1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
|
<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Norah of Billabong by Mary Grant Bruce</title>
<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg"/>
<meta name="cover" content="images/cover.jpg" />
<meta name="DC.Title" content="Norah of Billabong"/>
<meta name="DC.Creator" content="Mary Grant Bruce"/>
<meta name="DC.Illustrator" content="John Macfarlane"/>
<meta name="DC.Language" content="en"/>
<meta name="DC.Created" content="1913"/>
<meta name="DC.Subject" content="General Fiction"/>
<meta name="DC.date.issued" content="1913"/>
<meta name="Tags" content="fiction, juvenile, Australia"/>
<meta name="DC.Publisher" content="Project Gutenberg"/>
<meta name="generator" content="fpgen 4.59"/>
<meta name="Series" content="Billabong [3]"/>
<style type="text/css">
body { margin-left:8%;margin-right:10%; }
.it { font-style:italic; }
.bold { font-weight:bold; }
.sc { font-variant:small-caps; }
.gesp { letter-spacing:0.2em; }
p { text-indent:0; margin-top:0.5em; margin-bottom:0.5em;
text-align: justify; }
div.lgc { }
div.lgl { }
div.lgc p { text-align:center; text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; }
div.lgl p { text-indent: -17px; margin-left:17px; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; }
div.lgp {
display:inline-block;
text-align: left;
}
div.lgp p {
text-align:left;
margin-top:0;
margin-bottom:0;
}
.poetry-container {
text-align:center;
}
h1 {
text-align:center;
font-weight:normal;
page-break-before: always;
font-size:1.2em; margin:2em auto 1em auto
}
h3 {
text-align:center;
font-weight:normal;
font-size:1.0em;
margin:1em auto 0.5em auto;
page-break-after:avoid;
}
.dropcap {
float:left;
clear: left;
margin:0 0.1em 0 0;
padding:0;
line-height: 1.0em;
font-size: 200%;
}
hr.pbk { border:none; border-bottom:1px solid silver; width:100%; margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:2em }
.figcenter {
text-align:center;
margin:1em auto;
page-break-inside: avoid;
}
div.blockquote100percent { margin:1em auto; width:100%; }
div.blockquote100percent p { text-align:left; }
p.caption { text-align:center; margin:0 auto; width:100%; }
.nobreak { page-break-before: avoid; }
p.line { text-indent:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; }
div.lgp p.line0 { text-indent:-3em; margin:0 auto 0 3em; }
table { page-break-inside: avoid; }
table.center { margin:0.5em auto; border-collapse: collapse; padding:3px; }
table.flushleft { margin:0.5em 0em; border-collapse: collapse; padding:3px; }
table.left { margin:0.5em 1.2em; border-collapse: collapse; padding:3px; }
.tab1c1 { }
.tab1c2 { }
.tdStyle0 {
padding: 2px 5px; text-align:right; vertical-align:top;
}
.tdStyle1 {
padding: 2px 5px; text-align:left; vertical-align:top;padding-left:29px; text-indent:-24px;
}
.pindent { margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:1.5em; }
.noindent { margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; text-indent:0; }
.hang { padding-left:1.5em; text-indent:-1.5em; }
</style>
<style type="text/css">
h1 { font-size:1.2em; text-align:center; }
h3 { font-size:.9em; text-align:center; line-height:150%; }
.poetry-container { font-size:.9em;
margin-top:.5em; margin-bottom:.5em;
margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; }
.literal-container { margin-top:.5em; margin-bottom:.5em }
.dropcap {font-size: 225%; margin:-0.1em 0.0em 0 0;}
.caption {font-size: smaller; max-width:90%; }
div.lgc { margin-top:.5em; margin-bottom:.5em }
p { margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; }
div.blockquote { margin-top:.5em; margin-bottom:.5em; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60446 ***</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0000' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-top:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>Stories by</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.8em;'>MARY GRANT BRUCE</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-style:italic;'>Large Crown 8vo. Fully Illustrated. Cloth Gilt.</p>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>POSSUM</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'><span class='sc'>Mrs. Bruce</span> 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.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>JIM AND WALLY</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“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.”—<span class='it'>Melbourne Argus.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>A LITTLE BUSH MAID</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian
readers.”—<span class='it'>Perth Western Mail.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>MATES AT BILLABONG</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and mishaps,
are admirably sketched in this vivid narrative.”—<span class='it'>Adelaide
Register.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian
bush, its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely various
natural life.”—<span class='it'>Daily Telegraph.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>GLEN EYRE</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“An admirable story, exquisitely told, full of gentle pathos, and
ringing true all through.”—<span class='it'>The Sportsman.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>NORAH OF BILLABONG</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which
makes instant appeal.”—<span class='it'>Manchester Courier.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>GRAY’S HOLLOW</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic
delineation of unsophisticated nature.”—<span class='it'>The Scotsman.</span></span></p>
</div>
<p class='line0' style='text-align:center;font-size:1.2em;'>FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON</p>
<div class='blockquote100percent'>
<p class='pindent'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“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.”—<span class='it'>The Melbourne
Argus.</span></span></p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:1em;font-size:2em;'>NORAH</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:2em;'>OF BILLABONG</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-bottom:.2em;font-size:.8em;'>By</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:1.2em;'>MARY GRANT BRUCE</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>Author of “A Little Bush Maid,” “Mates at Billabong,”</p>
<p class='line0' style='font-size:.8em;'>“Glen Eyre,” “Timothy in Bushland,” etc.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:4em;font-size:.8em;'>ILLUSTRATED BY J. MACFARLANE</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line0'><span class='gesp'>WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED</span></p>
<p class='line0' style='margin-top:.2em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:.8em;'>LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='poetry-container' style='margin-top:2em;'>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>   To All the Kind People</p>
<p class='line0'>     —Little and Big—</p>
<p class='line0'>Who asked me for “More Norah.”</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                      M. G. B.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.2em;'>CONTENTS</p>
<table id='tab1' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 2.5em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 17.5em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>I</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch1'><span class='sc'>Breaking Up</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>II</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch2'><span class='sc'>Night in the City</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>III</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch3'><span class='sc'>The Cry of the Children</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>IV</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch4'><span class='sc'>Going Home</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>V</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch5'><span class='sc'>Wally</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VI</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch6'><span class='sc'>The Cunjee Concert</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch7'><span class='sc'>Morning</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>VIII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch8'><span class='sc'>Noon</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>IX</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch9'><span class='sc'>A Little Yellow Flame</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>X</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch10'><span class='sc'>Midnight</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XI</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch11'><span class='sc'>The Battle under the Stars</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch12'><span class='sc'>Burnt Out</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch13'><span class='sc'>Ben Athol</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIV</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch14'><span class='sc'>On the Track</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XV</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch15'><span class='sc'>The House by Atholton</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVI</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch16'><span class='sc'>Beyond the Plains</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch17'><span class='sc'>The Peak of Ben Athol</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XVIII</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch18'><span class='sc'>The Wurley in the Rocks</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XIX</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch19'><span class='sc'>The Last Night</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XX</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch20'><span class='sc'>Down the Mountain</span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'>XXI</td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle1'><a href='#ch21'><span class='sc'>Back to Billabong</span></a></td></tr>
</table>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;font-size:1.3em;'>NORAH OF BILLABONG</p>
<div><h1 class='nobreak' id='ch1'>CHAPTER I</h1></div>
<h3>BREAKING UP</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When Sheelah in the morning</p>
<p class='line0'>  Comes down the way,</p>
<p class='line0'>It needs no more adorning</p>
<p class='line0'>  To make it gay.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                 —<span class='it'>Victor J. Daley.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>A</span> 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s some, one’s brother,” said a red-haired
damsel, surveying the stranger across a bush of New
Zealand flax. “Yours, Laura?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wally!” said Norah, breathlessly. “Oh,
you old brick!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally Meadows laughed outright.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indeed, I’m not,” Norah answered. “And no
more are they!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So am I,” said Wally, heartily—“to see you,
I mean. You’ve grown immense, too, Norah.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Across the introduction came a cold voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your brother, I presume, Norah?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Both girls jumped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah was scarlet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will, Miss Winter—I truly will,” said the
criminal. “I’ll behave beautifully—see if I
don’t!——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Daddy—Daddy!” said Norah. “Oh, Jim!
