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A Little Bush Maid

by Mary Grant Bruce · English · Gutenberg #8730 · 356,717 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Little Bush Maid

Author: Mary Grant Bruce


        
Release date: August 1, 2005 [eBook #8730]
                Most recently updated: May 14, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8730

Credits: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE BUSH MAID ***




A LITTLE BUSH MAID

By Mary Grant Bruce


CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. BILLABONG 
  CHAPTER II. PETS AND PLAYTHINGS 
  CHAPTER III. A MENAGERIE RACE 
  CHAPTER IV. JIM’S IDEA 
  CHAPTER V. ANGLERS’ BEND 
  CHAPTER VI. A BUSH FIRE 
  CHAPTER VII. WHAT NORAH FOUND 
  CHAPTER VIII. ON A LOG 
  CHAPTER IX. FISHING 
  CHAPTER X. THE LAST DAY 
  CHAPTER XI. GOOD-BYE 
  CHAPTER XII. THE WINFIELD MURDER 
  CHAPTER XIII. THE CIRCUS 
  CHAPTER XIV. CAMPING OUT 
  CHAPTER XV. FOR FRIENDSHIP 
  CHAPTER XVI. FIGHTING DEATH 
  CHAPTER XVII. THE END OF THE STRUGGLE 
  CHAPTER XVIII. EVENING 




CHAPTER I.
BILLABONG


Norah’s home was on a big station in the north of Victoria—so large
that you could almost, in her own phrase, “ride all day and never see
any one you didn’t want to see”; which was a great advantage in Norah’s
eyes. Not that Billabong Station ever seemed to the little girl a place
that you needed to praise in any way. It occupied so very modest a
position as the loveliest part of the world!

The homestead was built on a gentle rise that sloped gradually away on
every side; in front to the wide plain, dotted with huge gum trees and
great grey box groves, and at the back, after you had passed through
the well-kept vegetable garden and orchard, to a long lagoon, bordered
with trees and fringed with tall bulrushes and waving reeds.

The house itself was old and quaint and rambling, part of the old
wattle and dab walls yet remaining in some of the outhouses, as well as
the grey shingle roof. There was a more modern part, for the house had
been added to from time to time by different owners, though no
additions had been made since Norah’s father brought home his young
wife, fifteen years before this story opens. Then he had built a large
new wing with wide and lofty rooms, and round all had put a very broad,
tiled verandah. The creepers had had time to twine round the massive
posts in those fifteen years, and some even lay in great masses on the
verandah roof; tecoma, pink and salmon-coloured; purple bougainvillea,
and the snowy mandevillea clusters. Hard-headed people said this was
not good for the building—but Norah’s mother had planted them, and
because she had loved them they were never touched.

There was a huge front garden, not at all a proper kind of garden, but
a great stretch of smooth buffalo grass, dotted with all kinds of
trees, amongst which flower beds cropped up in most unexpected and
unlikely places, just as if some giant had flung them out on the grass
like a handful of pebbles that scattered as they flew. They were always
trim and tidy, and the gardener, Hogg, was terribly strict, and woe
betide the author of any small footmarks that he found on one of the
freshly raked surfaces. Nothing annoyed him more than the odd bulbs
that used to come up in the midst of his precious buffalo grass;
impertinent crocuses and daffodils and hyacinths, that certainly had no
right there. “Blest if I know how they ever gets there!” Hogg would
say, scratching his head. Whereat Norah was wont to retire behind a
pyramid tree for purposes of mirth.

Hogg’s sworn foe was Lee Wing, the Chinese gardener, who reigned
supreme in the orchard and the kingdom of vegetables—not quite the same
thing as the vegetable kingdom, by the way! Lee Wing was very fat, his
broad, yellow face generally wearing a cheerful grin—unless he happened
to catch sight of Hogg. His long pigtail was always concealed under his
flapping straw hat. Once Jim, who was Norah’s big brother, had found
him asleep in his hut with the pigtail drooping over the edge of the
bunk. Jim thought the opportunity too good to lose and, with such
deftness that the Celestial never stirred, he tied the end of the
pigtail to the back of a chair—with rather startling results when Lee
Wing awoke with a sudden sense of being late, and made a spring from
the bunk. The chair of course followed him, and the loud yell of fear
and pain raised by the victim brought half the homestead to the scene
of the catastrophe. Jim was the only one who did not wait for
developments. He found business at the lagoon.

The queerest part of it was that Lee Wing firmly believed Hogg to be
the author of his woe. Nothing moved him from this view, not even when
Jim, finding how matters stood, owned up like a man. “You allee same
goo’ boy,” said the pigtailed one, proffering him a succulent raw
turnip. “Me know. You tellee fine large crammee. Hogg, he tellee
crammee, too. So dly up!” And Jim, finding expostulation useless,
“dried up” accordingly and ate the turnip, which was better than the
leek.

To the right of the homestead at Billabong a clump of box trees
sheltered the stables that were the unspoken pride of Mr. Linton’s
heart.

Before his time the stables had been a conglomerate mass, bark-roofed,
slab-sided, falling to decay; added to as each successive owner had
thought fit, with a final mixture of old and new that was neither
convenient nor beautiful. Mr. Linton had apologised to his horses
during his first week of occupancy and, in the second, turning them out
to grass with less apology, had pulled down the rickety old sheds,
replacing them with a compact and handsome building of red brick, with
room for half a dozen buggies, men’s quarters, harness and feed rooms,
many loose boxes and a loft where a ball could have been held—and
where, indeed, many a one was held, when all the young farmers and
stockmen and shearers from far and near brought each his lass and
tripped it from early night to early dawn, to the strains of old Andy
Ferguson’s fiddle and young Dave Boone’s concertina. Norah had been
allowed to look on at one or two of these gatherings. She thought them
the height of human bliss, and was only sorry that sheer inability to
dance prevented her from “taking the floor” with Mick Shanahan, the
horse breaker, who had paid her the compliment of asking her first. It
was a great compliment, too, Norah felt, seeing what a man of agility
and splendid accomplishments was Mick—and that she was only nine at the
time.

There was one loose box which was Norah’s very own property, and
without her permission no horse was ever put in it except its rightful
occupant—Bobs, whose name was proudly displayed over the door in Jim’s
best carving.

Bobs had always belonged to Norah, He had been given to her as a foal,
when Norah used to ride a round little black sheltie, as easy to fall
off as to mount. He was a beauty even then, Norah thought; and her
father had looked approvingly at the long-legged baby, with his fine,
well-bred head. “You will have something worth riding when that fellow
is fit to break in, my girlie,” he had said, and his prophecy had been
amply fulfilled. Mick Shanahan said he’d never put a leg over a finer
pony. Norah knew there never had been a finer anywhere. He was a big
pony, very dark bay in colour, and “as handsome as paint,” and with the
kindest disposition; full of life and “go,” but without the smallest
particle of vice. It was an even question which loved the other best,
Bobs or Norah. No one ever rode him except his little mistress. The
pair were hard to beat—so the men said.

To Norah the stables were the heart of Billabong. The house was all
very well—of course she loved it; and she loved her own little room,
with its red carpet and dainty white furniture, and the two long
windows that looked out over the green plain. That was all right; so
were the garden and the big orchard, especially in summer time! The
only part that was not “all right” was the drawing-room—an apartment of
gloomy, seldom-used splendour that Norah hated with her whole heart.

But the stables were an abiding refuge. She was never dull there. Apart
from the never-failing welcome in Bobs’ loose box, there was the dim,
fragrant loft, where the sunbeams only managed to send dusty rays of
light across the gloom. Here Norah used to lie on the sweet hay and
think tremendous thoughts; here also she laid deep plans for catching
rats—and caught scores in traps of her own devising. Norah hated rats,
but nothing could induce her to wage war against the mice. “Poor little
chaps!” she said; “they’re so little—and—and soft!” And she was quite
saddened if by chance she found a stray mouse in any of her
shrewdly-designed traps for the benefit of the larger game which
infested the stables and had even the hardihood to annoy Bobs!

Norah had never known her mother. She was only a tiny baby when that
gay little mother died—a sudden, terrible blow, that changed her father
in a night from a young man to an old one. It was nearly twelve years
ago, now, but no one ever dared to speak to David Linton of his wife.
Sometimes Norah used to ask Jim about mother—for Jim was fifteen, and
could remember just a little; but his memories were so vague and misty
that his information was unsatisfactory. And, after all, Norah did not
trouble much. She had always been so happy that she could not imagine
that to have had a mother would have made any particular difference to
her happiness. You see, she did not know.

She had grown just as the bush wild flowers grow—hardy, unchecked,
almost untended; for, though old nurse had always been there, her
nurseling had gone her own way from the time she could toddle. She was
everybody’s pet and plaything; the only being who had power to make her
stern, silent father smile—almost the only one who ever saw the softer
side of his character. He was fond and proud of Jim—glad that the boy
was growing up straight and strong and manly, able to make his way in
the world. But Norah was his heart’s desire.

Of course she was spoilt—if spoiling consists in rarely checking an
impulse. All her life Norah had done pretty well whatever she
wanted—which meant that she had lived out of doors, followed in Jim’s
footsteps wherever practicable (and in a good many ways most people
would have thought distinctly impracticable), and spent about
two-thirds of her waking time on horseback. But the spoiling was not of
a very harmful kind. Her chosen pursuits brought her under the unspoken
discipline of the work of the station, wherein ordinary instinct taught
her to do as others did, and conform to their ways. She had all the
dread of being thought “silly” that marks the girl who imitates boyish
ways. Jim’s rare growl, “Have a little sense!” went farther home than a
whole volume of admonitions of a more ordinarily genuine feminine type.

She had no little girl friends, for none was nearer than the nearest
township—Cunjee, seventeen miles away. Moreover, little girls bored
Norah frightfully. They seemed a species quite distinct from herself.
They prattled of dolls; they loved to skip, to dress up and “play
ladies”; and when Norah spoke of the superior joys of cutting out
cattle or coursing hares over the Long Plain, they stared at her with
blank lack of understanding. With boys she got on much better. Jim and
she were tremendous chums, and she had moped sadly when he went to
Melbourne to school. Holidays then became the shining events of the
year, and the boys whom Jim brought home with him, at first prone to
look down on the small girl with lofty condescension, generally ended
by voting her “no end of a jolly kid,” and according her the respect
due to a person who could teach them more of bush life than they had
dreamed of.

But Norah’s principal mate was her father. Day after day they were
together, riding over the run, working the cattle, walking through the
thick scrub of the backwater, driving young, half-broken horses in the
high dog-cart to Cunjee—they were rarely apart. David Linton seldom
made a plan that did not naturally include Norah. She was a wise little
companion, too; ready enough to chatter like a magpie if her father
were in the mood, but quick to note if he were not, and then quite
content to be silently beside him, perhaps for hours. They understood
each other perfectly. Norah never could make out the people who pitied
her for having no friends of her own age. How could she possibly be
bothered with children, she reflected, when she had Daddy?

As for Norah’s education, that was of the kind best defined as a minus
quantity.

“I won’t have her bothered with books too early,” Mr. Linton had said
when nurse hinted, on Norah’s eight birthday, that it was time she
began the rudiments of learning. “Time enough yet—we don’t want to make
a bookworm of her!”

Whereat nurse smiled demurely, knowing that that was the last thing to
be afraid of in connexion with her child. But she worried in her
responsible old soul all the same; and when a wet day or the occasional
absence of Mr. Linton left Norah without occupation, she induced her to
begin a few elementary lessons. The child was quick enough, and soon
learned to read fairly well and to write laboriously; but there nurse’s
teaching from books ended.

Of other and practical teaching, however, she had a greater store. Mr.
Linton had a strong leaning towards the old-fashioned virtues, and it
was at a word from him that Norah had gone to the kitchen and asked
Mrs. Brown to teach her to cook. Mrs. Brown—fat, good-natured and
adoring—was all acquiescence, and by the time Norah was eleven she knew
more of cooking and general housekeeping than many girls grown up and
fancying themselves ready to undertake houses of their own. Moreover,
she could sew rather well, though she frankly detested the
accomplishment. The one form of work she cared for was knitting, and it
was her boast that her father wore only the socks she manufactured for
him.

Norah’s one gentle passion was music. Never taught, she inherited from
her mother a natural instinct and an absolutely true ear, and before
she was seven she could strum on the old piano in a way very satisfying
to herself and awe-inspiring to the admiring nurse. Her talent
increased yearly, and at ten she could play anything she heard—from
ear, for she had never been taught a note of music. It was, indeed, her
growing capabilities in this respect that forced upon her father the
need for proper tuition for the child. However, a stopgap was found in
the person of the book-keeper, a young Englishman, who knew more of
music than accounts. He readily undertook Norah’s instruction, and the
lessons bore moderately good effect—the moderation being due to a not
unnatural disinclination on the pupil’s part to walk where she had been
accustomed to run, and to a fixed loathing to practice. As the latter
necessary, if uninteresting, pursuit was left entirely to her own
discretion—for no one ever dreamed of ordering Norah to the piano—it is
small wonder if it suffered beside the superior attractions of riding
Bobs, rat trapping, “shinning up” trees, fishing in the lagoon and
generally disporting herself as a maiden may whom conventional
restrictions have never trammelled.

