you go on—find her.
I—I’m going to howl!” She sat down on the step, desperately ashamed of
the sobs that shook her; and Jean, in no better case, patted her back
very hard.

Perhaps Wally was not very sure of himself either. He cleared his throat
as he stood at the door, after knocking, not sorry that no answering
step came at once. Presently he came back to the girls.

“There’s no one about,” he said. “I’ve been round to the kitchen. Wonder
where they are?”

“Let’s come and look,” Norah answered, doubtfully sure of herself once
more. Wally picked up Babs, who wriggled and squeaked on his shoulder, a
quicksilver embodiment of excitement that she could not voice in words,
since words were all too slow. So they went through the silent house.

There was no sign of any one. In the little blue room the bed was dainty
and fresh, with crisp linen, and roses smiled a welcome from the table;
and the fire burned low in the kitchen stove, where a kettle bubbled
busily. But the house was empty. They looked into Mrs. Archdale’s room,
half afraid to find her ill; but she was not there; and Babs went into a
fresh ecstasy of excitement at the vision of her own picture, which
laughed down at her from the wall.

“Babs!” she cried, and pointed a brown forefinger; “Babs!”

“You blessed kid,” said Wally, in perplexity, “I wish you could tell us
where to look for your mother.”

“Muvver!” said the lady addressed. She wriggled ecstatically, and
grasped a handful of Wally’s hair, to his extreme agony. A fresh effort
of memory came to her. “Dad,” she said, half inquiringly, and drummed
her heels upon her bearer’s chest.

At the back of the house the little kitchen garden stretched to the
brush fence. Beyond came a narrow, timbered paddock, and then the deep
green of the scrub—the unbroken curtain that had fallen behind the baby
on Wally’s shoulder more than a year ago. They came out of the back door
and stood looking towards it doubtfully.

Then from the scrub they saw Mrs. Archdale coming slowly. No one might
say what dreadful pilgrimage had led her into its silent heart. She
stumbled as she walked, bent as though her body had given way under the
stress of agony of mind too great to be borne. Even across the shining
grass it was plain that she did not know where she walked—that all that
her eyes could see was the dark maze of the Bush, where a little child
had wandered, and called to her. A fallen log lay across her path, and
she sat down upon it, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh, Wally, go and tell her,” Norah said. “I’m such an idiot—I’m going
to howl again. Let me have Babs—I’ll bring her.” She followed Wally
slowly down the path, with Babs patting her tear-stained cheek gently,
saying, “Poor, poor,” in a little crooning voice.

Mrs. Archdale raised her head as the swift steps came to her across the
grass, and looked at the tall lad for a moment without recognition. Then
she collected herself with an effort that was pitiful in its violence,
and smiled at him.

“Why, you’ve got back!”

Wally nodded, seeking desperately for words. His brown face was flushed
and eager.

“I——” he said, and stopped. “We——. Mrs. Archdale.” Words fled from
him altogether, and he pushed his hat back with a despairing gesture.
“I’ve got something to tell you; and I’m such a fool at telling it.”

“Nothing wrong?” she asked him swiftly. “Not little Norah?”

“No—nothing wrong. Everything’s all right; everything’s perfect!” he
told her. He put out a lean, boyish hand, and gripped hers strongly. “We
saw you—coming away from the scrub.”

“Don’t!” She flushed, miserably.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said poor Wally, his task almost beyond
him. “I only want to say you needn’t ever go there again. She—she isn’t
there, Mrs. Archdale!”

“Are you mad?” The colour died out of her face, and for a moment the
agony of her eyes robbed the boy of speech.

“I mean it,” he said, faltering. “If it was all—all wrong, Mrs.
Archdale? If your little kiddie had never died?” Something choked his
voice; he could only look at her with honest, pitying eyes. But the
mother’s eyes were keen.

“You know something!” she said; “there is something!” Her voice rose to
a wailing cry. “Tell me, for God’s sake!”

Across the grass came a voice that rang shrilly sweet.

“Muvver!”

Babs came running with swift bare feet; behind her, Norah, half afraid,
yet wholly unable to restrain her once the remembered voice had raised
its mother cry. At the sight of the baby form, with outstretched arms,
the mother uttered a low, incredulous sob—a sound so piteous that Wally
turned away sharply, lest he should see her face. Her feet would not
carry her to meet her baby. She fell on her knees on the grass, and Babs
flung herself bodily upon her, soft and sweet, and quivering with love.