Oh-h!” Words failed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Proud to know you, ma’am,” said Wally, humbly.
“Norah, I was nearly asleep until you came on to
play!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And quite asleep afterwards,” grinned Jim.
“Snored, Norah—I give you my word!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Must we change?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, Miss Winter. Merry Christmas!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, Carrots, dear!” This to the red-haired
singer, who accepted the greeting and the
appellation cheerfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, young Norah. Behave yourself, if
you can. But you can’t!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, Jean!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, every one. Mind you all come back!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Merry Christmas!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good-bye, school!” The note of utter thankfulness
in Norah’s voice brought a twinkle to Jim’s
eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you all right?” queried Mr. Linton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I never was so all right in my life!” said Norah,
fervently. The car slid away into the dusty haze of
the white road.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch2'>CHAPTER II</h1></div>
<h3>NIGHT IN THE CITY</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, the world is wondrous fair</p>
<p class='line0'>  When the tide of life’s at flood!</p>
<p class='line0'>There is music in the air,</p>
<p class='line0'>  There is music in the blood.</p>
<p class='line0'>And a glamour draws us on,</p>
<p class='line0'>  To the distance, rainbow-spanned.</p>
<p class='line0'>And the road we tread upon</p>
<p class='line0'>  Is the track to Fairyland.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                         —<span class='it'>V. J. Daley.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>J</span>EAN, can you button me up?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks,” said Norah, shaking out her skirt.
“Is my hair decent?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it’s all right. Curly-haired people like you
always look right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wish I thought so,” said the owner of the curls.
“Dreadful mop, I think. Will I do, Jean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do?” said Jean, in some bewilderment. “Why,
of course—you look all right. Why are you worrying?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah reddened slightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And do you think you are?” queried Jean,
anxiously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I believe that’s how your father’ll like
you,” said Jean, sapiently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And——” Norah flushed more redly, and paused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean nodded comprehendingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Of course I won’t,” said her friend. “Hurry
up—it’s nearly dinner time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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:—</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“So we went strolling, down by the rolling—</p>
<p class='line0'>    Down by the rolling sea!”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“May I come in, Daddy?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You look beautiful,” said his daughter, fervently.
“Daddy, will I do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do? I should say so. That white thing looks
very fine as far as I’m a judge.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then that’s all right. And, Dad——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, my girl?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton looked at her and smiled with something
like relief. He sat down and drew her towards
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Daddy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Long—to you, Daddy?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One of the longest I remember. You see, I
never bargained for your spending midwinter having
measles.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A new inmate?” Norah echoed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim had come in, unnoticed. He grinned down
at her from the hearthrug.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you, indeed?” said Norah, with some heat,
yet laughing. “You’re going to lend me Garryowen—you
said so!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Two red spots suddenly flamed into Norah’s face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dad! You don’t mean——” She stopped,
looking at him uncertainly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the corridor Wally’s voice came, gently
consolatory.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come in, Wally, you ass!” said Jim, laughing.
“He may come in, Dad——?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Apparently he’s in,” said Mr. Linton, resignedly,
getting up. “Come on, Wally—and Jean, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For most things,” said the squatter, laughing!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“——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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are we going to the pantomime, Dad?” Norah’s
eyes were dancing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah gasped at it all. It was her first experience
of the City by night, and she found it rather bewildering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Does Melbourne ever stop being busy?” she
uttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not often,” he said—“and not for long. Personally,
I prefer old Billabong. But this is all very
well for a little while.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it all over, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not much!” said Mr. Linton. “This is half-time.
What do you think of it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh—it’s lovely!” breathed his daughter.
“Isn’t it, Jean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should just think so!” Jean said. “Will there
be more like it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Very much the same, I expect,” said the
squatter, laughing. “And what do you think of
this part of the house?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Won’t do,” grinned Jim, watching her dancing
eyes. “She’s getting too excited, Dad—we’d better
take her home to bed!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’d like to see you!” said Norah, belligerently.
“Oh, my goodness, Jean, it’s going up again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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?</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I expect so,” Jim answered. “Bless you, old
girl, I suppose they pay the kid!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For all you know, old chap, it likes the game,”
Jim said, practically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then, suddenly the curtain; and Norah came out
of her trance, blinking a little.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that the end?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sure you’re not over-tired, Norah?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not me!” said Norah, absent-mindedly and
inelegantly. “I’m all right, Daddy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then you’re half in the theatre yet,” said he,
laughing. “Go to bed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah went, obediently. Just as Jean was falling
asleep, a voice came from the bed across the room—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-24.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0001' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate.”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch3'>CHAPTER III</h1></div>
<h3>THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Yet long ago it was promised by Someone,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Who lovingly help for the children implored,</p>
<p class='line0'>That if only you gave one a cup of cold water,</p>
<p class='line0'>  You surely in no wise should lose your reward!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                 —<span class='it'>John Sandes.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>’VE an idea,” Mr. Linton said, putting down
his morning paper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We—ell,” said the squatter, and hesitated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You have lovely ideas, always, Dad,” Norah
told him, kindly. “Tell us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know that you’ll regard this one as
lovely,” said her father. “Still, I’d like to do it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, then, it’ll be done,” said Jim, with finality.
“What is it, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you keep up this mystery any longer, I won’t
be able to bear it, Mr. Linton,” said Wally, much
moved. “Prithee, sir——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton smiled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Wally smiled broadly, leaning forward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think it’s a ripping idea, sir,” he said. “I guess
we all like kids, don’t we, chaps?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The “chaps,” who evidently included the ladies
of the party, assented with enthusiasm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell us more, Dad,” Norah said, “I know you’ve
more plan.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I think it will be tremendous fun, won’t
it, Jean?” Norah said. To which Jean nodded
vigorous acquiescence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s half the fun,” said Norah, happily.