It follows that the music lessons, twice a week, were times of woe for
Mr. Groom, the teacher. He was an earnest young man, with a sincere
desire for his pupil’s improvement, and it was certainly disheartening
to find on Friday that the words of Tuesday had apparently gone in at
one ear and out at the other simultaneously. Sometimes he would
remonstrate.

“You haven’t got on with that piece a bit!”

“What’s the good?” the pupil would remark, twisting round on the music
stool; “I can play nearly all of it from ear!”

“That’s not the same”—severely—“that’s only frivolling. I’m not here to
teach you to strum.”

“No” Norah would agree abstractedly. “Mr. Groom, you know that poley
bullock down in the far end paddock—”

“No, I don’t,” severely. “This is a music lesson, Norah; you’re not
after cattle now!”

“Wish I were!” sighed the pupil. “Well, will you come out with the dogs
this afternoon?”

“Can’t; I’m wanted in the office. Now, Norah—”

“But if I asked father to spare you?”

“Oh, I’d like to right enough.” Mr. Groom was young, and the temptress,
if younger, was skilled in wiles.

“But your father—”

“Oh, I can manage Dad. I’ll go and see him now.” She would be at the
door before her teacher perceived that his opportunity was vanishing.

“Norah, come back! If I’m to go out, you must play this first—and get
it right.”

Mr. Groom could be firm on occasions. “Come along, you little shirker!”
and Norah would unwillingly return to the music stool, and worry
laboriously though a page of the hated Czerny.




CHAPTER II.
PETS AND PLAYTHINGS


After her father, Norah’s chief companions were her pets.

These were a numerous and varied band, and required no small amount of
attention. Bobs, of course, came first—no other animal could possibly
approach him in favour. But after Bobs came a long procession,
beginning with Tait, the collie, and ending with the last brood of
fluffy Orpington chicks, or perhaps the newest thing in disabled birds,
picked up, fluttering and helpless, in the yard or orchard. There was
room in Norah’s heart for them all.

Tait was a beauty—a rough-haired collie, with a splendid head, and big,
faithful brown eyes, that spoke more eloquently than many persons’
tongues. He was, like most of the breed, ready to be friends with any
one; but his little mistress was dearest of all, and he worshipped her
with abject devotion. Norah never went anywhere without him; Tait saw
to that. He seemed always on the watch for her coming, and she was
never more than a few yards from the house before the big dog was
silently brushing the grass by her side. His greatest joy was to follow
her on long rides into the bush, putting up an occasional hare and
scurrying after it in the futile way of collies, barking at the
swallows overhead, and keeping pace with Bobs’ long, easy canter.

Puck used to come on these excursions too. He was the only being for
whom it was suspected that Tait felt a mild dislike—an impudent Irish
terrier, full of fun and mischief, yet with a somewhat unfriendly and
suspicious temperament that made him, perhaps, a better guardian for
Norah than the benevolently disposed Tait. Puck had a nasty, inquiring
mind—an unpleasant way of sniffing round the legs of tramps that
generally induced those gentry to find the top rail of a fence a more
calm and more desirable spot than the level of the ground. Indian
hawkers feared him and hated him in equal measure. He could bite, and
occasionally did bite, his victims being always selected with judgment
and discretion, generally vagrants emboldened to insolence by seeing no
men about the kitchen when all hands were out mustering or busy on the
run. When Puck bit, it was with no uncertain tooth. He was suspected of
a desire to taste the blood of every one who went near Norah, though
his cannibalistic propensities were curbed by stern discipline.

Only once had he had anything like a free hand—or a free tooth.

Norah was out riding, a good way from the homestead, when a
particularly unpleasant-looking fellow accosted her, and asked for
money. Norah stared.

“I haven’t got any,” she said. “Anyhow, father doesn’t let us give away
money to travellers—only tucker.”

“Oh, doesn’t he?” the fellow said unpleasantly. “Well, I want money,
not grub.” He laid a compelling hand on Bobs’ bridle as Norah tried to
pass him. “Come,” he said—“that bracelet’ll do!”

It was a pretty little gold watch set in a leather bangle—father’s
birthday present, only a few weeks old. Norah simply laughed—she
scarcely comprehended so amazing a thing as that this man should really
intend to rob her.

“Get out of my way,” she said—“you can’t have that!”

“Can’t I!” He caught her wrist. “Give it quietly now, or I’ll—”

The sentence was not completed. A yellow streak hurled itself though
the air, as Puck, who had been investigating a tussock for lizards,
awoke to the situation. Something like a vice gripped the swagman by
the leg, and he dropped Norah’s wrist and bridle and roared like any
bull. The “something” hung on fiercely, silently, and the victim hopped
and raved and begged for mercy.

Norah had ridden a little way on. She called softly to Puck.

“Here, boy!”

Puck did not relinquish his grip. He looked pleadingly at his little
mistress across the swagman’s trouser-leg. Norah struck her saddle
sharply with her whip.

“Here, sir!—drop it!”

Puck dropped it reluctantly, and came across to Bobs, his head hanging.
The swagman sat down on the ground and nursed his leg.

“That served you right,” Norah said, with judicial severity. “You
hadn’t any business to grab my watch. Now, if you’ll go up to the house
they’ll give you some tucker and a rag for your leg!”

She rode off, whistling to Puck. The swagman gaped and muttered various
remarks. He did not call at the house.

Norah was supposed to manage the fowls, but her management was almost
entirely ornamental, and it is to be feared that the poultry yard would
have fared but poorly had it depended upon her alone. All the fowls
were hers. She said so, and no one contradicted her. Still, whenever
one was wanted for the table, it was ruthlessly slain. And it was black
Billy who fed them night and morning, and Mrs. Brown who gathered the
eggs, and saw that the houses were safely shut against the foxes every
evening. Norah’s chief part in the management lay in looking after the
setting hens. At first she firmly checked the broody instincts by
shutting them callously under boxes despite pecks and loud protests.
Later, when their mood refused to change, she loved to prepare them
soft nests in boxes, and to imprison them there until they took kindly
to their seclusion. Then it was hard work to wait three weeks until the
first fluffy heads peeped out from the angry mother’s wing, after which
Norah was a blissfully adoring caretaker until the downy balls began to
get ragged, as the first wing and tail feathers showed. Then the chicks
became uninteresting, and were handed over to Black Billy.

Besides her own pets there were Jim’s.

“Mind, they’re in your care,” Jim had said sternly, on the evening
before his departure for school. They were making a tour of the
place—Jim outwardly very cheerful and unconcerned; Norah plunged in
woe. She did not attempt to conceal it. She had taken Jim’s arm, and it
was sufficient proof of his state of mind that he did not shake it off.
Indeed, the indications were that he was glad of the loving little hand
tucked into the bend of his arm.

“Yes, Jim; I’ll look after them.”

“I don’t want you to bother feeding them yourself,” Jim said
magnanimously; “that ’ud be rather too much of a contract for a kid,
wouldn’t it? Only keep an eye on ’em, and round up Billy if he doesn’t
do his work. He’s a terror if he shirks, and unless you watch him like
a cat he’ll never change the water in the tins every morning. Lots of
times I’ve had to do it myself!”

“I’d do it myself sooner’n let them go without, Jim, dear,” said the
small voice, with a suspicion of a choke.

“Don’t you do it,” said Jim; “slang Billy. What’s he here for, I’d like
to know! I only want you to go round ’em every day, and see that
they’re all right.”

So daily Norah used to make her pilgrimage round Jim’s pets. There were
the guinea pigs—a rapidly increasing band, in an enclosure specially
built for them by Jim—a light frame, netted carefully everywhere, and
so constructed that it could be moved from place to place, giving them
a fresh grass run continually. Then there were two young wallabies and
a little brush kangaroo, which lived in a little paddock all their own,
and were as tame as kittens. Norah loved this trio especially, and
always had a game with them on her daily visit. There was a shy
gentleman which Norah called a turloise, because she never could
remember if he were a turtle or a tortoise. He lived in a small
enclosure, with a tiny water hole, and his disposition was extremely
retiring. In private Norah did not feel drawn to this member of her
charge, but she paid him double attention, from an inward feeling of
guilt, and because Jim set a high value upon him.

“He’s such a wise old chap,” Jim would say; “nobody knows what he’s
thinking of!”

In her heart of hearts Norah did not believe that mattered very much.

But when the stables had been visited and Bobs and Sirdar (Jim’s
neglected pony) interviewed; when Tait and Puck had had their breakfast
bones; when wallabies and kangaroo had been inspected (with a critical
eye to their water tins), and the turtle had impassively received a
praiseworthy attempt to draw him out; when the chicks had all been fed,
and the guinea pigs (unlike the leopard) had changed their spot for the
day—there still remained the birds.

The birds were a colony in themselves. There was a big aviary, large
enough for little trees and big shrubs to grow in, where a happy family
lived whose members included several kinds of honey-eaters, Queensland
finches, blackbirds and a dozen other tiny shy things which flitted
quickly from bush to bush all day. They knew Norah and, when she
entered their home, would flutter down and perch on her head and
shoulders, and look inquisitively for the flowers she always brought
them. Sometimes Norah would wear some artificial flowers, by way of a
joke. It was funny to see the little honey-eaters thrusting in their
long beaks again and again in search of the sweet drops they had
learned to expect in flowers, and funnier still to watch the air of
disgust with which they would give up the attempt.

There were doves everywhere—not in cages, for they never tried to
escape. Their soft “coo” murmured drowsily all around. There were
pigeons, too, in a most elaborate pigeon cote—another effort of Jim’s
carpentering skill. These were as tame as the smaller birds, and on
Norah’s appearance would swoop down upon her in a cloud. They had done
so once when she was mounted on Bobs, to the pony’s very great alarm
and disgust. He took to his heels promptly. “I don’t think he stopped
for two miles!” Norah said. Since then, however, Bobs had grown used to
the pigeons fluttering and circling round him. It was a pretty sight to
watch them all together, child and pony half hidden beneath their load
of birds.

The canaries had a cage to themselves—a very smart one, with every
device for making canary life endurable in captivity. Certainly Norah’s
birds seemed happy enough, and the sweet songs of the canaries were
delightful. I think they were Norah’s favourites amongst her feathered
flock.

Finally there were two talkative members—Fudge the parrot, and old
Caesar, a very fine white cockatoo. Fudge had been caught young, and
his education had been of a liberal order. An apt pupil, he had picked
up various items of knowledge, and had blended them into a whole that
was scarcely harmonious. Bits of slang learned from Jim and the
stockmen were mingled with fragments of hymns warbled by Mrs. Brown and
sharp curt orders delivered to dogs. A French swag-man, who had hurt
his foot and been obliged to camp for a few days at the homestead,
supplied Fudge with several Parisian remarks that were very effective.
Every member of the household had tried to teach him to whistle some
special tune. Unfortunately, the lessons had been delivered at the same
time, and the result was the most amazing jumble of melody, which Fudge
delivered with an air of deepest satisfaction. As Jim said, “You never
know if he’s whistling ‘God Save the King,’ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ or
‘The Wearin’ o’ the Green,’ but it doesn’t make any difference to
Fudge’s enjoyment!”

Caesar was a giant among cockatoos, and had a full sense of his own
importance.

He had been shot when very young, some stray pellets having found their
way into his wing. Norah had found him fluttering helplessly along the
ground, and had picked him up, sustaining a severe peck in doing so. It
was, however, the first and last peck he ever gave Norah. From that
moment he seemed to recognize her as a friend, and to adopt her as an
intimate—marks of esteem he accorded to very few others. Norah had
handed him to Jim on arriving at the house, a change which the bird
resented by a savage attack on Jim’s thumb. Jim was no hero—at the age
of eleven, he dropped the cockatoo like a hot coal. “Great Caesar!” he
exclaimed, sucking his thumb, and Caesar he was christened in that
moment.

After his recovery, which was a long and tedious process, Caesar showed
no inclination to leave the homestead. He used to strut about the back
yard, and frequent the kitchen door, very much after the fashion of a
house-dog. He was, indeed, as valuable as a watch-dog, for the
appearance of any stranger was the signal for a volley of shrieks and
chatter, sufficient to alarm any household. However, Caesar’s liberty
had to be restricted, for he became somewhat of a menace to all he did
not choose to care for, and his attacks on the ankles were no joking
matter.

To the dogs he was a constant terror. He hated all alike, and would “go
for” big Tait as readily as for cheerful little Puck, and not a dog on
the place would face him. So at last a stand and a chain were bought
for Caesar, and on his perch he lived in solitary splendour, while his
enemies took good care to keep beyond his reach. Norah he always loved,
and those whom he had managed to bite—their number was large—used to
experience thrills on seeing the little girl hold him close to her face
while he rubbed his beak up and down her cheek. He tolerated black
Billy, who fed him, and was respectful to Mr. Linton; but he worshipped
Mrs. Brown, the cook, and her appearance at the kitchen door, which he
could see from his stand, caused an instant outbreak of cheers and
chatter, varied by touching appeals to “scratch Cocky.” His chief foe
was Mrs. Brown’s big yellow cat, who not only dared to share the adored
one’s affections, but was openly aggressive at times, and loved to
steal the cockatoo’s food.