There came a clatter of hoofs. Jack Archdale, riding home, had pulled up
to speak to Mr. Linton and Jim; and suddenly he broke from them like a
madman, and, not waiting for gates, put his horse at the log fence of
his paddock, cleared it, and raced to the house. He flung the bridle
over a post, and ran wildly to them—past Jean and Norah, sitting
together on a stump, not able to speak, and speechless himself, to where
his wife crouched over their child; Babs, who stroked her mother’s cheek
gently, crooning in her funny little voice: “Poor—poor!”

Norah felt Wally’s hand upon her shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “I guess we’d better get back to the horses.”




                              CHAPTER XXI


                           BACK TO BILLABONG

        And thro’ the night came all old memories flocking,
        White memories like the snowflakes round me whirled;
        “All’s well!” I said. “The mothers still sit rocking
        The cradles of the world!”

                                          —_W. H. Ogilvie._

“SO you’ll come?” David Linton asked.

“Yes, and glad to.” Jack Archdale pulled at his pipe, which would not
draw. He took it out of his mouth, shook it, and put it back again with
a shrug. It needed a grass stalk to clean the stem; but that is a
performance that demands two hands, and one hand was given over to Babs,
who sat on her mother’s knee on the next step of the verandah,
imprisoning her father’s big finger in her moist little grasp. So the
pipe went out, its owner deriving what comfort he might from holding it
in his mouth.

“I never want to see the place again,” Archdale went on. “I’d have left
it long ago but for the one thing. Now I’d go to-morrow if I could.
Wouldn’t we, Mary?”

Mrs. Archdale nodded. Babs had one forefinger tucked into her neck, and
nothing else mattered very much just then.

“Do you see, Jack?” she asked, smiling at him. “It’s her old trick; she
always put her little finger into my collar. She hasn’t forgotten
anything.” They bent together over the baby form, and forgot the world.

“I’ll have to sell off here,” Archdale said, straightening up,
presently. “That won’t take very long, though. Then whenever you’re
ready for me, sir——?”

“Any time next month,” the squatter answered. “The storekeeper goes on
the first, and I suppose Mrs. Brown will want a few days to have the
cottage put in order for you. She has violent ideas on disinfecting; not
that I’m quite sure what she wants to disinfect, but it seems to make
her happy.”

“But come soon,” Norah said eagerly. “I want to see Babs again before I
go back to school.”

“I guess,” said Jack Archdale,—“I guess what you and Mr. Wally want
about Babs is likely to happen, if ever I can manage it. You’ve got a
sort of mortgage on her now, haven’t they, Mary?” To which Wally, who
was lying full length on the grass with Jim, near the verandah, was
understood to mutter, “Bosh!”

“Maybe it’s bosh; I don’t know,” Archdale said, drawing hard at his cold
pipe. “But that’s the way we look at it. I—we . . . Well, it’s no
darned good tryin’ to say anything.”

“It was only a bit of luck,” Wally mumbled, greatly embarrassed.

“Any one would have found her,” said Norah, incoherently. “We just
happened to.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Archdale said, her cheek against Bab’s black curls.
“I suppose I may be foolish—but it seems to me it was a bit because you
cared so much. It—it seemed to hurt you, just like it did Jack and me.”

“And lots of people would never have noticed that the kid wasn’t really
a picaninny,” Archdale put in. He put his great hand down and took Bab’s
little bare foot in it, looking at it with eyes half misty, half proud.
“Well, thank the Lord, you wasn’t born flat-footed, my kid!” he
said—and Babs chuckled greatly.

She climbed down from her mother’s knee presently, and after falling
over Jim and Wally, and treating each with impartial affection, toddled
off round the corner of the house, on a voyage of discovery. It was
curious to see how little she had forgotten, and what joy she found in
the old familiar places. Archdale watched her go, and with the last
flutter of the scanty blue frock heaved his long form up from the step,
and followed slowly.

“It don’t seem safe to let her get out of one’s sight,” he said as he
went. “I wouldn’t trust that black gin not to be hanging round in the
timber.”

Mrs. Archdale followed them both with her eyes.