“Isn’t it, Jean?” And Jean nodded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Three minutes, Dad!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No sweets, of course?” she queried, glancing
at their parcels.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No; we were afraid to bring them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Matron nodded approval.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor souls!” said Mr. Linton. “I suppose they
are keen to bring them something of a treat.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor kid!” said Jim, sympathetically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And did they hurt him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what did the mother say?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She welcomed the newcomers cheerily now,
though her eyes were a little tired. Behind her the
faces were alight with silent eagerness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can we talk to them?” Norah asked, shyly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, of course!” said the nurse. “You’ll find
most of them great chatterboxes—except little
Tommy there. His pain is bad to-day.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boys were quite ready to talk. They told all
about themselves glibly, with a full appreciating of
their value as “cases.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boy in the next cot was listening with all his
ears. Tommy’s low crying had stopped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was you much hurt?” The boy in the next
cot shot out an irrepressible question.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The question was for the now visible Tommy, but
Jim did not wait for an answer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He shifted his position, still fingering the watch.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A small finger advanced about an inch, and the
watch came nearer until it was within touching
distance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mine?” said an infinitesimal voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s the first time that poor little chap has
laughed,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim stood up, at last, and held out his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They’re waiting for me,” he said. “Well, so
long, old chap. Buck up!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Tommy shook the big hand solemnly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So long,” he said. He made a great effort to
speak. “Is—is you’ leg quite well?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Quite well, old man. So will yours be if you
keep your pecker up. Promise!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was Wally’s voice that guided Jim to the next
ward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How many?” asked Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Four. The youngest’s not a year old yet, an’
he’s a reg’lar handful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you can’t look after them!” Jean protested.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The child stared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor little soul!” she said, sadly. “She does
not know that she will never go out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not go out?” Norah stared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But back in the hospital the tongues wagged
freely. It would be very long before the Billabong
visit was forgotten.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Weren’t they jolly—just!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Didn’t they speak nice!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That long feller with the thin face—wasn’t he a
hard case?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They left brightness wherever they went,” said
little “Brown Eyes”—who was not usually poetical.
“I’m not even tired to-night!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch4'>CHAPTER IV</h1></div>
<h3>GOING HOME</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A land of open spaces,</p>
<p class='line0'>  Gaunt forest, treeless plain;</p>
<p class='line0'>And if we once have loved it.</p>
<p class='line0'>  We must go back again.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>              —<span class='it'>Dorothea Mackellar.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>E haven’t too much time,” said Mr. Linton,
looking at his watch.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I remember,” said Wally, dreamily, “many a
time——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In your long-dead youth?” asked Jim.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In the early Forties, he means,” put in Mr.
Linton. “Don’t disturb his eloquence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My inborn respect for your father prevents my
saying what I would like to both of you,” said the
victim. “Anyhow, I remember——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Full well,” said Norah, with emotion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, get out, you Linton tribe!” ejaculated the
harassed one. “I’m talking to Jean.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why?” queried Jean, unexpectedly. Mirth
ensued at the expense of Wally.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind, Wally, old man,” said his host.
“Mention what you remember.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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 <span class='it'>Bombala</span>.
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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No wonder you loved her,” said Jean, fervently.
She shuddered, with painful recollections of the
voyage from New Zealand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never,” said Norah, fervently. “Is it always
like this?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Finished,” said Norah, with brief thankfulness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s over there—you can get glimpses of her
hat,” Norah said. “At the haberdashery place.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean came, very red and indignant, with a knitted
brow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What a place to be out of!” he ejaculated.
“And some people go shopping for fun! Where’s
Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, thank goodness!” said her father. “Come
along—here’s the car. Now, there’s a poor soul!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor little wretch,” he said. “Can’t we buy him
out, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What—all of them, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes—all of them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He followed her across the footpath. The hunchback
looked up at the grave little face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Balloons?” he said, half sullenly. “How
many—two?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want them all,” Norah told him, smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not—the whole lot!” A dull red came into the
boy’s white face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, we do. My father says so.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He stared at her, bewildered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, indeed I’m not—truly,” Norah said, pitifully.
“We’re going to buy you out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boy began to unfasten the string with uncertain
fingers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, I want them,” Norah answered—“if you’re
sure you can spare them all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No—I say!” he said. “That’s too much, sir.
Can’t you get change?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, thanks,” Mr. Linton said, with a smile.
“Good-bye, my lad. Come on, Norah.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Happy Christmas!” she said. She put a shilling
into his hand—and fled. The car glided off into
the jumble of traffic.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Said ‘Happy Chris’mas!’ she did,” he muttered.
“I don’t believe she never even saw me
back!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Murty, I’m so glad to be back!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Indeed I haven’t,” said Norah indignantly.
“I’m just the same. Isn’t it true, Jim?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s worse, Murty,” said her brother, laughing.
“No signs of improvement. She’s lost all respect
for me. It’s very trying.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton sighed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s very exciting—getting home,” Norah said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-58.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0002' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“ ‘You ain’t havin’ a loan of me, I s’pose?’ ”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch5'>CHAPTER V</h1></div>
<h3>WALLY</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>But when the world went wild with Spring</p>
<p class='line0'>What days we had! Do you forget?</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                          —<span class='it'>V. J. Daley.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>B</span>EFORE 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t think of turning you out, old chap,”
Jim answered grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you go far with them, Jim?” Norah asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally sighed heavily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“M-f!” said Norah, with much scorn in the terse
remark. “In the circumstances, Brownie, does he
deserve a cool drink?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bless you, Brownie, you’re my best friend,” said
Jim. “You needn’t bring any for the others—they
haven’t earned it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You didn’t lose much time, young Wally!” said
Jim, approvingly. “Fancy that brute getting up
here! Lucky you spotted him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’M,” said Wally. Something in his tone made
Norah swing round sharply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wally! He didn’t bite you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He did then,” said Wally. Something of the
colour had died out of his tanned face, but his voice
was steady.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Old man!” said Jim. Then he shut his lips
tightly, and dived into his pocket for his knife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally took the verandah steps in one stride, and
was beside him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll do the chopping,” he said. “Lend me that,
old chap. Is it sharp?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim nodded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Would you rather do it, old man?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally nodded, without speaking. There were two
punctures plainly visible on the lean hand he steadied
on the verandah rail.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Get out, you old idiot! I’ll suck my own
blessed hand!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Here are the crystals, Jim!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boy caught at the little bottle. Then he saw
Brownie’s distressed face, and gave them to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You get ’em ready,” he said, briefly. “I’ll go
on sucking for a moment. Hurry the men, Norah!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m giving you plenty of trouble, Murty,” he
said. “Silly ass, to go patting a snake at my time
of life!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Begob, it might happen to the owldest of us,”
said Murty, consolingly. “Ye have that bandage
tied tight, Mr. Jim?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I guess so,” said Wally. Then Jim came
plunging out, Norah and Jean at his heels.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You shut up,” returned Jim, gruffly. “Things
aren’t going wrong—we’ve got you in loads of time.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hard lines on the fly!” said Wally. “See—there’s
your father!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will I pull up, Mr. Jim?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just for a moment,” Jim said, hesitating. “Dad
won’t want much of an explanation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s wrong?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Snake,” he said. “He got Wally on the hand.