Caesar, on his perch, apparently wrapped in dreamless slumber, would in
reality be watching the stealthy movements of Tim, the cat, who would
come scouting through the grass towards the tin of food. Just out of
reach, Tim would lie down and feign sleep as deep as Caesar’s, though
every muscle in his body was tense with readiness for the sudden
spring. So they would remain, perhaps many minutes. Tim’s patience
never gave out. Sometimes Caesar’s would, and he would open his eyes
and flap round on his perch, shouting much bad bird language at the
retreating Tim. But more often both remained motionless until the cat
sprang suddenly at the food tin. More often than not he was too quick
for Caesar, and would drag the tin beyond reach of the chain before the
bird could defend it, in which case the wrath of the defeated was awful
to behold. But sometimes Caesar managed to anticipate the leap, and Tim
did not readily forget those distressful moments when the cockatoo had
him by the fur with beak and claw. He would escape, showing several
patches where his coat had been torn, and remained in a state of
dejection for two or three days, during which battles were
discontinued. It took Caesar almost as long to recover from the wild
state of triumph into which his rare victories threw him.




CHAPTER III.
A MENAGERIE RACE


The first time that Jim returned from school was for the Easter
holidays.

He brought a couple of mates with him—boys from New South Wales and
Queensland, Harry Trevor and Walter Meadows. Harry was a little older
than Jim—a short, thick-set lad, very fair and solemn, with
expressionless grey eyes, looking out beneath a shock of flaxen hair.
Those who knew him not said that he was stupid. Those who knew him said
that you couldn’t tell old Harry much that he didn’t know. Those who
knew him very well said that you could depend on Trevor to his last
gasp. Jim loved him—and there were few people Jim loved.

Walter—or Wally—Meadows was a different type; long and thin for
fourteen, burnt to almost Kaffir darkness; a wag of a boy, with merry
brown eyes, and a temperament unable to be depressed for more than five
minutes at a time. He was always in scrapes at school, but a great
favourite with masters and boys notwithstanding; and he straightway
laid his boyish heart down at Norah’s feet, and was her slave from the
first day they met.

Norah liked them both. She had been desperately afraid that they would
try to take Jim away from her, and was much relieved to find that they
welcomed her cheerfully into their plans. They were good riders, and
the four had splendid gallops over the plains after hares. Also they
admired Bobs fervently, and that was always a passport to Norah’s
heart.

It was on the third day of their visit, and they were making the
morning round of the pets, when a brilliant idea came to Wally.

“Let’s have a menagerie race!” he cried suddenly.

“What’s that?” Norah asked blankly.

“Why, you each drive an animal,” explained Wally, the words tumbling
over one another in his haste. “Say you drive the kangaroo, ’n me the
wallabies, ’n Jim the Orpington rooster, ’n we’ll give old Harry the
tortoise—turloise, I beg pardon!”

“Thanks,” said Harry dryly. “The tortoise scored once, you know, young
Wally!”

“Well, old man, you take him,” Wally said kindly. “Wouldn’t stand in
your way for a moment. We can use harness, can’t we?”

“Don’t know,” Jim said. “I never studied the rules of menagerie racing.
Use bridles, anyhow. It’s a good idea, I think. Let’s see how many
starters we can muster.”

They cruised round. Dogs were barred as being too intelligent—horses
were, of course, out of the question. Finally they fixed on the
possible candidates. They were the kangaroo, the wallabies, a big black
Orpington “rooster,” Fudge the parrot, Caesar the cockatoo, Mrs.
Brown’s big yellow cat, Tim, and the “turloise.”

“Eight,” said Harry laconically. The starters were all mustered in one
enclosure, and were on the worst of terms. “We’ll need more jockeys—if
you call ’em jockeys.”

“Well, there’s black Billy,” Jim said; “he’s available, and he’ll drive
whichever he’s told, and that’s a comfort. That’s five. And we’ll rouse
out old Lee Wing, and Hogg, that’s a ripping idea, ’cause they hate
each other so. Seven. Who’s eight? Oh, I know! We’ll get Mrs. Brown.”

Mrs. Brown was accordingly bearded in her den and, protesting
vigorously that she had no mind for racing, haled forth into the open.
She was a huge woman, as good-natured as she was fat, which said a good
deal. In her print dress, with enormous white apron and flapping sun
bonnet, she looked as unlikely a “jockey” as could be imagined.

Lee Wing, discovered in the onion bed, was presently brought to the
scratch, despite his protests. He said he “couldn’t lun,” but was told
that in all probability no running would be required of him. He also
said “no can dlive” many times, and further remarked, “Allee same gleat
bosh.” When he saw his arch enemy Hogg among the competitors his
resentment was keen, and Wally was told off to restrain him from
flight. Wally’s own idea was to tie him up by the pigtail, but this Jim
was prudent enough to forbid.

Hogg was, as Jim put it, rooting amongst the roses, and grunted freely
on his way to the post. He could never refuse Norah anything, but this
proceeding was much beneath his dignity, and the sight of Lee Wing did
not tend to improve his view of the matter. He stood aloof, with a
cold, proud smile, like a hero of melodrama.

Black Billy was, of course, in the stables, and came with alacrity. He
had not much English and that little was broken, but he worshipped the
Linton children—Jim especially, and would obey him with the
unquestioning obedience of a dog.

“All here?” asked Jim, looking round. “Five, six, eight—that’s all
serene. Now who’s going to drive who?”

Opinions on that point were mixed. Every one wanted the kangaroo, and
at last a general vote gave him to Norah. Wally chose one Wallaby. He
said it was only natural, and made a further remark about the feelings
of the others when “Wally and his wallaby should wallow by them” that
was happily quenched by Harry, who adopted the simple plan of sitting
on the orator. Harry secured the second wallaby, and black Billy was
given the Orpington rooster as his steed. Mrs. Brown from the first
applied for the tortoise. She said it meant less exertion, and she
preferred to be slow and sure, without any risk of over-work. Hogg
chose the yellow cat, Tim, and Lee Wing was given Caesar, the cockatoo.

“Leaving old Fudge for me,” Jim said ruefully. “What sort of a chance
do you think I’ve got? Never mind, I’m used to being suppressed.”

“Good for you,” observed Harry. “Now, how about harness?”

“Well, we’ll leave that to individual taste,” Jim said. “Here’s a ball
of string, and there are plenty of light straps. Mrs. Brown—you’re the
leading lady. How shall I harness your prancing steed for you?”

“You will have your joke, Master Jim,” retorted Mrs. Brown, bridling
and beaming. “Now, I don’t think I’ll harness my poor beastie at all.
Give me a couple of sticks to keep his head the right way and to poke
him gently, and we’ll beat you all yet!”

Norah and the two boys fixed up fearful and wonderful harness for their
nominations—collars of straps, and long string headpieces and reins.
The animals objected strongly to being harnessed, and the process was
most entertaining. Mrs. Brown was particularly appreciative, and at
length in a paroxysm of mirth narrowly escaped sitting down on the
tortoise.

Black Billy’s harness was not extensive. He tied a string round the
black Orpington’s leg, and retired to the stable for a few minutes,
returning with a bulging pocket, the contents of which he did not
communicate. Hogg did not attempt to bit and bridle the yellow cat,
which was much annoyed at the whole proceeding. Instead he fixed up a
collar and traces of string, and chose a long cane, more, he said, for
purposes of defence than for anything else. Lee Wing and Jim harnessed
their steeds in the same way—with a long string tied to each leg.

“All ready?” Jim queried. “Toe the line!”

The course was across a small paddock near the house—a distance of
about thirty yards—and the competitors were ranged up with no little
difficulty. Luckily, the line was a wide one, admitting of considerable
space between each starter, or the send-off might have been
inextricably confused. However, they were all arranged at last, and
Jim, in a stentorian voice, gave the word to “Go.”

As the signal was given, the drivers urged on their steeds according to
their judgment, and with magnificent results.

First to get off the line were the wallabies and the kangaroo. They
fled, each his several way, and after them went their drivers, in great
haste. The kangaroo had all the best of the start. So remarkable was
his bound that he twitched his reins quite out of Norah’s hands, and
made for the fence of the paddock. It was an open one, which let him
through easily. The wallabies, seeing his shining success, followed his
course, and midway managed to entangle their reins, at which Wally and
Harry were wildly hauling. Confusion became disorder, and the wallabies
at length reduced themselves to a tangle, out of which they had to be
assisted by means of Harry’s pocket knife.

Jim had no luck. The parrot went off well, but very soon seemed to
regret his rashness and, despite all Jim’s endeavours, returned with
solemnity to the start, where he paused and talked fluently in the
mixed language that was all his own. In desperation Jim tried to pull
him along, but Fudge simply walked round and round him, until he had
exhausted his driver’s patience, and was “turned out.”

The most spirited of the competitors were decidedly the cockatoo and
Tim. They were panting for each other’s blood from the start, and
before they had been urged over a quarter of the way they found an
opportunity of warfare, and seized it simultaneously. Then the air grew
murky with sound—cockatoo shrieks, mingled with cat calls and fluent
Chinese, cutting across Hogg’s good, broad Scots. Naturally, the
strings of the harness became fatally twisted immediately, and soon the
combatants were bound together with a firmness which not all the
efforts of their drivers could undo. A sudden movement of the pair made
Lee Wing spring back hastily, whereupon he tripped and stumbled
violently against Hogg.

Hogg’s temper was at vanishing point, and this was the last straw.

“Ye pig-tailed image!” he exclaimed furiously. Drawing back, he aimed a
blow at Lee Wing, which would have effectively put that gentle
Mongolian out of the race had he not dodged quickly. He shouted
something in his own language, which was evidently of no complimentary
nature, and hurled himself like a yellow tornado upon the angry
Scotsman. They struck out at each other with all possible ill-will, but
their science was much impeded by the fact that the cat and cockatoo
were fighting fiercely amongst their legs. Finally Lee Wing tripped
over Tim, and sat down abruptly, receiving as he did so an impassioned
peck from Caesar which elicited from him a loud yell of anguish. Hogg,
attempting to follow up his advantage, was checked suddenly by Jim, who
left his parrot to its own devices, and arrived on the scene at full
gallop.

“You are a blessed pair of duffers!” said Jim wrathfully. “Look here,
if father catches you fighting there’ll be the most awful row—and I’ll
be in it too, what’s worse. Clear out, for goodness’ sake, before he
comes along, and don’t get in each others’ road again!” and each
nursing bitterness in his heart, the rival gardeners returned to their
respective beds of roses and onions.

Left to their own devices, the yellow cat and the cockatoo departed
also, in a turmoil of wrath, with fur and feathers flying in equal
proportions. Eventually Tim found discretion the better part of valour
and scurried away to the safe shelter of the kitchen, pursued by Caesar
with loud shrieks of defiance and victory—sounds of joyful triumph
which lasted long after he had regained his perch and been securely
fastened by the leg with his hated chain.

Black Billy, meanwhile, had paid strict attention to business. The
vagaries of wallabies and kangaroo, of cat and parrot and cockatoo, had
no attraction for the dusky leader of the big black Orpington rooster.

The Orpington—Jonah, Norah called him—was not inclined to race. He had
tugged furiously at his leg rope, with much outcry and indignation,
until Billy, finding himself alone, owing to the eccentric behaviour of
the other starters, had resorted to different tactics by no means
devoid of native cunning. Slackening the line, he suddenly produced
from his pocket a few grains of wheat, and spread them temptingly
before Jonah.

Now Jonah was a tame bird. He was accustomed to being handled, and had
only been indignant at the disgrace of bonds. This new departure was
something he understood; so he gobbled up the wheat with alacrity and
looked up inquiringly for more.

“Right oh!” said Bffly, retiring a few steps down the track and
bringing out another grain. Jonah sprang after it, and then was dazzled
with the view of two lying yet a few yards farther off. So, feeding and
coaxing, black Billy worked his unsuspecting steed across the little
paddock.

No one was near when he reached the winning post, to which he promptly
tied Jonah, and, his purpose being accomplished, and no need of further
bribery being necessary, sat down beside him and meditatively began to
chew the remainder of his wheat. Jonah looked indignant, and poked
round after more grains, an attention which Billy met with jeers and
continued heartless mastication, until the Orpington gave up the quest
in disgust, and retired to the limit of his tether. Billy sat quietly,
with steadfast glittering eyes twinkling in his dusky face.

“Hallo!” It was Jim’s voice. “Where are all the rest? D’you mean to say
you’re the only one to get here?”

Billy grinned silently.

Sounds of mirth floated over the grass, and Norah, Harry and Wally
raced up.

“Where are your mokes?” queried Jim.

“The good knights are dust,
Their mokes are rust,”


misquoted Wally cheerfully.

“We don’t know, bless you. Cleared out, harness and all. We’ll have a
wallaby and kangaroo hunt after this. Who’s won?”

“Billy,” said Jim, indicating that sable hero. “In a common walk. Fed
him over. All right, now, Billy, you catch-um kangaroo, wallaby—d’you
hear?”

Billy showed a set of amazingly white teeth in a broad grin, and
departed swiftly and silently.

“Where’s Lee Wing?”

“Had to tear him off Hogg!” Jim grinned. “You never saw such a shindy.
They’ve retired in bad order.”

“Where’s Fudge?”