“Jack swears he’ll tell the police if old Black Lucy shows up,” she
said. “But I don’t want him to. It wouldn’t do any good—and I’m too
happy now to care. She had lost all her kiddies, poor thing—and, after
all, she took care of my baby.”

“You would have been sorry for her if you’d seen her,” Norah said. “I
know you would.”

“Well, after all, you can’t judge them by our standards,” said the
squatter. “They are only overgrown children, and we haven’t left them so
much that we can blame them altogether for seizing at a chance of
happiness. Probably old Black Lucy’s family owned Billabong, and can’t
quite see why I should hold it now; and certainly she would find it hard
to understand why her babies should all die while other women keep their
children.”

“To be broken-hearted with loneliness—and then to find a little child
wandering alone in the scrub—oh, I don’t know that I blame her,” said
Bab’s mother, wistfully. “You—you’d really think it was sent to you. I
only lost one, and I thought my trouble was greater than I could bear.
And she had lost three!”

“Yes—but you can’t quite look at it that way,” Mr. Linton said. “The
blacks don’t regard a child’s life quite as we do.”

“Don’t they?” Mary Archdale asked, doubtfully. “Perhaps not.” She
pondered over it, and shook her head, at last. “Oh, I don’t believe your
colour makes much difference to you when you’ve lost your baby!” Her
voice broke—just for a moment she was back in the wilderness of pain,
where she had wandered for so many weary months.

Then, round the corner, came her husband, with Babs perched high on his
shoulder—triumphant in her elevation, yet with her tangled black head
nodding sleepily, and the sandman’s dust making her eyelids droop.

“Some one’s sleepy,” Archdale said, smiling at his wife. “Coming,
mother?”

“I’ll put her to bed,” she said, rising and stretching her arms to the
little daughter. Archdale put Babs tenderly upon the grass.

“I guess there’s two of us in that contract,” he said. “Say good-night,
Babs.”

They watched her with quick curiosity to see if the command would be
intelligible. It was long since Babs had said “good-night.” But some
far-off echo was awake in the childish brain, and she obeyed
mechanically; moving from one to the other with drowsy, soft kisses and
drowsier “Dood nights”—until the last was said, and she turned to her
father again and held up little brown arms to him. He picked her up,
with infinite gentleness in his strength. One arm went round his wife’s
shoulders as they disappeared into the silent welcome of the lighted
house.

                         *    *    *    *    *

Outside the slow moon climbed into a starry sky, and for a while no one
spoke. Far off, a bittern boomed in some unseen marsh—the eerie note
that makes loneliness more lonely, and warm companionship the more
comforting, by contrast. Then two mopokes began to call to each other
across a belt of scrub, and a fox barked sharply. The fragrant peace of
the summer night lay gently upon the blossoming garden.

Norah leaned back against her father’s knee, with Jean close at hand. It
was to Jean that Mr. Linton spoke presently. There were many times when,
between him and Norah, speech was not necessary.

“Well, you’re not having anything resembling the holidays I planned for
you, Jean,” he said. “All the same, they have not been without
incident!”

“It’s lovely!” Jean breathed. “Thank goodness, they’re not over yet!”

For to-night they were to sleep in Mrs. Archdale’s little blue room. The
men of the party, scorning the excitements of the hotel, were to camp
near the scrub; already preparations were made, and the white tent
glimmered faintly in the moonlight. To-morrow would begin the ride back
to Billabong.

“I heard from Town to-day,” the squatter observed. A sheaf of letters
had awaited him at Atholton. “They will be able to begin work on the
house next week, so the rebuilding won’t be so long drawn-out an affair
as I feared.”

“That’s a mercy, anyhow,” Jim said, fervently. “I’ll be jolly glad not
to see those blackened walls. Seems to hurt you, somehow. But how does
that affect your plans, Dad?”

“What plans?” Norah asked.

“Well, Jim and I, as the only level-headed members of this irresponsible
party, have been planning,” said her father. “Billabong being unfit for
habitation, and two young ladies, to say nothing of one Queensland
gentleman, on our hands, justly expecting an agreeable vacation——”

“Dad, how beautifully you talk!” said Norah.

“Such wealth of language!” breathed Jim.

“Diogenes revivified! Or was it Demosthenes?” said Wally, uncertainly.