We’re off to Dr. Anderson.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve done all you can, of course?” Mr. Linton
asked quickly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes—everything. Haven’t lost any time,
either.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Two Thermos flasks of strong black coffee,”
Norah said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jove, old Monarch can travel!” said Wally,
approvingly. A jolt shook his swollen hand, and
his lips tightened again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim flung down his cards at last, his voice shaking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I can’t stand this,” he said. “Hang that
man! Will he ever come? Let’s walk up and
down, Wal., old man.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Within the surgery Wally had faced the little
doctor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Very long after—so it seemed to Norah and Jean—a
quick step came down the path behind them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So does Billabong,” said David Linton’s voice,
not quite steady. “We can’t spare him to any one,
can we, Norah?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-68.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0003' style='width:90%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“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.”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch6'>CHAPTER VI</h1></div>
<h3>THE CUNJEE CONCERT</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And stirrup to stirrup we’ll sing as we ride,</p>
<p class='line0'>To the lights of the township that glimmer and guide.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                  —<span class='it'>W. H. Ogilvie.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>HEY should be home, Murty,” said David
Linton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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’.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Miss Norah’ll never love a pony like she loved
Bobs,” Brownie said, belligerently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I wish they were all home, that’s all,” said
Brownie. “It mightn’t be Miss Norah—there’s
Miss Jean, too.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, I heard you say Nan could shy!” retorted
Brownie, whose soul refused to be led in ways
of comfort.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Anderson greeted the invasion enthusiastically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is there a concert?” Norah asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Afraid we can’t, thanks very much, Mrs. Anderson,”
Jim told her. “We didn’t say we’d be away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What do you think, Nor.?” Jim asked his
sister.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He wouldn’t mind if he knew,” Jim said, doubtfully.
“Still——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that you, Jim?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Under his breath Jim uttered a low whistle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Great Scott! It’s Dad!” he said. He raised
his voice. “Right-oh, Dad! Is anything wrong?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s nothing wrong at home,” said David
Linton, wheeling Monarch beside Garryowen. “What
has kept you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Went to a concert,” said Jim, briefly, feeling
suddenly very small and young.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We never thought you’d be anxious, Dad!”
Norah said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not anxious!” said her father, explosively.
Then he shot a glance at Jean and Wally, uncomfortably
silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sorry,” he said curtly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was my fault, just as much, Dad,” Norah
began. But her father stopped her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it all right, ye are, all of ye?” asked Murty
in a hoarse whisper.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some one else out hunting the lost sheep?”
Wally asked. “Yes, we’re all right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the harness room, while Wally took off bridles
outside, Jim’s eyes met his father’s. Both had been
thinking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sorry we made you anxious,” said the boy,
stiffly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Later, when supper had been discussed cheerfully,
and the household had scattered, David Linton
smoked a last pipe on the balcony, thinking.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A slender figure in blue pyjamas came softly to
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dad—I’m sorry!” said Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Right, mate!” said her father. He saw the
quick lift of her head, but she hesitated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton laughed, kissing her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And Jim’s all right,” he said. “Off to bed with
you!”</p>
<div><h1 id='ch7'>CHAPTER VII</h1></div>
<h3>MORNING</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>That loving Laughing Land, where life is fresh and clean,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where the rivers flow all summer, and the grass is always green.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                          —<span class='it'>Henry Lawson.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>N</span>ORAH!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim, in his shirt sleeves, his face obscured by
lather, looked out, razor in hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t go over to the stable just now, if that’s
where you two are going,” said he.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Right-oh, Jimmy. For how long?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is anything wrong?” Norah asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girls laughed unfeelingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s so funny when he shaves, isn’t he?” said his
sister. “Jean, it’s an ill wind that blows nowhere!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why?” asked Jean.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never did,” said Wally, swinging his long form
to earth. “ ’Twas Jim you heard.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jim never snores!” said Jim’s sister.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did you sack him, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe Murty would have fought him,”
Norah said, indignantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, am I?” said that gentleman, with interest,
looking out. “What have I done to the noble
Harvey?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’m glad you’ve sent him away, Dad,”
Norah said. “I always thought he had a horrid face.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t know why we ever put him on,” said Jim,
through the window.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean nodded vigorously. It was clear that the
prospect afforded her undiluted joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s right. And Wally?” Wally grinned,
disdaining further answer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then,” said Mr. Linton, “as I presume I can
count on Jim and Norah——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Better not slide too suddenly, old man!” he
said, pleasantly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” he said, and paused, apparently seeking
for inspiration. “Beast!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim sat down in a leisurely fashion on the grass
and nursed his unshod foot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Brute!” said Wally, with fervour.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will not,” said the victim, firmly. “Not if I
stay here for a week!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The barbed wire will last longer than that,” said
Jim, grinning. “Does it strike you, Dad, that the
climbing novelty looks dry?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never!” said the captive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah gave a fresh burst of laughter. “Oh,
Jimmy, you won’t!” she cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My hat, Jimmy, when I get within reach of
you——,” said Wally, laughing. “Put that down,
you fiend, and fight fair!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bless you, I’m not fighting,” said Jim blandly.
“I’m watering the garden!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, you’re Daddy’s useful little son, I know,”
returned Mr. Meadows. “I’ll deal with you when I
get down!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Meadows capitulated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally joined them in the breakfast-room, somewhat
dishevelled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim slipped in unobtrusively, wearing an air of
bland composure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll take lunch out, I suppose, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim glanced up inquiringly. It was an unusual
command.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re not going to send him in to the township
then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, yes; I said he could get some from the
kitchen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Brown came in, favouring the company
impartially with her wide and beaming smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Will you be boilin’ the billy, sir?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be it thine to command,” said Wally, with
meekness. “Mine to obey—when I’m ready.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Better make it convenient to be ready quickly,”
warned Jim. “Otherwise——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-96.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0004' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“ ‘Bless you, I’m not fighting—I’m watering the garden!’ ”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch8'>CHAPTER VIII</h1></div>
<h3>NOON</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Ah, . . . I remember</p>
<p class='line0'>The muster of cattle away outback,</p>
<p class='line0'>The thunder of hoofs and the stock-whip’s crack,</p>
<p class='line0'>The panting breaths on the warm sweet breeze,</p>
<p class='line0'>The tossing horns by Rosella trees,</p>
<p class='line0'>And the whirl of dust, and the hot hide’s reek!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                            —<span class='it'>M. Forrest.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>A</span>LL aboard!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you girls ready? Hurry up.”
From the direction of the garden came a faint hail,
which might have been taken to mean anything.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well—a little,” Wally answered. “But she’s
up to all sorts of larks yet, thank goodness.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pretty rough on her,” Wally agreed. “She’ll
be growing up next, I suppose—worse luck.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I wish they’d hurry up, anyhow,” he said.
“Wonder what’s keeping them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, of all the idiots,” said Jim, ungallantly.
“How did you get there?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton came hurriedly over from the house.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are always excitements in being out of
reach of shops,” Jim said. “I hope it’s not the
hose I used this morning?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mind him, my girl,” her father cautioned.
“Don’t let him get his head down; he’s quite happy
enough to buck this morning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jolly for the bullocks—to say nothing of Harvey,”
he said, laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I expect you would,” Jim agreed. “Well, I
don’t believe there’s a hoof left in this paddock, anyhow,
Dad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A white blur in a deep gully caught Jean’s eye as
they rode, and she called to Mr. Linton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is that a bullock lying down?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton nodded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A week!” Jim whistled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And Harvey’s been out here every day,” uttered
Jim.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think Mr. Harvey ever did much riding
round,” Jim said. “Going to sleep under a log is
more his form.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can see the condition simply evaporating
from them,” he declared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Lucky brutes,” he uttered, “wish I could follow
their example.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hard to know which has most call on a fellow’s
time,” Jim muttered grimly as he galloped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shoo! Shoo!” cried Jean, wildly. “Get along!