“Left at the post!”

“Where’s Mrs. Brown—and the tortoise?”

“Great Scott!” Jim looked round blankly. “That never occurred to me.
Where is she, I wonder?”

The course was empty.

“Tortoise got away with her!” laughed Wally.

“H’m,” said Jim. “We’ll track her to her lair.”

In her lair—the kitchen—Mrs. Brown was discovered, modestly hiding
behind the door. The tortoise was on the table, apparently cheerful.

“Poor dear pet!” said Mrs. Brown. “He wouldn’t run. I don’t think he
was awake to the situation, Master Jim, dear, so I just carried him
over—I didn’t think it mattered which way I ran—and my scones were in
the oven! They’re just out—perhaps you’d all try them?”—this
insinuatingly. “I don’t think this tortoise comes of a racing
family!”—and the great menagerie race concluded happily in the kitchen
in what Wally called “a hot buttered orgy.”




CHAPTER IV.
JIM’S IDEA


Two hammocks, side by side, under a huge pine tree, swung lazily to and
fro in the evening breeze. In them Norah and Harry rocked happily, too
comfortable, as Norah said, to talk. They had all been out riding most
of the day, and were happily tired. Tea had been discussed fully, and
everything was exceedingly peaceful.

Footsteps at racing speed sounded far off on the gravel of the front
path—a wide sweep that ran round the broad lawn. There was a scatter of
stones, and then a thud-thud over the grass to the pine trees—sounds
that signalised the arrival of Jim and Wally, in much haste. Jim’s
hurry was so excessive that he could not pull himself up in time to
avoid Harry. He bumped violently into the hammock, with the natural
result that Harry swung sharply against Norah, and for a moment things
were rather mixed.

“You duffer!” growled Harry, steadying his rocking bed. “Hurt you?
“—this to Norah.

“No, thanks,” Norah laughed. “What’s the matter with you two?”

“Got an idea,” Wally gasped, fanning himself with a pine cone.

“Hurt you?”

“Rather. It’s always a shock for me to have an idea. Anyway this isn’t
mine—it’s Jim’s.”

“Oh.” Norah’s tone was more respectful. Jim’s ideas were not to be
treated lightly as a rule. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“Fishing,” Jim said laconically. “Let’s start out at the very daybreak,
and get up the river to Anglers’ Bend. They say you can always get fish
there. We’ll ride, and take Billy to carry the tucker and look for
bait. Spend the whole blessed day, and come home with the mopokes. What
do you chaps say?”

“Grand idea!” Norah cried, giving her hammock an ecstatic swing. “We’ll
have to fly round, though. Did you ask Dad?”

“Yes, and he said we could go. It’s tucker that’s the trouble. I don’t
know if we’re too late to arrange about any.”

“Come and ask Mrs. Brown,” said Norah, flinging a pair of long black
legs over the edge of the hammock. “She’ll fix us up if she can.”

They tore off to the kitchen and arrived panting. Mrs. Brown was
sitting in calm state on the kitchen verandah, and greeted them with a
wide, expansive smile. Norah explained their need.

Mrs. Brown pursed up her lips.

“I haven’t anythink fancy, my dear,” she said slowly. “Only plum cake
and scones, and there’s a nice cold tongue, and an apple pie. I’d like
you to have tarts, but the fire’s out. Do you think you could manage?”

Jim laughed.

“I guess that’ll do, Mrs. Brown,” he said. “We’ll live like fighting
cocks, and bring you home any amount of fish for breakfast. Don’t you
worry about sandwiches, either—put in a loaf or two of bread, and a
chunk of butter, and we’ll be right as rain.”

“Then I’ll have it all packed for you first thing, Master Jim,” Mrs.
Brown declared.

“That’s ripping,” said the boys in a breath. “Come and find Billy.”

Billy was dragged from the recesses of the stable. He grinned widely
with joy at the prospect of the picnic.

“All the ponies ready at five, Billy,” ordered Jim. “Yours too. We’re
going to make a day of it—and we’ll want bait. Now, you chaps, come
along and get lines and hooks ready!”


“Whirr-r-r!”

The alarm clock by Jim’s bedside shrieked suddenly in the first hint of
daylight, and Jim sprang from his pillow with the alertness of a
Jack-in-the-box, and grabbed the clock, to stop its further eloquence.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, and yawned tremendously. At the
other side of the room Harry slept peacefully. Nearer Wally’s black
eyes twinkled for a moment, and hurriedly closed, apparently in deep
slumber. He snored softly.

“Fraud!” said Jim, with emphasis. He seized his pillow, and hurled it
vigorously. It caught Wally on the face and stayed there, and beneath
its shelter the victim still snored on serenely.

Jim rose with deliberation and, seizing the bedclothes, gave a
judicious pull, which ended in Wally’s suddenly finding himself on the
floor. He clasped wildly at the blankets, but they were dragged from
his reluctant grasp. Jim’s toe stirred him gently and at length he
rose.

“Beast!” he said miserably. “What on earth’s the good of getting up at
this hour?”

“Got to make an early start,” replied his host. “Come and stir up old
Harry.”

Harry was noted as a sleeper. Pillows hurled on top of him were as
nought. The bedclothes were removed, but he turned on his side and
slumbered like a little child.

“And to think,” Wally said, “that that chap springs up madly when the
getting-up bell rings once at school!”

“School was never like this,” Jim grinned. “There’s the squirt, Wal.”

The squirt was there; so was the jug of water, and a moment sufficed to
charge the weapon. The nozzle was gently inserted into the sleeper’s
pyjama collar, and in a moment the drenched and wrathful hero arose
majestically from his watery pillow and, seizing his tormentors, banged
their heads together with great effort.

“You’re slow to wake, but no end of a terror when once you rouse up,”
said Wally, ruefully rubbing his pate.

“Goats!” said Harry briefly, rubbing his neck with a hard towel. “Come
on and have a swim.”

They tore down the hail, only pausing at Norah’s door while Jim ran in
to wake her—a deed speedily accomplished by gently and firmly pressing
a wet sponge upon her face. Then they raced to the lagoon, and in a few
minutes were splashing and ducking in the water. They spent more time
there than Jim had intended, their return being delayed by a spirited
boat race between Harry’s slippers, conducted by Wally and Jim. By the
time Harry had rescued his sopping footgear, the offenders were beyond
pursuit in the middle of the lagoon, so he contented himself with
annexing Jim’s slippers, in which he proudly returned to the house.
Jim, arriving just too late to save his own, promptly “collared” those
of Wally, leaving the last-named youth no alternative but to paddle
home in the water-logged slippers—the ground being too rough and stony
to admit of barefoot travelling.

Norah, fresh from the bath, was prancing about the verandah in her
kimono as the boys raced up to the house, her hair a dusky cloud about
her face.

“Not dressed?—you laziness!” Jim flung at her.

“Well, you aren’t either,” was the merry retort.

“No; but we’ve got no silly hair to brush!”

“Pooh!—that won’t take me any time. Mrs. Brown’s up, Jim, and she says
breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Good old Brownie!” Jim ejaculated. “Can’t beat her, can you? D’you
know if she’s got the swag packed?”

“Everything’s packed, and she’s given it all to Billy, and it’s on old
Polly by now.” Polly was the packhorse. “Such a jolly, big bundle—and
everything covered over with cabbage leaves to keep it cool.”

“Hooroo for Casey! Well, scurry and get dressed, old girl. I bet you
keep us waiting at the last.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” was the indignant answer, as Norah ran off through
the hail. “Think of how much longer you take over your breakfast!”

Ten minutes later breakfast smoked on the wide kitchen table, Mrs.
Brown, like a presiding goddess, flourishing a big spoon by a
frying-pan that sent up a savoury odour.

“I’m sure I hope you’ll all kindly excuse having it in here,” she said
in pained tones. “No use to think of those lazy hussies of girls having
the breakfast-room ready at this hour. So I thought as how you wouldn’t
mind.”

“Mind!—not much, Mrs. Brown,” Jim laughed. “You’re too good to us
altogether. Eggs and bacon! Well, you are a brick! Cold tucker would
have done splendidly for us.”

“Cold, indeed!—not if I know it—and you precious lambs off for such a
ride, and going to be hot weather and all,” said the breathless Mrs.
Brown indignantly. “Now, you just eat a good breakfast, Miss Norah, my
love. I’ve doughnuts here, nearly done, nice and puffy and brown, just
as you like them, so hurry up and don’t let your bacon get cold.”

There was not, indeed, much chance for the bacon, which disappeared in
a manner truly alarming, while its fate was speedily shared by the huge
pile of crisp doughnuts which Mrs. Brown presently placed upon the
table with a flourish.

“We don’t get things like this at school!” Wally said regretfully,
pausing for an instant before his seventh.

“All the more reason you should eat plenty now,” said their
constructor, holding the doughnuts temptingly beneath his nose. “Come
now, dearie, do eat something!” and Wally bashfully recommenced his
efforts.

“How’s Billy getting on?” Jim inquired.

“Billy’s in the back kitchen, Master Jim, my love, and you’ve no call
to worry your head about him, He’s had three plates of bacon and five
eggs, and most like by this time he’s finished all his doughnuts and
drunk his coffee-pot dry. That black image will eat anythink,”
concluded Mrs. Brown solemnly.

“Well, I can’t eat anything more, anyhow,” Jim declared. “How we’re all
going to ride fifteen miles beats me. If we sleep all day, instead of
catching fish for you, you’ve only got yourself to blame, Mrs. Brown.”
Whereat Mrs. Brown emitted fat and satisfied chuckles, and the meeting
broke up noisily, and rushed off to find its hats.

Six ponies in a line against the stable yard fence—Bobs, with an eye
looking round hopefully for Norah and sugar; Mick, most feather-headed
of chestnuts, and Jim’s especial delight; Topsy and Barcoo, good useful
station ponies, with plenty of fun, yet warranted not to break the
necks of boy-visitors; Bung Eye, a lean piebald, that no one but black
Billy ever thought of riding; next to him old Polly, packed securely
with the day’s provisions. Two fishing-rods stuck out from her bundles,
and a big bunch of hobbles jingled as she moved.

There was nothing in the saddles to distinguish Norah’s mount, for she,
too, rode astride. Mr. Linton had a rooted dislike to side saddles, and
was wont to say he preferred horses with sound withers and a daughter
whose right hip was not higher than her left. So Norah rode on a dainty
little hunting saddle like Jim’s, her habit being a neat divided skirt,
which had the double advantage of looking nice on horseback, and having
no bothersome tail to hold up when off.

The boys were dressed without regard to appearances—loose old coats and
trousers, soft shirts and leggings. Red-striped towels, peeping out of
Polly’s packs, indicated that Jim had not forgotten the possibilities
of bathing which the creek afforded. A tin teapot jangled cheerfully
against a well-used black billy.

“All right, you chaps?” Jim ran his eye over the ponies and their gear.
“Better have a look at your girths. Come along.”

Norah was already in the saddle, exulting over the fact that, in spite
of Jim’s prophecy that she would be late, she was the first to be
mounted. Bobs was prancing happily, infected with the gaiety of the
moment, the sweet morning air and sunshine, and the spirit of mirth
that was everywhere. Mick joined him in capering, as Jim swung himself
into the saddle. Billy, leading Polly, and betraying an evident
distaste for a task which so hampered the freedom of his movements,
moved off down the track.

Just as Wally and Harry mounted, a tall figure in pyjamas appeared at
the gate of the back yard.

“There’s Dad!” Norah cried gleefully, cantering up to him. The boys
followed.

“Had to get up to see the last of you,” Mr. Linton said; “not much
chance of sleeping anyhow, with you rowdy people about.”

“Did we wake you, Dad?—sorry.”

“Very sorry, aren’t you?” Mr. Linton laughed at the merry face. “Well,
take care of yourselves; remember, Norah’s in your charge, Jim, and all
the others in yours, Norah! Keep an eye to your ponies, and don’t let
them stray too far, even if they are hobbled. And mind you bring me
home any amount of fish, Harry and Wal.”

“We will, sir,” chorused the boys.

Norah leant from her saddle and slipped an arm round her father’s neck.

“Good-bye, Dad, dear.”

“Good-bye, my little girl. Be careful—don’t forget.” Mr. Linton kissed
her fondly. “Well, you’re all in a hurry—and so am I, to get back to
bed! So-long, all of you. Have a good time.”

“So-long!” The echoes brought back the merry shout as the six ponies
disappeared round the bend in the track.

Down the track to the first gate helter-skelter—Billy, holding it open,
showed his white teeth in a broad grin as the merry band swept through.
Then over the long grass of the broad paddock, swift hoofs shaking off
the dewdrops that yet hung sparkling in the sunshine. Billy plodded far
behind with the packhorse, envy in his heart and discontent with the
fate that kept him so far in the rear, compelled to progress at the
tamest of jogs.

The second paddock traversed, they passed through the sliprails into a
bush paddock known as the Wide Plain. It was heavily timbered towards
one end, where the river formed its boundary, but towards the end at
which they entered was almost cleared, only a few logs lying here and
there, and occasionally a tall dead tree.

“What a place for a gallop!” said Harry. His quiet face was flushed and
his eyes sparkling.