“Diogenes inhabited a tub, if I remember rightly,” said Mr. Linton,
laughing. “As far as I can see, I am likely to be driven to somewhat
similar expedients, until I have a house again. However—not that any of
you deserve my kind explanations, except Jean, who probably wouldn’t
deserve them either but that she’s too shy to voice her thoughts in the
way you do.”

Jean giggled assentingly.

“H’m,” said Mr. Linton, gazing at her severely “I thought so. If ever
there was an unfortunate brow-beaten, burnt-out man, he sits here! Well,
to come to the point—if you’ll all let me—Jim and I came to the
conclusion that we must migrate somewhere for the remainder of the
holidays. We thought of the seaside—Queenscliff or Point Lonsdale, or
possibly the Gippsland Lakes. That was to be a matter for general
consideration. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t adhere, in the main,
to the plan. But since the workmen will be at the station, we’ll have to
choose a spot not far away, as I must be most of my time at home. I can
go backwards and forwards, and Brownie can go with you to keep a
watchful eye on your pranks.”

“H’m!” said Jim thoughtfully. “That’s pretty rotten for you, isn’t it?”

Nobody spoke for a few minutes. Then Wally said.

“What’s the matter with Billabong?”

Jean conquered her shyness with a tremendous effort, sitting up
abruptly.

“If you’re going away for me, Mr. Linton,” she said, speaking very fast,
and plucking grass with great determination of purpose, “please don’t. I
don’t want to be taken anywhere.”

“But, my dear child,” David Linton said, “I can’t have you all in tents.
And there isn’t any house. You didn’t come for your holidays to rough
it.”

“There isn’t any roughing it,” said Norah, quickly. “If Jean and Wally
don’t mind——”

“Mind!” said Wally. “Why, I’ll feel like a motherless foal if you take
me away, and go about bleating!”

“Well, there you are!” said Norah, inelegantly, but very earnestly. “Oh,
Dad—let us all stay! We don’t want to go away. You don’t want us to go,
do you?”

“Why, no; I don’t,” said her father, in perplexity. “As a matter of
fact, I’d far rather be at home; indeed, I couldn’t be away for more
than a very few days at a time. But the whole place will be upset, and I
can’t see much fun for you youngsters in being there. It doesn’t seem
quite fair to you.”

Jim began to laugh.

“It’s uncommonly difficult to plan for people who don’t want to be
planned for, isn’t it, Dad?” he said. “Such a waste of noble effort! I
believe we may as well give it up—they don’t seem to hanker after
fleshpots!”

“Well, are you any better?” asked his father, laughing. “This was to be
your holiday, too. You know you’ve put in a year of fairly hard work on
the place, and I think you’re about due for a spell.”

“Me?” said Jim, in blank amazement. “Why, I haven’t killed myself with
work—at least, I didn’t think so!” He grinned widely. “But I’m glad to
know my valiant efforts impressed you. Anyhow, you needn’t make plans so
far as I’m concerned; the old place is good enough for me, and if the
other chaps don’t want to go away, I’m certain I don’t!”

“You see, Dad,” said Norah, earnestly, “we’ve got the tents—and perhaps
we might put up a bigger one, in case of bad weather, and make a really
ship-shape camp down by the lagoon, and just have our meals at the
cottage. And everything will be so interesting at the house—and we’d
have the horses!”

“It’s really all your own fault, sir,” Wally told him. “You’ve given us
the taste for tent life, and you can’t blame us for becoming nomads.
There’s already something of the Arab sheikh about Jean, and any one
would mistake Jim for a dervish! Fancy shaking down to a boarding house
at Queenscliff after this!” He waved a brown hand towards the dim
outline of scrub, seen faint against the starlit velvet of the sky.

“It would be awful!” said Jean, with such fervour that every one
laughed.

“And we can’t leave you, Dad,” Norah said. “It would spoil everything. I
don’t believe you’d enjoy it, and certainly I wouldn’t call it really
holidays unless we were with you. It seems all wrong to go away—not a
bit like being mates. And we’re always mates.”

David Linton found her hand looking for his in the dusk, and gripped it
tightly.

“Very good mates, I think,” he said. “Well—if you’ve all agreed, I’m
not likely to want to hunt you into exile. Only remember, it will not be
quite like home—tents are a poor substitute.”

“But—it’s Billabong!” said Norah, happily.

                                THE END
                    WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD., LONDON.




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.