Oh, I wish I was a man, or a dog, or a stock-whip!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I hope Norah saw!” she uttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then, from some unseen part of the paddock she
saw a riderless horse top a ridge and race towards
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good girl, Jean!” he sang out. “I’ll catch
him.” And Jean swelled with joy at the carelessly
given word of praise.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Warder stood quietly enough while Jim came
gently on Garryowen, speaking soothing words
until he was near enough to grasp his rein.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thought I’d have a lovely chase after him,”
Jim said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is Wally hurt? Warder didn’t buck with him,
did he?” Jean asked anxiously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not he—Warder’s no buckjumper,” returned
Jim. “No—the silly old mule—it was all his fault!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whose—Wally’s?” Jean asked, as he paused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bless you, Jimmy! Much trouble?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t bless me,” Jim said. “Jean had him
nearly caught.” At which Jean flushed with
embarrassment and pride, and said something entirely
incoherent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come along, you lazy rubbish! I say!” said
Jim, in sudden alarm, “you’re not hurt, really, are
you, old man?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Eh, but I’m thirsty,” said Wally, slipping
Warder’s bridle over a post and turning to take
Bosun. “Norah, you look jolly tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And you’re sure you’re not too heavy for Bosun?”
said Bosun’s owner, doubtfully, looking at Jim’s
long figure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on, you sleepy-heads!” he said, smiling at
them. “Time to get busy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’m so hideously hot!” Norah grumbled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Or hotly hideous?” called out Jim, who looked
provokingly cool.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Both, I think. All the same, that was a nice
sleep. Don’t you feel better, Jean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll have one to-night, in the lagoon,” Norah
told her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Near the slip-rails Mr. Linton turned to Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right, Daddy,” said Norah, happily. “And
bring them along into this paddock?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, it will save time. You’ll find they’ll be only
too ready to come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well done!” said Mr. Linton, with approval.
“Did they give you any bother?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not a bit, Dad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s right. But I’m afraid it’s going to be too
dark for that bathe, Jean.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can’t be helped,” said that lady, philosophically.
“There are tubs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And there’s tea!” said Wally, thankfully. “I
don’t know which I want more at this moment.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do, then,” said Norah, surveying him with
critical eyes. “There isn’t a doubt!”</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men</p>
<p class='line0'>May read strange matters,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'>quoted Mr. Linton, smiling. “Not fair to jibe at you,
Wally, old man, when you earned your stripes in a
good cause.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally put his hand up to his face, where little runners
of perspiration had made streaks in the grimy surface.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch9'>CHAPTER IX</h1></div>
<h3>A LITTLE YELLOW FLAME</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>There’s rest and peace and plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;</p>
<p class='line0'>The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;</p>
<p class='line0'>The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me—</p>
<p class='line0'>But, please the Lord, on Monday morn I’m leaving Arcady.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                   —<span class='it'>Victor J. Daley.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>A</span>S 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought you’d gone,
Harvey.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wasn’t any ’urry,” said Harvey, a short, weedy
individual with a crafty face. “Boss said I could ’ave
some tucker.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He thought you was goin’ to get it hours ago,”
said Brownie. “What have you been doin’, hangin’
about like this?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Brownie stared at the insolent face much as she
might have regarded some weird curiosity among the
lower animals.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That pup!” muttered Harvey, malevolently;
“why, ’e’s only a kid; I guess I could manage him
pretty easy if I wanted to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harvey’s answering snarl might have signified
anything unpleasant. Brownie regarded him reflectively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.)</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Aw, don’t go preachin’,” Harvey muttered.
“There ain’t no chance for a poor beggar of a workin’
bloke in this country——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Can’t I stop an’ have dinner?” he whined.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Brownie hesitated.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Milk be darned!” said Harvey, savagely. “I’ll
let the districk know you turned me out without a
meal!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harvey’s snarl was not a pleasant addition to an
unpleasant countenance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mark my words, I’ll——” he began.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Harvey, however, did not go far.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Blessed if I start in this darned heat!” he
uttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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?</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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<span class='it'>s.</span> 11<span class='it'>d.</span> 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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?</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why not?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I guess that’ll about fix you, Mr. David Linton!”
he muttered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch10'>CHAPTER X</h1></div>
<h3>MIDNIGHT</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>When the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek courses,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And revels with harsh, hot sand,</p>
<p class='line0'>I loose the horses, the wild red horses,</p>
<p class='line0'>I loose the horses, the mad red horses,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And terror is on the land!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                               —<span class='it'>Marie E. J. Pitt.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>D</span>USK 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Just now he was hunting snails—his dour face
occasionally revealed in an almost startling manner
by gleams from the tiny lantern he carried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Watter will always bring them,” he remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Eh?” asked Brownie, sharply.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ay. The place was free a week back—an’ noo
they’re crawlin’ all through it—rapacious beasts!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What on earth are you saying, man?” demanded
Brownie, bristling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The riders trotted into the stable yard, tired, but
cheerful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And don’t Nan and Warder?” protested Jean.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nan’s a dear!” said Jean, indignantly. She
caressed the brown mare’s long nose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll slip over after tea and feed them,” Jim said.
“They’re a bit hot now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s Hogg, snail hunting,” Jim answered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This isn’t work, it’s sport!” grinned Jim.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>* * * * *</p>
<p class='pindent'>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. <span class='it'>And the snails were screaming.</span></p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Jean sleepily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Across the garden came a shout—Jim’s voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I’ll have to leave him!” Norah sobbed.
“The fire’s coming through the roof. Oh, Garry, dear,
do come out!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Norah’s gone over!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim got to his feet and moved over to the fence, his
shoulders shaking as he gripped the pickets.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I thought she was dead,” he said; “I was jolly
well sure she was dead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Steady, old chap,” said David Linton, “she’s all
right. Get to the hose in the garden quickly, Jim.
The house has caught.”</p>
<div><h1 id='ch11'>CHAPTER XI</h1></div>
<h3>THE BATTLE UNDER THE STARS</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>This is the homestead—the still lagoon</p>
<p class='line0'>  Kisses the foot of the garden fence,</p>
<p class='line0'>Shimmering under a silver moon</p>
<p class='line0'>  In a midnight silence, cold and tense.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                        —<span class='it'>W. H. Ogilvie.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>S</span>ARAH, 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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim and Wally had raced for the garden fence, vaulting
it, and landing in the midst of a bed of pansies.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is that blessed hose?” Jim uttered,
wrathfully. He dived into various dark corners
where taps existed. Then he stopped, frowning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ye took me—fair i’ the wind!” he gasped.