“Look at old Harry!” jeered Wally. “He’s quite excited. Does your
mother know you’re out, Hal?”

“I’ll punch you, young Wally,” retorted Harry. “Just you be civil. But
isn’t it a splendid place? Why, there’s a clear run for a mile, I
should say.”

“More than that,” Jim answered. “We’ve often raced here.”

“Oh!” Norah’s eyes fairly danced. “Let’s have a race now!”

“Noble idea!” exclaimed Wally.

“Well, it’ll have to be a handicap to make it fair,” Jim said. “If we
start level, Norah’s pony can beat any of the others, and I think Mick
can beat the other two. At any rate we’ll give you fellows a start, and
Norah must give me one.”

“I don’t care,” Norah said gleefully, digging her heel into Bobs, with
the result that that animal suddenly executed a bound in mid-air.
“Steady, you duffer; I didn’t mean any offence, Bobsie dear,” She
patted his neck.

“I should think you wouldn’t care,” Jim said. “Best pony and lightest
weight! You ought to be able to leave any of us miles behind, so we’ll
give you a beautiful handicap, young woman!”

“Where’s the winning post?” Harry asked.

“See that big black tree—the one just near the boundary fence, I mean?
It’s a few chains from the fence, really. We’ll finish there,” Jim
replied.

“Come on, then,” said Norah, impatiently. “Get on ahead, Harry and
Wally; you’ll have to sing out ‘Go!’ Jim, and sing it out loud, ’cause
we’ll be ever so far apart.”

“Right oh!” Jim said. “Harry, clear on a good way; you’re the heaviest.
Pull up when I tell you; you too, Wal.” He watched the two boys ride on
slowly, and sang out to them to stop when he considered they had
received a fair start. Then he rode on himself until he was midway
between Wally and Norah, Harry some distance ahead of the former. The
ponies had an inkling of what was in the wind, and were dancing with
impatience.

“Now then, Norah,”—Jim flung a laughing look over his shoulder—“no
cribbing there!”

“I’m not!” came an indignant voice.

“All right—don’t! Ready every one? Then—go!” As the word “Go” left
Jim’s lips the four ponies sprang forward sharply, and a moment later
were in full gallop over the soft springy turf. It was an ideal place
for a race—clear ground, covered with short soft grass, well eaten off
by the sheep—no trees to bar the way, and over all a sky of the
brightest blue, flecked by tiny, fleecy cloudlets.

They tore over the paddock, shouting at the ponies laughing, hurling
defiance at each other. At first Harry kept his lead; but weight will
tell, and presently Wally was almost level with him, with Jim not far
behind. Bobs had not gone too well at first—he was too excited to get
thoroughly into his stride, and had spent his time in dancing when he
should have been making up his handicap.

When, however, he did condescend to gallop, the distance that separated
him from the other ponies was rapidly overhauled. Norah, leaning
forward in her stirrups, her face alight with eagerness, urged him on
with voice and hand—she rarely, if ever touched him with a whip at any
time. Quickly she gained on the others; now Harry was caught and
passed, even as Jim caught Wally and deprived him of the lead he had
gaily held for some time. Wally shouted laughing abuse at him, flogging
his pony on the while.

Now Norah was neck and neck with Wally, and slowly she drew past him
and set sail after Jim. That she could beat him she knew very well, but
the question was, was there time to catch him? The big tree which
formed the winning post was very near now. “Scoot, Bobsie, dear!”
whispered Norah unconscious of the fact that she was saying anything
unmaidenly. At any rate, Bobs understood, for he went forward with a
bound. They were nearly level with Jim now—Wally, desperately flogging,
close in the rear.

At that moment Jim’s pony put his foot into a hole, and went down like
a shot rabbit, bowling over and over, Jim flung like a stone out of a
catapult, landed some distance ahead of the pony. He, too, rolled for a
moment, and then lay still.

It seemed to Norah that she pulled Bobs up almost in his stride.
Certainly she was off before he had fairly slackened to a walk,
throwing herself wildly from the saddle. She tore up to Jim—Jim, who
lay horribly still.

“Jim—dear Jim!” she cried. She took his head on her knee. “Jim—oh, Jim,
do speak to me!”

There was no sound. The boy lay motionless, his tanned face strangely
white. Harry, coming up, jumped off, and ran to his side.

“Is he hurt much?”

“I don’t know—no, don’t you say he’s hurt much—he couldn’t be, in such
a second! Jim—dear—speak, old chap!” A big sob rose in her throat, and
choked her at the heavy silence. Harry took Jim’s wrist in his hand,
and felt with fumbling fingers for the pulse. Wally, having pulled his
pony up with difficulty, came tearing back to the little group.

“Is he killed?” he whispered, awestruck.

A little shiver ran through Jim’s body. Slowly he opened his eyes, and
stretched himself.

“What’s up?” he said weakly. “Oh, I know.... Mick?”

“He’s all right, darling,” Norah said, with a quivering voice. “Are you
hurt much?”

“Bit of a bump on my head,” Jim said, struggling to a sitting position.
He rubbed his forehead. “What’s up, Norah?” For the brown head had gone
down on his knee and the shoulders were shaking.

Jim patted her head very gently.

“You dear old duffer,” he said tenderly.




CHAPTER V.
ANGLERS’ BEND


Jim’s “bump on the head” luckily proved not very serious. A
handkerchief, soaked in the creek by Wally, who rode there and back at
a wild gallop, proved an effective bandage applied energetically by
Harry, who had studied “first-aid” in an ambulance class. Ten minutes
of this treatment, however, proved as much as Jim’s patience would
stand, and at the end of that time he firmly removed the handkerchief,
and professed himself cured.

“Nothing to make a fuss about, anyhow,” he declared, in answer to
sympathetic inquiries. “Head’s a bit ‘off,’ but nothing to grumble at.
It’ll be all right, if we ride along steadily for a while. I don’t
think I’ll do any more racing just now though, thank you!”

“Who won that race?” queried Harry, laughing. The spirits of the little
party, from being suddenly at zero, had gone up with a bound.

“Blessed if I know,” said Jim. “I only know I was leading until Mick
ended matters for me.”

“I led after that, anyhow,” said Wally. “Couldn’t pull my beauty up, he
was so excited by Mick’s somersault.”

“I’d have won, in the long run!” Norah said. There were still traces of
tears in her eyes, but her face was merry enough. She was riding very
close to Jim.

“Yes, I think you would,” Jim answered; “you and Bobs were coming up
like a hurricane last time I looked round. Never mind, we’ll call it
anybody’s race and have it over again sometime.”

They rode along for a few miles, keeping close to the river, which
wound in and out, fringed with a thick belt of scrub, amongst which
rose tall red-gum trees. Flights of cockatoos screamed over their
heads, and magpies gurgled in the thick shades by the water.
Occasionally came the clear whistle of a lyre bird or the peal of a
laughing jackass. Jim knew all the bird-notes, as well as the signs of
bush game, and pointed them out as they rode. Once a big wallaby showed
for an instant, and there was a general outcry and a plunge in pursuit,
but the wallaby was too quick for them, and found a safe hiding-place
in the thickest of the scrub, where the ponies could not follow.

“We cross the creek up here,” Jim said, “and make ’cross country a bit.
It saves several miles.”

“How do you cross? Bridge?” queried Wally.

“Bridge!—don’t grow such things in this part of the world,” laughed
Jim. “No, there’s a place where it’s easy enough to ford, a little way
up. There are plenty of places fordable, if you only know them, on this
creek; but a number of them are dangerous, because of deep holes and
boggy places. Father lost a good horse in one of those bogs, and to
look at the place you’d only have thought it a nice level bit of grassy
ground.”

“My word!” Wally whistled. “What a bit of hard luck!”

“Yes, it was, rather,” Jim said. “It made us careful about crossing, I
can tell you. Even the men look out since Harry Wilson got bogged
another time, trying to get over after a bullock. Of course he wouldn’t
wait to go round, and he had an awful job to get his horse out of the
mud—it’s something like a quicksand. After that father had two or three
good crossings made very plain and clear, and whenever a new man is put
on they’re explained to him. See, there’s one now.”

They came suddenly on a gap in the scrub, leading directly to the
creek, which was, indeed, more of a river than a creek, and in winter
ran in a broad, rapid stream. Even in summer it ran always, though the
full current dwindled to a trickling, sluggish streamlet, with here and
there a deep, quiet pool, where the fish lay hidden through the long
hot days.

All the brushwood and trees had been cleared away, leaving a broad
pathway to the creek. At the edge of the gap a big board, nailed to a
tall tree, bore the word FORD in large letters. Farther on, between the
trees, a glimpse of shining water caught the eye.

“That’s the way father’s had all the fords marked,” Norah said. “He
says it’s no good running risks for the sake of a little trouble.”

“Dad’s always preaching that,” Jim observed. “He says people are too
fond of putting up with makeshifts, that cost ever so much more time
and trouble than it does to do a thing thoroughly at the start. So he
always makes us do a thing just as well as we know how, and there’s no
end of rows if he finds any one ‘half doing’ a job. ‘Begin well and
finish better,’ he says. My word, it gives you a lesson to see how he
fixes a thing himself.”

“Dear old Dad,” said Norah softly, half to herself.

“I think your father’s just splendid,” Harry said enthusiastically. “He
does give you a good time, too.”

“Yes, I know he does,” Jim said. “I reckon he’s the best man that ever
lived! All the same, he doesn’t mean to give me a good time always.
When I leave school I’ve got to work and make my own living, with just
a start from him. He says he’s not going to bring any boy up to be a
loafer.” Jim’s eyes grew soft. “I mean to show him I can work, too,” he
said.

They were at the water’s edge, and the ponies gratefully put their
heads down for a drink of the cool stream that clattered and danced
over its stony bed. After they had finished, Jim led the way through
the water, which was only deep enough to wash the ponies’ knees. When
they had climbed the opposite bank, a wide, grassy plain stretched
before them.

“We cut across here,” Norah explained, “and pick up the creek over
there—that saves a good deal.”

“Does Billy know this cut?” Harry queried.

“What doesn’t Billy know?” Norah laughed. “Come along.”

They cantered slowly over the grass, remembering that Jim was scarcely
fit yet for violent exercise, though he stoutly averred that his
accident had left no traces whatever. The sun was getting high and it
was hot, away from the cool shade near the creek. Twice a hare bounded
off in the grass, and once Harry jumped off hurriedly and killed a big
brown snake that was lazily sunning itself upon a broad log.

“I do hate those beasts!” he said, remounting. Norah had held his pony
for him.

“So do I,” she nodded; “only one gets used to them. Father found one on
his pillow the other night.”

“By George!” Harry said. “Did he kill it?”

“Yes, rather. They are pretty thick here, especially a bit earlier than
this. One got into the kitchen through the window, by the big vine that
grows outside, and when Mrs. Brown pulled down the blind it came,
too—it was on the roller. That was last Christmas, and Mrs. Brown says
she’s shaking still!”

“Snakes are rummy things,” Harry observed. “Ever hear that you can
charm them with music?”

“I’ve heard it,” Norah said quaintly. Her tone implied that it was a
piece of evidence she did not accept on hearsay.

“Well, I believe it’s true. Last summer a whole lot of us were out on
the verandah, and there was plenty of laughing and talking going on—a
snake wouldn’t crawl into a rowdy group like that for the fun of it,
now, would he? It was Christmas day, and my little brother Phil—he’s
six—had found a piccolo in his stocking, and he was sitting on the end
of the verandah playing away at this thing. We thought it was a bit of
a row, but Phil was quite happy. Presently my sister Vera looked at
him, and screamed out, ‘Why, there’s a snake!’

“So there was, and it was just beside Phil. It had crawled up between
the verandah boards, and was lying quietly near the little chap,
looking at him stealthily—he was blowing away, quite unconcerned. We
didn’t know what to do for a moment, for the beastly thing was so near
Phil that we didn’t like to hit it for fear we missed and it bit him.
However, Phil solved the difficulty by getting up and walking off,
still playing the piccolo. The snake never stirred when he did—and you
may be sure it didn’t get much chance to stir after. Three sticks came
down on it at the same time.”

“I say!” Norah breathed quickly. “What an escape for poor Phil!”

“Wasn’t it? He didn’t seem to care a bit when we showed him the snake
and told him it had been so near him—he hadn’t known a thing about it.
‘Can’t be bovvered wiv snakes,’ was all he said.”

“When I was a little kiddie,” Norah said, “they found me playing with a
snake one day.”

“Playing with it?” Harry echoed.

“Yes; I was only about two, and I don’t remember anything about it. Dad
came on to the back verandah, and saw me sitting by a patch of dust,
stroking something. He couldn’t make out what it was at first, and then
he came a bit nearer, and saw that it was a big snake. It was lying in
the dust sunning itself, and I was stroking it most kindly.”

“By George!” said Harry.

“Funny what things kiddies will do!” said Norah, with all the
superiority of twelve long years. “It frightened Dad tremendously. He
didn’t know what to do, ’cause he didn’t dare come near or call out. I
s’pose the snake saw him, ’cause it began to move. It crawled right
over my bare legs.”

“And never bit you?”

“No; I kept on stroking its back as it went over my knees, without the
least idea that it was anything dangerous. Dad said it seemed years and
years before it went right over and crawled away from me into the
grass. He had me out of the way in about half a second, and got a
stick, and I cried like anything when he killed it, and said he was
naughty!”