“Run on, laddie. A’ll get ma breath presently.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Black Billy, his eyes apparently starting out of
his sable face, was at his elbow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Run round and shut the front door, if it’s open,
Billy!” Mr. Linton said, coughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Plenty!” murmured Billy. He disappeared
round the corner of the house, a black streak of fear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The safe’s fireproof,” he muttered, glancing
towards its corner—“that’s a comfort, anyhow!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the garden came Jim’s shout.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Half a minute, Dad! Don’t try to get out yet!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Behind the house, Murty O’Toole and Brownie
had organized a bucket brigade.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Daddy, poor old Daddy!” she whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s not so bad, Dad!” he said, cheerily. “Lots of
the old place left. We’ll all build it up again, Dad!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton smiled at his children, suddenly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Right, mates!” he said. “We’ll build it up
again!”</p>
<div><h1 id='ch12'>CHAPTER XII</h1></div>
<h3>BURNT OUT</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And the creek of life goes wandering on,</p>
<p class='line0'>    Wandering by;</p>
<p class='line0'>And bears for ever its course upon</p>
<p class='line0'>    A song and a sigh.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                          —<span class='it'>Henry Lawson.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>A</span> 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton had resolutely put away his trouble,
and was inspecting the remains with a keen, businesslike
face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you take it calmly!” said the little doctor,
explosively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, they’re bound to get him,” the squatter
answered. “And I wouldn’t care to be Harvey when
they do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That ain’t the kind of thing that happens wid an
accident,” said Murty between his teeth. He looked
further.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Humph!” he said. “Harvey smokes that
brand—an’ no wan else on Billabong.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He led the men away from the homestead an hour
later, each as keen and as enraged as himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s really rather like being cast on a desert
island,” said Jean.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t want to crowd Evans’s cottage out
altogether,” he said, half apologetically.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Jean reassured him, hastily. She had no
desire to migrate to a world of strangers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is hot, though, Daddy, that’s a fact,” said
Norah. “I was thinking——” She broke off,
watching him a little doubtfully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When you think in that tone, I have generally no
chance of escape,” said he. “What is it this time?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, you may,” he said, “if you can arrange
matters with Jim.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Want you to put us up a tent,” Norah said,
cheerfully. “You don’t mind, do you, Jimmy?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim whistled. “What does Dad say?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No swim for you yet awhile,” Jim told him,
grimly. “You’ve got to come and fix camp.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Me?” asked Wally, blankly. “Of all the unsympathetic,
slave-driving wretches——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, that’s so,” grinned his chum. “All the
same, you’ve got to come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You won’t want any mattresses on those,” he
said: “they’re fit for anyone. What about blankets,
Norah?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“First rate,” Jim agreed. “We’ll get ’em.
Come along, Wally.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“More toil!” groaned that gentleman, who had
been working with the cheerful keenness he put into
all his doings. “Why did I come here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!”
exclaimed Wally. He dashed to take the barrow,
and was routed ignominiously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll fix up a tent for you, if you like,” Jim told
her. “Just say the word.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, you wouldn’t have far to fall!” said Jim,
laughing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“First rate!” he said, warmly. “For destitute
and burnt-out people, we shan’t fare too badly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rather not!” Jim answered. “How did you
get on, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Found the brute, have they?” Jim exclaimed.
“What did he have to say, Dad? Did they hurt
him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Harvey had had luck,” said Mr. Linton, slowly.
“He’d hurt himself first.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How? Tell us, Dad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not he!” Jim agreed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t he walk?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What—out in the open?” Jim asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whew-w!” whistled Wally. “Three months!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Break his leg? But did he want to?” Jim
grinned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Brownie snorted wrathfully as they rose to go up
to the cottage. The sun had set, and Mrs. Evans
was calling from the hill.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Brownie dropped her voice as they neared the
cottage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fattening him for the slaughter, eh, Brownie?”
asked Wally, gravely.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-160.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0005' style='width:90%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“ ‘Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!’ ”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch13'>CHAPTER XIII</h1></div>
<h3>BEN ATHOL</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And silver the moonbeams glisten,</p>
<p class='line0'>The great Bush sings to us, out and back.</p>
<p class='line0'>  And we lie in her arms and listen.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                            —<span class='it'>W. H. Ogilvie.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>A</span> 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank goodness!” from Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have you made all arrangements, Dad?” Jim
asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I won’t see it before I go back to school!”
came from Norah, disgustedly. “Oh, I’m so
sorry!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ve a plan,” said David Linton, slowly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah sat up so briskly that the boat rocked violently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have a little sense, Nor.!” came from Jim.
“Sit still, or you’ll be smacked and turned out!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Get out yourself!” said his sister, inelegantly.
“When Dad has a plan in that voice it is time to sit
up! Tell us, Dad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How about Ben Athol?” he asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ben Athol!” Jim whistled. “By Jove, Dad,
that’s an idea!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh!” said Norah. “Didn’t I tell you it was
time to sit up!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, please,” said Jean, in a small shriek. “I
can, quite easily. Truly, Mr. Linton.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rather,” Jim said. “I’m never really friends
with a saddle until it has been re-stuffed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” nodded Norah. “When do you
think we’ll start, Dad?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, need you, Dad? Can’t we put up a wurley?”
Norah begged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll live and die poor, but we’ll keep you,
Brownie!” Jim told her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If it’s there, Brownie, I will bring you a necklace
of nuggets with my own fair hands,” said Wally.
“Steady, you brute!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Brownie beamed over the portion of the speech
addressed to her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank you, Murty!” from Norah. Murty
beamed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“We’ll take care of her, Murty,” said her father.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, Monarch and I have learned sense now,”
he said. “He won’t get rid of me in the same way
again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch14'>CHAPTER XIV</h1></div>
<h3>ON THE TRACK</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—</p>
<p class='line0'>Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                 —<span class='it'>V. J. Daley.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>HEY camped that night half a mile off the
road, in a paddock belonging to a station Mr.
Linton knew well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him,
unkindly. “Don’t leave any fish-hooks in our
pool, that’s all.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the
lady referred to, longingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing.
“Dandelions taste abominably—at least that
milky stuff in them does.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny
things you seem to have lived on!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!”
he growled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah
averred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!”
said Wally. He proceeded to roll up blankets
vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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’!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I
want a postcard, please.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up
Ben Athol. I want——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor
Norah. “Let me have a postcard, please.” She
held out her penny firmly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person
investigating. “Can I have one—and some ink?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said
Norah, writing busily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the
postmistress. “Never know where you have
them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal
to detailed explanation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third
time—this time with something peremptory in its
note.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her
card into the slit marked “Letters,” and ran out,
receiving voluble farewells from the postmistress
as she fled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust
of their going died away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s waving,” said Norah, much puzzled.
“Let’s pull up.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They waited. The postmistress arrived with a
wide and friendly smile.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I am a duffer!” ejaculated Norah. “But
how awfully good of you to come after us!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch15'>CHAPTER XV</h1></div>
<h3>THE HOUSE BY ATHOLTON</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The little feet that run to me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The little hands that strive</p>
<p class='line0'>To touch me at the heart, and find</p>
<p class='line0'>  The heart in me alive.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>O God! if hands and feet should fail!</p>
<p class='line0'>  If Death his mist should fling</p>
<p class='line0'>Between my heart and the touch of</p>
<p class='line0'>  The little living thing!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                    —<span class='it'>R. Crawford.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>I</span>T 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thank goodness, there’s Atholton!” uttered
Mr. Linton, pointing at the roofs far ahead. “We
may get off with dry skins if we gallop.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gad! There’s a house!” said Mr. Linton
thankfully. “Make for the gate, Jim.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman rushed down to the little garden gate
as they raced to it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let the young ladies come in here—quick!
There’s a shed over there for the horses.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You were very good,” Jean told her, shyly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think it’s nice out here,” Norah said, hesitatingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I—I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t quite
hear what you were saying.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Isn’t it nice?” Jean said. “It smells of lavender
and things!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And as if the window were always open,” said
Norah, approvingly. “I like it—and I like her,
too. Don’t you, Jean?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes—I do,” Jean said, slowly. “She—she’s a
bit queer though, isn’t she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girls looked at each other dumbly, horror-stricken.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I say!” said Jean, presently. “Oh,
weren’t we idiots! I’m so sorry we asked her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor thing!” Norah said, her voice a shade
unsteady. “Oh, poor thing! Did you see how
terrible her eyes were?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So do I,” Norah said. “It must have hurt her
dreadfully—and she’s been very kind to us. But
how could we guess?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t half like going out,” said Jean. “I
wish we could slip away.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now what are you going to do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“H’m—that’s awkward,” said the squatter.
“Are there any farms about that would take us
in?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s very good of you,” Mr. Linton said,
hesitating in his turn. She read the shade of doubt
in his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know my husband, I think,” she said;
“he’s Jack Archdale, that used to be boundary
rider at the Darrells’ station.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s just a dear,” Norah agreed. “But, oh!
hasn’t she sorry eyes! Don’t you wish one could
make her forget?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Something in her voice kept them silent. But
Norah put out a half-nervous hand, and Mrs. Archdale
took it and held it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And—and tell you about her,” she said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then she was silent again. Outside in the paddocks
a curlew was calling wearily across the timber.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m sure I must have frightened you this afternoon,”
she said at last. “I was dreadfully ashamed
of myself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Please, don’t!” Norah whispered. “We
shouldn’t have asked you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She stopped, and they felt her shivering.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You see, we lost her in the scrub,” she said,
dully.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She ceased, looking out of the window—so long
silent that it seemed that she had forgotten them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean was sobbing softly. But Norah could only
cling to the hard, work-worn hand she held, very
tightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had quite forgotten them now. It was as if
she was talking to herself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch16'>CHAPTER XVI</h1></div>
<h3>BEYOND THE PLAINS</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The little feet have left the house,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The little voice is still;</p>
<p class='line0'>Without, the wan, wind-weary boughs;</p>
<p class='line0'>  Within, the will</p>
<p class='line0'>To go and hear the wee feet tread</p>
<p class='line0'>Within the garden of the dead.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                         —<span class='it'>R. Crawford.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>HERE 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>No one quarrelled with the tea or with the wafers
of buttered toast that accompanied it. Mrs. Archdale
talked briskly while the girls ate.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come with us,” Norah cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She shook her head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are there many blacks?” Jean asked, wide-eyed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do they come out here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hope we’ll run across some of them,” Jean
said. “I haven’t seen any Australian blacks.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Linton, arriving with the boys at an early
hour, had more to say on the subject of the
blacks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was the hotel bad?” Norah inquired.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t allude to the hotel!” Wally said. “We’ve
had a busy night, and we’re all soured—and sore!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was pretty dreadful,” said Mr. Linton, laughing.
“I think we’re fairly certain to want an early
lunch!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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 <span class='it'>Peak Hotel</span> 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I don’t know,” Norah said. “We don’t
mind getting a bit tired.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She was very kind to us,” Norah answered,
warmly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t call her queer,” Jean burst out, indignantly.
“She can’t help thinking about her little
girl, of course.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But she’s just awfully nice!” Norah seconded.
“And she was as good to us as ever she could be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One can’t wonder at that,” said Mr. Linton.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor little baby!” said Norah, very low.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The storekeeper dropped his voice, looking round.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Dad,” she said; “if only any one could help
her!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ay,” said David Linton. “But that’s beyond
human power, my little girl.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If you like, dear,” he said. “But you’d rather
camp, wouldn’t you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t think so—not if she’d like us. She
asked me if she could kiss me, Dad.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whew-w!” whistled Jim. “What a ripping
place to camp!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Couldn’t be better,” his father said, with relief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m going to stay here for a week!” Wally
declared, casting his hat upon the ground.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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:—</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“Wrap me up in my stock-whip and blanket,</p>
<p class='line0'>  And say a poor buffer lies low—lies low,</p>
<p class='line0'>Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,</p>
<p class='line0'>  On the plains where the coolibars grow.”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div><h1 id='ch17'>CHAPTER XVII</h1></div>
<h3>THE PEAK OF BEN ATHOL</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>By rolling plain and rocky shelf,</p>
<p class='line0'>  With stock-whip in his hand,</p>
<p class='line0'>He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,</p>
<p class='line0'>The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,</p>
<p class='line0'>  In Rough-and-ready Land.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                    —<span class='it'>A. B. Paterson.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>O</span>H!” said Jean, despairingly. “I wish to
goodness I hadn’t been born fat!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I’m sorry,” Jean made answer. “I did
want to see some.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh—I’m sorry!” said the victor, laughing and
flushed. “Are you hurt, old girl?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boys arrived hastily, flushed and panting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Beat you!” gasped Wally.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dead heat, you old fraud!” Jim retorted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be quiet, you duffers,” said Norah, affectionately.
“Come here and look across the world!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pulled up an hour later.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to go and explore,” she said. “Who
will come?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Me,” said Jean and Wally, simultaneously, and
with painful disregard of the King’s English.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not I, I think,” said her father. “I want to
finish my pipe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then I’ll keep you company,” Jim said. “Don’t
get lost, you kids!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Kid yourself!” remarked Wally. “Then we’ll
meet back at the camp, sir?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally paused when they were beginning to think
that the camp must be close at hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Cease your foolish persiflage!” said he, severely.
“I’ve an idea.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never!” said Jean, with open incredulity.
“Where?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sweet child,” said Wally admiringly. “Nothing
lovelier than a sleeping cherub, is there? What did
I tell you, young Norah Linton? Grovel.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I grovel,” whispered Norah, laughing. “Poor
old Billy, he must have been horribly dull.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah caught his arm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wally! Look there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Great Scott,” Wally whistled. “And that young
beggar, Billy, snoring. Well, Jean, there’s your
noble savage, anyhow, and I hope you like her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, she got a picaninny,” Norah whispered
eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rum little beggar!” Wally whispered. “Fine
Australian native in the making! Jean, are you
impressed?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do be quiet!” Norah whispered. “She’s
certain to hear you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ll have to take steps if she tries another
spot, Wally,” Norah whispered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Right-oh!” was the noiseless response, given
somewhat absently. Wally was watching the
picaninny. He turned to Norah in a moment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wally—did you see! It isn’t a picaninny at
all! It’s Mrs. Archdale’s baby!”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/illo-224.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0006' style='width:350px;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'>“The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up.”</p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1 id='ch18'>CHAPTER XVIII</h1></div>
<h3>THE WURLEY IN THE ROCKS</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And yet there is no refuge</p>
<p class='line0'>  To shield me from distress.</p>
<p class='line0'>Except the realm of slumber</p>
<p class='line0'>  And great forgetfulness.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                 —<span class='it'>Henry Kendall.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>Q</span>UICK as they were, the black woman was
quicker.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Wally, run!” Norah cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once he looked back with a quick call.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t get bushed if we miss each other. I’ll
coo-ee!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Right!” Norah had no breath for more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They nodded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it—is the kiddie——?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, I saw it laugh!” said Norah. “And it
was the face of that photograph and Mrs. Archdale’s
face rolled into one!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the black gin cowered back in her den, and
refused to move. Persuasion and threats alike
were unavailing. Finally Wally shrugged his
shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mine,” she said; “that pfeller picaninny
mine!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Qui s’excuse s’accuse</span>,” 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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mine,” she said, sullenly, fear glowing in her
eyes. “Baal you take her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a long pause. At last Wally spoke,
hurriedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well—she knows we’ve got to take the kiddie,
anyhow, doesn’t she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mine bin tell her that,” said Billy. “She bin
say not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The black woman broke in, in a high, shrill voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not take her. That li’l pfeller, picaninny belongin’
to me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Picaninny’s mother’s wanting her,” Norah said
her voice pitying.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Billy had no illusions. He grasped the gin’s arm,
and jerked her to her feet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She winced and shivered, looking at him with great
stupid eyes, like an injured animal’s.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My li’l pfeller picaninny!” she said. “Mine!”