“If you chaps have finished swopping snake yarns,” said Jim, turning in
his saddle, “there’s Anglers’ Bend.”

They had been riding steadily across the plain, until they had again
come near the scrub-line which marked the course of the creek.
Following the direction pointed by Jim’s finger, they saw a deep curve
in the green, where the creek suddenly left the fairly straight course
it had been pursuing and made two great bends something like a capital
U, the points of which lay in their direction. They rode down between
them until they were almost at the water’s edge.

Here the creek was very deep, and in sweeping round had cut out a wide
bed, nearly three times its usual breadth. Tall trees grew almost to
the verge of the banks on both sides, so that the water was almost
always in shadow, while so high were the banks that few breezes were
able to ripple its surface. It lay placid all the year, scarcely
troubled even in winter, when the other parts of the creek rushed and
tumbled in flood. There was room in the high banks of Anglers’ Bend for
all the extra water, and its presence was only marked by the strength
of the current that ran in the very centre of the stream.

Just now the water was not high, and seemed very far below the
children, who sat looking at it from their ponies on the bank. As they
watched in silence a fish leaped in the middle of the Bend. The sudden
movement seemed amazing in the stillness. It flashed for an instant in
a patch of sunlight, and then fell back, sending circling ripples
spreading to each bank.

“Good omen, I hope,” Harry said, “though they often don’t bite when
they jump, you know.”

“It’s not often they don’t bite here,” Jim said.

“Well, it looks a good enough place for anything—if we can’t catch fish
here, we won’t be up to much as anglers,” Harry said.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you, Norah?” Wally asked.

“Oh, yes; ever so many times.”

“Father and Norah have great fishing excursions on their own,” said
Jim. “They take a tent and camp out for two or three days with Billy as
general flunkey. I don’t know how many whales they haven’t caught at
this place. They know the Bend as well as any one.”

“Well, I guess we’d better take off the saddles and get to work,” said
Norah, slipping off Bobs and patting his neck before undoing the girth.
The boys followed her example and soon the saddles were safely stowed
in the shade. Then Jim turned with a laugh.

“Well, we are duffers,” he said. “Can’t do a thing till Billy turns up.
He’s got all the hooks and lines, all the bait, all the hobbles, all
the everything!”

“Whew-w!” whistled the boys.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Norah said cheerfully. “There’s lots to do.
We can hang up the ponies while we hunt for rods. You boys have got
your strong knives, haven’t you?”

They had, and immediately scattered to work. The ponies having been
tied securely under a grove of saplings, the search for rods began, and
soon four long straight sticks were obtained with the necessary amount
of “springiness.” Then they hunted for a suitable camping-ground, where
lunch might be eaten without too much disturbance from flies and
mosquitoes, and gathered a good supply of dry sticks for a fire.

“Billy ought to bless us, anyhow,” Jim grinned.

“Yes, oughtn’t he? Come along and see if he’s coming.” They ran out
upon the plain, and cheerful exclamations immediately proclaimed the
fact that Billy and the old packhorse had at length made their
appearance in what Wally called the “offing.”

Billy soon clattered up to the little party, the hobbles and quart pot
jingling cheerfully on old Polly’s back. He grinned amiably at the four
merry faces awaiting him in the shade of a wattle tree.

“This feller pretty slow,” he said, indicating Polly with a jerk of his
thumb. “You all waitin’ for tackle?”

“Rather,” said Jim. “Never mind, we’ve got everything ready. Look sharp
and shy down the hooks, Billy—they’re in that tin, and the lines are
tied on to it, in a parcel. That’s right,” as the black boy tossed the
tackle down and he caught it deftly. “Now, you chaps, get to work, and
get your lines ready.”

“Right oh!” said the chorus, as it fell to work. Billy made a swift
incursion into the interior of the pack, and fished up a tin of worms
and some raw meat, Wally being the only one to patronize the latter.
The other three baited their hooks with worms, and, all being in
readiness, made their way down the steep bank at a place where a little
cleft gave easier access to a tiny shelving beach below. Here a great
tree-trunk had long ago been left by an unusually high flood, and
formed a splendid place to fish from, as it jutted out for some
distance over the stream. Norah scrambled out like a cat to its
farthest extremity, and Harry followed her for part of the way. Wally
and Jim settled themselves at intervals along the trunk. Sinkers,
floats and baits were examined, and the business of the day began.

Everybody knows how it feels to fish. You throw in your hook with such
blissful certainty that no fish can possibly resist the temptation you
are dangling before its eyes. There is suppressed excitement all over
you. You are all on the alert, feeling for imaginary nibbles, for bites
that are not there. Sometimes, of course, the dreams come true, and the
bites are realities; but these occasions are sadly outnumbered by the
times when you keep on feeling and bobbing your line vainly, while
excitement lulls to expectation, and expectation merges into hope, and
hope becomes wishing, and wishing often dies down to disappointment.

Such was the gradual fate of the fishing party at Anglers’ Bend. At
first the four floats were watched with an intensity of regard that
should surely have had some effect in luring fishes to the surface; but
as the minutes dragged by and not a fish seemed inclined even to
nibble, the solemn silence which had brooded on the quartet was broken
by sundry fidgetings and wrigglings and suppressed remarks on the
variableness of fish and the slowness of fishing. Men enjoy the sport,
because they can light their pipes and smoke in expectant ease; but the
consolation of tobacco was debarred from boys who were, as Jim put it,
“too young to smoke and too old to make idiots of themselves by trying
it,” and so they found it undeniably dull.

Billy came down to join the party presently, after he had seen to his
horses and unpacked old Polly’s load. His appearance gave Jim a
brilliant idea, and he promptly despatched the black boy for cake,
which proved a welcome stimulant to flagging enthusiasm.

“Don’t know if fish care about cake crumbs,” said Harry, finishing a
huge slice with some regret.

“Didn’t get a chance of sampling any of mine,” Wally laughed; “I wanted
it all myself. Hallo!”

“What is it—a bite?”

“Rather—such a whopper! I’ve got it, too,” Wally gasped, tugging at his
line.

“You’ve got it, right enough,” Jim said. “Why, your rod’s bending right
over. Want a hand?”

“No, thanks—manage it myself,” said the fisherman, tugging manfully.
“Here she comes!”

The line came in faster now, and the strain on the rod was plain.
Excitement ran high.

“It’s a great big perch, I do believe,” Norah exclaimed. “Just fancy,
if it beats Dad’s big boomer—the biggest ever caught here.”

“It’ll beat some records,” Wally gasped, hauling in frantically. “Here
she comes!”

“She” came, with a final jerk. Jim broke into a suppressed shout of
laughter. For Wally’s catch was nothing less than an ancient, mud-laden
boot!




CHAPTER VI.
A BUSH FIRE


Wally disentangled his hook gravely, while the others would have
laughed more heartily but for fear of frightening the fish.

“Well, I’m blessed!” said the captor at length, surveying the prize
with his nose in the air. “A blooming old boot! Been there since the
year one, I should think, by the look of it.”

“I thought you had a whale at the very least,” grinned Harry.

“Well, I’ve broken my duck, anyhow, and that’s more than any of you
others can say!” Wally laughed. “Time enough for you to grin when
you’ve caught something yourselves—even if it’s only an old boot! It’s
a real old stager and no mistake. I wonder how it came in here.”

“Some poor old beggar of a swaggie, I expect,” Jim said. “He didn’t
chuck it away until it was pretty well done, did he? Look at the holes
in the uppers—and there’s no sole left to speak of.”

“Do you see many tramps here?” Harry asked.

“Not many—we’re too far from a road,” Jim replied. “Of course there are
a certain number who know of the station, and are sure of getting
tucker there—and a job if they want one—not that many of them do, the
lazy beggars. Most of them would be injured if you asked them to chop a
bit of wood in return for a meal, and some of them threaten to set the
place on fire if they don’t get all they want.”

“My word!” said Wally. “Did they ever do it?”

“Once—two years ago,” Jim answered. “A fellow came one hot evening in
January. We’d had a long spell of heat, and all our meat had gone bad
that day; there was hardly a bit in the place, and of course they
couldn’t kill a beast till evening. About the middle of the day this
chap turned up and asked for tucker.

“Mrs. Brown gave him bread and flour and tea and some cake—a real good
haul for any swaggie. It was too good for this fellow, for he
immediately turned up his proud nose and said he wanted meat. Mrs.
Brown explained that she hadn’t any to give him; but he evidently
didn’t believe her, said it was our darned meanness and, seeing no men
about, got pretty insulting. At last he tried to force his way past
Mrs. Brown into the kitchen.”

“Did he get in?” asked Wally.

“Nearly—not quite, though. Dad and Norah and I had been out riding, and
we came home, past the back yard, in the nick of time. We couldn’t hear
what the fellow was saying to Mrs. Brown, but his attitude was enough
to make us pull up, and as we did so we saw him try to shove her aside.
She was plucky enough and banged the door in his face, but he got his
foot in the crack, so that it couldn’t shut, and began to push it open.

“Dad slipped off his horse gently. He made a sign to us to keep quiet
and went across the yard, and we saw him shake the lash of his
stockwhip loose. You can just fancy how Norah and I were dancing with
joy!

“Dad was just near the verandah when we saw the door give. Poor old
Brownie was getting the worst of it. We heard the fellow call out
something—a threat—and Dad’s arm went up, and the stockwhip came down
like a flash across the man’s shoulder He gave one yell! You never
heard such an amazed and terrified roar in your life!” and Jim chuckled
with joy at the recollection.

“He turned on Dad and jumped at him, but he got another one with the
whip that made him pause, and then Dad caught him and shook him like a
rat. Mr. Swaggie was limp enough when it was over.

“‘I’ve a very good mind to give you in charge!’ Dad said—he was simply
furious. It made a fellow feel pretty bad to see poor old Brownie’s
white face in the doorway, and to think what a fright she had had.

“The swaggie turned a very ugly look on Dad.

“‘You give me in charge, and I’ll precious quick have you up for
assault!’ he said.

“Dad laughed.

“‘As for that, you can do exactly as you choose,’ he said. ‘I’ll be
quite ready to answer for thrashing a cur like you. However, you’re not
worth carting seventeen miles to Cunjee, so you can go—the quicker the
better.”

“And he cleared, I suppose?” Wally asked.

“He just did—went like a redshank. But when he got outside the gate and
a bit away he stopped and turned round and let fly at Dad—such a volley
of threats and abuse you never heard. It finished up with something
about the grass; we didn’t quite understand what; but we remembered it
later, and then it was clearer to us. However, he didn’t stop to
explain, as Dad turned the dogs loose. They lost no time, and neither
did the swaggie. He left the place at about the rate of a mile a
minute!”

Jim paused.

“Thought I had a bite,” he said, pulling up his line. “Bother it! The
bait’s gone! Chuck me a worm, young Wally.” He impaled the worm and
flung his line out again.

“Where was I? Oh, yes. Norah and I were a bit scared about the swaggie,
and wondered what he’d try to do; but Dad only laughed at us. It never
entered his head that the brute would really try to have his revenge.
Of course it would have been easy enough to have had him watched off
the place, but Dad didn’t even think of it. He knows better now.

“I waked up early next morning hearing someone yelling outside. It was
only just light. I slipped out of my window and ran into the yard, and
the first thing I saw was smoke. It was coming from the west, a great
cloud of it, with plenty of wind to help it along. It was one of those
hot autumn mornings—you know the kind. Make you feel anyhow.”

“Who was yelling?” asked Harry.

“One of Morrison’s men—he owns the land adjoining ours. This fellow was
coo-eeing for all he was worth.

“‘You’d better rouse your men out quick ’n lively,’ he sang out.
‘There’s a big grass fire between us and you. All our chaps are workin’
at it; but I don’t fancy they can keep it back in this wind.’

“I just turned and ran.

“The big bell we use for summoning the men to their meals hangs under
the kitchen verandah and I made a bee-line for it. There seemed plenty
of rocks and bits of glass about, and my bare feet got ’em all—at least
I thought so—but there wasn’t time to think much. Morrison’s chap had
galloped off as soon as he gave his news. I caught hold of the
bell-pull and worked it all I knew!

“You should have seen them tumble out! In about half a minute the place
was like a jumpers’ nest that you’ve stirred up with a stick. Dad came
out of the back door in his pyjamas, Norah came scudding along the
verandah, putting on her kimono as she ran, Brownie and the other
servants appeared at their windows, and the men came tumbling out of
the barracks and the hut like so many rabbits.

“Dad was annoyed.

“‘What are you doing, you young donkey?’ he sang out.

“‘Look over there!’ I says, tugging the bell.

“Dad looked. It didn’t take him long to see what was up when he spied
that big cloud of smoke.

“‘Great Scott!’ he shouted. ‘Jim, get Billy to run the horses up. Where
are you all? Burrows, Field, Henry! Get out the water-cart—quick. All
of you get ready fire-beaters. Dress yourselves—quickly!’ (You could
see that was quite an afterthought on Dad’s part.) Then he turned and
fled inside to dress.”

“How ripping!” Wally said, wriggling on the log with joy.