She turned to Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch19'>CHAPTER XIX</h1></div>
<h3>THE LAST NIGHT</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>The gray gums by the lonely creek,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The star-crowned heights,</p>
<p class='line0'>The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak,</p>
<p class='line0'>  The cold white light,</p>
<p class='line0'>The solitude spread near and far</p>
<p class='line0'>Around the camp-fire’s tiny star,</p>
<p class='line0'>The horse bells’ melody remote,</p>
<p class='line0'>The curlew’s melancholy note</p>
<p class='line0'>  Across the night.</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                     —<span class='it'>G. Essex Evans.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>W</span>ELL, 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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She seems to approve of you, at any rate, Nor.,”
said Jim. “What on earth are you going to do with
her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bath her,” said Norah promptly. “Thank
goodness, Mrs. Archdale isn’t going to see her looking
like that!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ll need it all,” Jim said, grimly. “Will
she speak, Nor.?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps she hasn’t forgotten her name,” Jean
suggested. “Try her.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So Norah knelt down before the ragged little
figure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Babs!” she said softly. “Babs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What on earth are you going to dress her in?”
Jim asked. “You can’t put those rags on her
again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I should think not!” his sister answered,
eyeing the malodorous tatters disgustedly. “Jean
and I will fix up something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” said Jean, nodding wisely. “I’ve
got an idea, and we have needles and thread.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then we can leave it to you two,” said Mr.
Linton, with relief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You can,” said Norah. “Only keep the supply
of hot water going!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, you darling!” Norah said, catching her
up. “Jean, isn’t she just lovely? Babs! Oh, I
do want your mother to see you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Babs looked at her, opened her mouth, and then
closed it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Over the tangled curls both girls worked despairingly,
while Babs submitted with a stoicism that
said much for her sojourn as an aboriginal.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah stopped at last, and put down the comb.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s clean, at any rate,” said Jean philosophically.
“And that’s the main thing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jean, may I employ you as a tailor?” Wally
asked, solemnly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’re a genius!” Wally said, greatly impressed.
“There is, however, a sterner side to it.
Do I not recognize my blanket?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You do,” said Jean. “It happened to be the
softest. Anyway, you’ve got another, and it’s going
to be a hot night.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Kangaroo rat and wallaby, most likely,” Jim
remarked; “varied with fish, in various stages of
preservation, and nice succulent tree-grubs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be quiet, you disgusting creature!” said Wally,
in extreme horror. “You spoil my appetite.” He
helped himself to a mammoth slice of cake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton slept across the tent doorway this
night.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Just as well,” he said. “I wouldn’t risk to-morrow
for the Archdales for all Billabong!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<div><h1 id='ch20'>CHAPTER XX</h1></div>
<h3>DOWN THE MOUNTAIN</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>Oh, little body, nestled on my heart!</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                               —<span class='it'>M. Forrest.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>T</span>HEY 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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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—<span class='it'>Mother, Mother, Mother</span>.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Contented, my girl?” David Linton asked,
riding beside her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us have a frock of some kind for her—quick
as you can, Green,” said David Linton. “Anything
will do.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Near the cottage David Linton pulled up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I say—catch her!” Wally said. “The shock
may be too much for Mrs. Archdale.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Babs was battering at the steps of the high
verandah as Norah caught her. She wriggled fiercely
in her arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Down!” she said. “Want down!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There’s no one about,” he said. “I’ve been
round to the kitchen. Wonder where they are?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Babs!” she cried, and pointed a brown forefinger;
“Babs!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You blessed kid,” said Wally, in perplexity,
“I wish you could tell us where to look for your
mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, you’ve got back!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wally nodded, seeking desperately for words.
His brown face was flushed and eager.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nothing wrong?” she asked him swiftly. “Not
little Norah?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t!” She flushed, miserably.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Are you mad?” The colour died out of her
face, and for a moment the agony of her eyes robbed
the boy of speech.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You know something!” she said; “there is
something!” Her voice rose to a wailing cry.
“Tell me, for God’s sake!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Across the grass came a voice that rang shrilly
sweet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Muvver!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Norah felt Wally’s hand upon her shoulder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come on,” he said. “I guess we’d better get
back to the horses.”</p>
<div><h1 id='ch21'>CHAPTER XXI</h1></div>
<h3>BACK TO BILLABONG</h3>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>And thro’ the night came all old memories flocking,</p>
<p class='line0'>White memories like the snowflakes round me whirled;</p>
<p class='line0'>“All’s well!” I said. “The mothers still sit rocking</p>
<p class='line0'>The cradles of the world!”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>                                  —<span class='it'>W. H. Ogilvie.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>S</span>O you’ll come?” David Linton asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Archdale nodded. Babs had one forefinger
tucked into her neck, and nothing else mattered
very much just then.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But come soon,” Norah said eagerly. “I want
to see Babs again before I go back to school.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It was only a bit of luck,” Wally mumbled,
greatly embarrassed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Any one would have found her,” said Norah,
incoherently. “We just happened to.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Archdale followed them both with her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You would have been sorry for her if you’d
seen her,” Norah said. “I know you would.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Some one’s sleepy,” Archdale said, smiling at his
wife. “Coming, mother?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll put her to bed,” she said, rising and stretching
her arms to the little daughter. Archdale put Babs
tenderly upon the grass.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I guess there’s two of us in that contract,” he
said. “Say good-night, Babs.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;'>* * * * *</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s lovely!” Jean breathed. “Thank goodness,
they’re not over yet!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What plans?” Norah asked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dad, how beautifully you talk!” said Norah.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Such wealth of language!” breathed Jim.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Diogenes revivified! Or was it Demosthenes?”
said Wally, uncertainly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean giggled assentingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“H’m!” said Jim thoughtfully. “That’s pretty
rotten for you, isn’t it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nobody spoke for a few minutes. Then Wally
said.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What’s the matter with Billabong?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean conquered her shyness with a tremendous
effort, sitting up abruptly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There isn’t any roughing it,” said Norah,
quickly. “If Jean and Wally don’t mind——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mind!” said Wally. “Why, I’ll feel like a
motherless foal if you take me away, and go about
bleating!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jim began to laugh.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It would be awful!” said Jean, with such
fervour that every one laughed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>David Linton found her hand looking for his in the
dusk, and gripped it tightly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“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.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But—it’s Billabong!” said Norah, happily.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:.8em;'>THE END</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:5em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:.8em;'><span class='sc'>Ward, Lock & Co., Ltd., London.</span></p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-top:4em;margin-bottom:2em;font-size:1.2em;'>TRANSCRIBER NOTES</p>
<p class='pindent'>Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.
Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been
employed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious
printer errors occur.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 60446 ***</div>
</body>
<!-- created with fpgen.py 4.59 on 2019-05-04 00:07:28 GMT -->
</html>
|