“Ripping, do you call it?” said Jim indignantly. “You try it for
yourself, young Wally, and see. Fire’s not much of a joke when you’re
fighting it yourself, I can tell you. Well, Dad was out again in about
two shakes, ready for the fray, and you can bet the rest of us didn’t
linger long. Billy had the horses up almost as soon, and every one got
his own. Things were a bit merry in the stockyard, I can tell you, and
heels did fly.

“After all, Norah here was the first mounted. Bobs was in the stable,
you see, and Norah had him saddled before any of us had put our bridles
on. Goodness knows how she dressed. I guess it wasn’t much of a
toilet!”

Jim ducked suddenly, and a chip hurled by Norah flew over his head and
splashed into the water.

“Get out—you’ll frighten the fish!” he said, grinning. “My yarn, old
girl.”

“Might have had the sense to keep me out of it,” said Norah impolitely.

“You be jiggered,” said Jim affectionately. “Anyhow, boys, you should
have seen Dad’s face when Norah trotted over from the stable. He was
just girthing up old Bosun, and I was wrestling with Sirdar, who didn’t
want his crupper on.

“‘My dear child,’ Dad said, ‘get off that pony and go back to bed. You
can’t think I could allow you to come out?’

“Poor old Norah’s face fell about a foot. She begged and argued, but
she might as well have spared herself the trouble. At last Dad said she
could ride out in the first two paddocks, but no nearer the fire, she
had to be content with that. I think she was pretty near mopping her
eyes.”

“Wasn’t,” said Norah indistinctly.

“Well, we went off. All of us had fire-beaters. You know we always have
them ready; and Field was driving the water-cart—it always stands ready
filled for use. We just galloped like mad. Dad didn’t wait for any
gates—Bosun can jump anything—and he just went straight across country.
Luckily, there was no stock in the paddocks near the house, except that
in one small paddock were about twenty valuable prize sheep. However,
the fire was so far off that we reckoned they were safe, and so we
turned our attention to the fire.

“We left old Norah in the second paddock, looking as miserable as a
bandicoot. Dad made her promise not to meddle with the fire. ‘Promise
me you won’t try any putting out on your own account,’ he said; and
Norah promised very reluctantly. I was jolly sorry you were out of it,
you know, old kid,” said Jim reflectively; and Norah gave him a little
smile.

“We made great time across the paddocks,” Jim continued. “Dad was ever
so far ahead, of course, but our contingent, that had to go round by
the gates, didn’t do so badly. Billy was on Mick, and he and I had a go
for the lead across the last paddock.”

“Who won?” asked Harry.

“Me,” said Jim ungrammatically. “When we got into the smoke we had to
go round a bit, or we’d have gone straight into the fire. We hung up
the horses in a corner that had been burnt round, and was safe from
more fire, and off we went. There were ever so many men fighting it;
all Morrison’s fellows, and a lot from other places as well. The fire
had started right at our boundary, and had come across a two-hundred
acre paddock like a shot. Then a little creek checked it a bit, and let
the fighters have a show.

“There were big trees blazing everywhere, and stumps and logs, and
every few minutes the fire would get going again in some ferns or long
grass, and go like mischief, and half a dozen men after it, to stop it.
It had got across the creek, and there was a line of men on the bank
keeping it back. Some others were chopping down the big, blazing, dead
trees, that were simply showering sparks all round. The wind was pretty
strong, and took burning leaves and sticks ever so far and started the
fire in different places. Three fellows on ponies were doing nothing
but watch for these flying firebrands, galloping after them and putting
them out as they fell.”

Jim paused.

“Say you put your hook in the water, Wally, old chap,” he suggested.

Wally looked and blushed. In the excitement of the moment he had
unconsciously pulled up his line until the bait dangled helplessly in
the air, a foot above the water. The party on the log laughed at the
expense of Wally, and Jim proceeded.

“Father and four other men came across the creek and sang out to us—

“‘We’re going back a bit to burn a break!’ they said. ‘Come along.’

“We all went back about a hundred yards from the creek and lit the
grass, spreading out in a long line across the paddock. Then every one
kept his own little fire from going in the wrong direction, and kept it
burning back towards the creek, of course preventing any logs or trees
from getting alight. It was pretty tough work, the smoke was so bad,
but at last it was done, and a big, burnt streak put across the
paddock. Except for flying bits of lighted stuff there wasn’t much risk
of the fire getting away from us when once we had got that break to
help us. You see, a grass fire isn’t like a real bush fire. It’s a far
more manageable beast. It’s when you get fire in thick scrub that you
can just make up your mind to stand aside and let her rip!”

Jim pulled up his book and examined his bait carefully.

“Fish seem off us,” he said.

“That all the yarn?” Harry asked.

“No, there’s more, if you’re not sick of it.”

“Well, fire away,” Wally said impatiently.

Jim let his sinker go down gently until it settled in comfort in the
soft mud at the bottom.

“This is where I come to Norah,” he said.

That young lady turned a lively red.

“If you’re going to tell all that bosh about me, I’m off,” she said,
disgustedly. “Good-bye. You can call me when you’ve finished.”

“Where are you off to, Norah?” inquired Harry.

“Somewhere to fish—I’m tired of you old gossips—” Norah elevated a
naturally tilted nose as she wound up her tackle and rose to her feet.
She made her way along the log past the three boys until she reached
the land, and, scrambling up the bank, vanished in the scrub. Presently
they saw her reappear at a point a little lower down, where she
ensconced herself in the roots of a tree that was sticking out of the
bank, and looked extremely unsafe. She flung her line in below her
perch.

“Hope she’s all right,” Harry said uneasily.

“You bet. Norah knows what she’s about,” Jim said calmly. “She can swim
like a fish anyhow!”

“Well, go on with your yarn,” urged Wally.

“Well—I told you how we stopped the fire at the little creek, didn’t I?
We thought it was pretty safe after we had burnt such a good break, and
the men with axes had chopped down nearly all the big trees that were
alight, so that they couldn’t spread the fire. We reckoned we could sit
down and mop our grimy brows and think what fine, brave, bold heroes we
were! Which we did.

“There was one big tree the men couldn’t get down. It was right on a
bit of a hill, near the bank of the creek—a big brute of a tree, hollow
for about twelve feet, and I don’t know how high, but I’ll bet it was
over a hundred and fifty feet. It got alight from top to bottom, and,
my word, didn’t it blaze!

“The men tried to chop it down, but it was too hot a job even for a
salamander. We could only watch it, and it took a lot of watching,
because it was showering sparks and bits of wood, and blazing limbs and
twigs in every direction. Lots of times they blew into the dead grass
beyond our break, and it meant galloping to put them out.

“The wind had been pretty high all the time, and it got up suddenly to
a regular gale. It caught this old tree and fairly whisked its burning
limbs off. They flew ever so far. We thought we had them all out, when
suddenly Dad gave a yell.

“There was a little, deep gully running at right angles to the creek,
and right through the paddocks up to the house. In winter it was a
creek, but now it was dry as a bone, and rank with dead grass at the
bottom. As we looked we saw smoke rise from this gully, far away, in
the home paddock.

“‘My Shropshires!’ said Dad, and he made a run for Bosun.

“How we did tear! I never thought old Dad could run so hard! It seemed
miles to the corner where the horses were, and ages before we got on
them and were racing for the home paddock. And all the time the smoke
was creeping along that beastly gully, and we knew well enough that,
tear as we might, we couldn’t be in time.

“You see, the valuable sheep were in a paddock, where this gully ended.
It wasn’t very near the house, and no one might see the fire before
every sheep was roasted. We had only just got them. Dad had imported
some from England and some from Tasmania, and I don’t know how much
they hadn’t cost.”

“Weren’t you afraid for the house as well?” asked Harry.

“No. There was a big ploughed paddock near the house; it would have
taken a tremendous fire to get over that and the orchard and garden. We
only worried about the Shropshires.

“I got the lead away, but Dad caught me up pretty soon. Between us and
the sheep paddock there were only wire fences, which he wouldn’t take
Bosun over, so he couldn’t race away from the rest of us this time.

“We might as well take it easy,’ he said, ‘for all the good we can do.
The sheep nearly live in that gully.’

“All the same, we raced. The wind had gone down by now, so the fire
couldn’t travel as fast as it had done in the open ground. There was a
long slope leading down to the gully, and as we got to this we could
see the whole of the little paddock, and there wasn’t a sheep in sight.
Every blessed one was in the gully, and the fire was three-parts of the
way along it!

“Roast mutton!’ I heard Dad say under his breath.

“Then we saw Norah. She came racing on Bobs to the fence of the paddock
near the head of the gully—much nearer the fire than we were. We saw
her look at the fire and into the gully, and I reckon we all knew she
was fighting with her promise to Dad about not tackling the fire. But
she saw the sheep before we could. They had run from the smoke along
the gully till they came to the head of it, where it ended with pretty
steep banks all round. By that time they were thoroughly dazed, and
there they would have stayed until they were roasted. Sheep are stupid
brutes at any time, but in smoke they’re just idiots!

“Norah gave only one look. Then she slipped off Bobs and left him to
look after himself, and she tore down into the gully.”

“Oh, Jim, go on!” said Wally.

“I’m going,” said Jim affably.

“Dad gave one shout as Norah disappeared into the gully. ‘Go back, my
darling!’ he yelled, forgetting that he was so far off that he might as
well have shouted to the moon. Then he gave a groan, and dug his spurs
into Bosun. I had mine as far as they’d go in Sirdar already!

“The smoke rolled on up the gully and in a minute it had covered it all
up. I thought it was all up with Norah, too, and old Burrows behind me
was sobbing for all he was worth. We raced and tore and yelled!

“Then we saw a sheep coming up out of the smoke at the end of the
gully. Another followed, and another, and then more, until every
blessed one of the twenty was there (though we didn’t stop to count ’em
then, I can tell you!) Last of all—it just seemed years—came Norah!

“We could hear her shouting at the sheep before we saw her. They were
terribly hard to move. She banged them with sticks, and the last old
ram she fairly kicked up the hill. They were just out of the gully when
the fire roared up it, and a minute or so after that we got to her.

“Poor little kid; she was just black, and nearly blind with the smoke.
It was making her cry like fun,” said Jim, quite unconscious of his
inappropriate simile. “I don’t know if it was smoke in his case, but so
was Dad. We put the fire out quick enough; it was easy work to keep it
in the gully. Indeed, Dad never looked at the fire, or the sheep
either. He just jumped off Bosun, and picked Norah up and held her as
if she was a baby, and she hugged and hugged him. They’re awfully fond
of each other, Dad and Norah.”

“And were the sheep all right?” Harry asked.

“Right as rain; not one of the black-faced beauties singed. It was a
pretty close thing, you know,” Jim said reminiscently. “The fire was
just up to Norah as she got the last sheep up the hill; there was a
hole burnt in the leg of her riding skirt. She told me afterwards she
made up her mind she was going to die down in that beastly hole.”

“My word, you must have been jolly proud of her!” Wally exclaimed.
“Such a kid, too!”

“I guess we were pretty proud,” Jim said quietly. “All the people about
made no end of a fuss about her, but Norah never seemed to think a
pennyworth about it. Fact is, her only thought at first was that Dad
would think she had broken her promise to him. She looked up at him in
the first few minutes, with her poor, swollen old eyes. ‘I didn’t
forget my promise, Dad, dear,’ she said. ‘I never touched the fire—only
chased your silly old sheep!’”

“Was that the end of the fire?” Harry asked.

“Well, nearly. Of course we had to watch the burning logs and stumps
for a few days, until all danger of more fires was over, and if there’d
been a high wind in that time we might have had trouble. Luckily there
wasn’t any wind at all, and three days after there came a heavy fall of
rain, which made everything safe. We lost about two hundred and fifty
acres of grass, but in no time the paddock was green again, and the
fire only did it good in the long run. We reckoned ourselves uncommonly
lucky over the whole thing, though if Norah hadn’t saved the
Shropshires we’d have had to sing a different tune. Dad said he’d never
shut up so much money in one small paddock again!”

Jim bobbed his float up and down despairingly.

“This is the most fishless creek!” he said. “Well, the only thing left
to tell you is where the swagman came in.”

“Oh, by Jove,” Harry said, “I forgot the swaggie.”

“Was it his fault the fire started?” inquired Wally.

“Rather! He camped under a bridge on the road that forms our boundary
the night Dad cleared him off the place, and the next morning, very
early, he deliberately lit our grass in three places, and then made
off. He’d have got away, too, and nobody would have known anything
about it, if it hadn’t been for Len Morrison. You chaps haven’t met
Len, have you? He’s a jolly nice fellow, older than me, I guess he’s
about sixteen now—perhaps seventeen.

“Len had a favourite cow, a great pet of his. He’d petted her as a calf
and she’d follow him about like a dog. This cow was sick—they found her
down in the paddock and couldn’t move her, so they doctored her where
she was. Len was awfully worried about her, and used to go to her late
at night and first thing in the morning.

“He went out to the cow on this particular morning about daylight. She
was dead and so he didn’t stay; and he was riding back when he saw the
swag-man lighting our grass. It was most deliberately done. Len didn’t
go after him then. He galloped up to his own place and gave the alarm,
and then he and one of their men cleared out after the brute.”

“Did they catch him?” Wally’s eyes were dancing, and his sinker waved
unconsciously in the air.

“They couldn’t see a sign of him,” Jim said. “The road was a plain,
straight one—you chaps know it—the one we drove home on from the train.
No cover anywhere that would hide so much as a goat—not even you, Wal!
They followed it up for a couple of miles, and then saw that he must
have gone across country somewhere. There was mighty little cover
there, either. The only possible hiding-place was along the creek.

“He was pretty cunning—my word, he was! He’d started up the road—Len
had seen him—and then he cut over the paddock at an angle, back to the
creek. That was why they couldn’t find any tracks when they started up
the creek from the road, and they made sure he had given them the slip
altogether.

“Len and the other fellow, a chap called Sam Baker, pegged away up the
creek as hard as they could go, but feeling pretty blue about catching
the swaggie. Len was particularly wild, because he’d made so certain he
could lay his hands on the fellow, and if he hadn’t been sure, of
course he’d have stayed to help at the fire, and he didn’t like being
done out of everything! They could understand not finding any tracks.

“‘Of course it’s possible he’s walked in the water,’ Baker said.

“‘We’d have caught him by now if he had,’ Len said—‘he couldn’t get
along quickly in the water. Anyhow, if I don’t see anything of him
before we get to the next bend, I’m going back to the fire.’

“They were nearly up to the bend, and Len was feeling desperate, when
he saw a boot-mark half-way down the bank on the other side. He was
over like a shot—the creek was very shallow—and there were tracks as
plain as possible, leading down to the water!

“You can bet they went on then!

“They caught him a bit farther up. He heard them coming, and left his
swag, so’s he could get on quicker. They caught that first, and then
they caught him. He had ‘planted’ in a clump of scrub, and they nearly
passed him, but Len caught sight of him, and they had him in a minute.”

“Did he come easily?” asked Wally.

“Rather not! He sent old Len flying—gave him an awful black eye. Len
was, up again and at him like a shot, and I reckon it was jolly plucky
of a chap of Len’s age, and I dare say he’d have had an awful hiding if
Sam hadn’t arrived on the scene. Sam is a big, silent chap, and he can
fight anybody in this district. He landed the swaggie first with one
fist and then with the other, and the swaggie reckoned he’d been struck
by a thunderbolt when they fished him out of the creek, where he had
rolled! You see, Sam’s very fond of Len, and it annoyed him to see his
eye.

“The swaggie did not do any more resisting. He was like a half-dead,
drowned rat. Len and Sam brought him up to the men at the fire just
after we’d left to try to save Dad’s Shropshires, and they and Mr.
Morrison could hardly keep the men off him. He hid behind Sam, and
cried and begged them to protect him. They said it was beastly.”

“Rather!” said Harry. “Where’s he now?”

“Melbourne Gaol. He got three years,” said Jim. “I guess he’s
reflecting on the foolishness of using matches too freely!”

“By George!” said Wally, drawing a deep breath. “That was exciting,
Jimmy!”

“Well, fishing isn’t,” responded Jim pulling up his hook in disgust, an
example followed by the other boys. “What’ll we do?”

“I move,” said Wally, standing on one leg on the log, “that this
meeting do adjourn from this dead tree. And I move a hearty vote of
thanks to Mr. Jim Linton for spinning a good yarn. Thanks to be paid
immediately. There’s mine, Jimmy!”

A resounding pat on the back startled Jim considerably, followed as it
was by a second from Harry. The assaulted one fled along the log, and
hurled mud furiously from the bank. The enemy followed closely, and
shortly the painful spectacle might have been seen of a host lying flat
on his face on the grass, while his guests, sitting on his back, bumped
up and down to his extreme discomfort and the tune of “For He’s a Jolly
Good Fellow!”




CHAPTER VII.
WHAT NORAH FOUND


Norah, meanwhile, had been feeling somewhat “out of things.” It was
really more than human nature could be expected to bear that she should
remain on the log with the three boys, while Jim told amazing yarns
about her. Still it was decidedly lonesome in the jutting root of the
old tree, looking fixedly at the water, in which placidly lay a float
that had apparently forgotten that the first duty of a float is to bob.

Jim’s voice, murmuring along in his lengthy recital, came to her
softly, and she could see from her perch the interested faces of the
two others. It mingled drowsily with the dull drone of bees in the
ti-tree behind her, and presently Norah, to her disgust, found that she
was growing drowsy too.

“This won’t do!” she reflected, shaking herself. “If I go to sleep and
tumble off this old root I’ll startle away all the fish in the creek.”
She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the
splash of a leaping fish. “No good when they jump like that,” said
Norah to herself. “I guess I’ll go and explore.”

She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy
inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the
boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting
her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy—not that Norah’s free and
independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy
garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along
the bank.

A little farther up she came across black Billy—a very cheerful
aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine
blackfish to leave their watery bed.

“Oh, I say!” said Norah, round-eyed and envious. “How do you manage it,
Billy? We can’t catch one.”

Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words.

“Plenty bob-um float,” he explained lucidly. “Easy ’nuff. You try.”

“No, thanks,” said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. “I’m sick
of trying—and I’ve no luck. Going to cook ’em for dinner, Billy?”

“Plenty!” assented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and
meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it
suffice.

“That’s a good boy,” said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen
grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old
white. “I’m going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when
lunch is ready.”

“Plenty,” said Billy intelligently.

Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush,
and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born
bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the
scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be
born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives
it.

She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she
did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand—clinging creepers and
twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, clusters of
maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade,
and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet
snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at
it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit
at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling
disgusted with herself.

Suddenly she stopped in amazement.

She was on the edge of a small clear space, at the farther side of
which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the
whole space was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in
surprise.

For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely
place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent.

The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be
seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy
hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks,
and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and
over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed
that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was
all very neat and tidy. “It looks quite home-like,” said Norah to
herself.

As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man
came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping
under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him,
as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he
straightened himself he was wonderfully tall—taller even than Dad, who
was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very
long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of
bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes.

But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have passed muster
in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee.
He was dressed entirely in skins—wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though
there was an occasional section that looked like ’possum. They didn’t
look bad, either, she thought—a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose
trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or
leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling.

The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully
raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper—Norah had never seen
one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked
good, too—nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that
was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased “Not half bad!” he
said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in
the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped.

The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on
them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire
to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the
damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to
blow the dust from the result of his cookery.

At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She
fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain
silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent
handkerchief.

As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its
imprisonment, so Norah’s sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her
efforts to repress it. It came—

“A—tish—oo—oo!”

The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round.

“What on earth’s that?” he said. “Who’s there?” For a moment Norah
hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second’s thought showed
her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least
frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to
hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly
emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, “It’s me.”

“‘Me’, is it?” said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard
at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt—at the
merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. “‘Me’,”
he repeated. “‘Me’ looks rather nice, I think. But what’s she doing
here?”

“I was looking at you,” Norah exclaimed.

“I won’t be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king,”
said the old man. “But don’t you know that no one comes here? No young
ladies in blue dresses and brown curls—only wombats and wallabies, and
ring-tailed ’possums—and me. Not you—me, but me—me! How do you account
for being here?”

Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man,
whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke.

“But I don’t think you know,” she said. “Quite a lot of other people
come here—this is Anglers’ Bend. At least, Anglers’ Bend’s quite close
to your camp. Why, only, to-day there’s Jim and the boys, and black
Billy, and me! We’re not wallabies!”

“Jim—and the boys—and black Billy—and me!” echoed the old man faintly.
“Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found
the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than
a bunyip! But—I’ve been here for three months, little lady, and have
never come across anyone. Are you sure you’re quite serious?”

“Quite,” Norah answered. “Perhaps it was that no one came across you,
you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp
here sometimes, but we haven’t been for more than three months.”

“Well, I must move, that’s all,” said the old man. “I do like
quiet—it’s annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township
now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may
as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance.”

“Did you make them yourself?” asked Norah.

“Behold how she fences!” said the old man. “I did indeed!”

“Then they do you proud!” said Norah solemnly.

The old man laughed.

“I shall prize your expression of opinion,” he said. “May I ask the
name of my visitor?”

“I’m Norah. Please who are you?”

“That’s a different matter,” said the other, looking nonplussed. “I
certainly had a name once, but I’ve quite forgotten it. I have an
excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I’d be
delighted if you could!”

“I couldn’t.” Norah shook her head. “But I’ll tell you what I think you
are.”

“Do.”

“A hermit!”

The old man’s face cleared.

“My dear Miss Norah,” he said, “you’ve made a profound discovery. I
am—I am—a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are
scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me?

“I can’t, I’m afraid,” said Norah, looking affectionately at the
damper. “The boys will be looking for me, if I don’t go back.
Listen—there’s Jim coo-eeing now!”

“And who may Jim be?” queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily.

“Jim’s my brother,” Norah said. “He’s fifteen, and he’s just splendid.
Harry and Wally are his two chums.”

“Coo-ee! Coo-ee!”

Norah answered the call quickly and turned to the Hermit, feeling a
little apologetic.

“I had to call,” she explained—“Jim would be anxious. They want me for
lunch.” She hesitated. “Won’t you come too?” she asked timidly.

“I haven’t eaten with my fellow-men for more time than I’d care to
reckon,” said the Hermit. “I don’t know—will they let me alone
afterwards? Are they ordinary abominable boys?”

“Indeed, they’re not!” said Norah indignantly. “They won’t come near
you at all, if you don’t want them—but I know they’d be pleased if you
came. Do!”

“Coo-ee!”

“Jim’s getting impatient, isn’t he?” said the Hermit. “Well, Miss
Norah, if you’ll excuse my attire I’ll come. Shall I bring my damper?”

“Oh, please!” Norah cried. “We’ve never tasted damper.”

“I wish _I_ hadn’t,” said the Hermit grimly. He picked up the fallen
cake. “Let us away!” he said. “The banquet waits!”

During their walk through the scrub it occurred to Norah once or twice
to wonder if her companion were really a little mad. He said such
extraordinary things, all in the most matter-of-fact tone—but when she
looked up at him his blue eyes twinkled so kindly and merrily that she
knew at once he was all right, and she was quite certain that she liked
him very much.

The boys were getting impatient. Lunch was ready, and when lunch has
been prepared by Mrs. Brown, and supplemented by fresh blackfish, fried
over a camp fire by black Billy, it is not a meal to be kept waiting.
They were grouped round the table-cloth, in attitudes more suggestive
of ease than elegance, when Norah and her escort appeared, and for once
their manners deserted them. They gaped in silent amazement.

“Boys, this is The Hermit,” said Norah, rather nervously. “I—I found
him. He has a camp. He’s come to lunch.”

“I must apologize for my intrusion, I’m afraid,” the Hermit said. “Miss
Norah was good enough to ask me to come. I—I’ve brought my damper!”

He exhibited the article half shyly, and the boys recovered themselves
and laughed uncontrollably. Jim sprang to his feet. The Hermit’s first
words had told him that this was no common swagman that Norah had
picked up.

“I’m very glad to see you, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Thank you,” said the Hermit gravely. “You’re Jim, aren’t you? And I
conclude that this gentleman is Harry, and this Wally? Ah, I thought
so. Yes, I haven’t seen so many people for ages. And black Billy! How
are you Billy?”

Billy retreated in great embarrassment.

“Plenty!” he murmured.

Everybody laughed again.

“Well,” Jim said, “we’re hungry, Norah. I hope you and—er—this
gentleman are.” Jim was concealing his bewilderment like a hero. “Won’t
you sit down and sample Billy’s blackfish? He caught ’em all—we
couldn’t raise a bite between us—barring Wally’s boot!”

“Did you catch a boot?” queried the Hermit of the blushing Wally.
“Mine, I think—I can’t congratulate you on your luck! If you like,
after lunch, I’ll show you a place where you could catch fish, if you
only held the end of your finger in the water!”

“Good enough!” said Jim. “Thanks, awfully—we’ll be jolly glad. Come on,
Billy—trot out your frying-pan!”

Lunch began rather silently.

In their secret hearts the boys were rather annoyed with Norah.

“Why on earth,” Jim reflected, “couldn’t she have left the old chap
alone? The party was all right without him—we didn’t want any one
else—least of all an odd oddity like this.” And though the other boys
were loyal to Norah, she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation,
and was classed for the moment with the usual run of “girls who do
rummy things.”

However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the
state of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like
quiet boys, were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for
polite requests for bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous
remark, “Chuck us the salt!”

Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really
have taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the
drollest stories, which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although
he never laughed himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told
them of the queer animals he saw—having, as he said, unusually good
opportunities for watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where
the lyrebirds danced, and had often crept silently through the scrub
until he could command a view of the mound where these strange birds
strutted and danced, and mimicked the other birds with life-like
fidelity. He loved the birds very much, and never killed any of them,
even when a pair of thievish magpies attacked his larder and pecked a
damper into little bits when he was away fishing. Many of the birds
were tame with him now, he said; they would hop about the camp and let
him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that was quite a pet, which he
offered to show them—an offer that broke down the last tottering
barriers of the boys’ reserve. Then there were his different methods of
trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who was a
trapper of much renown.

“Don’t you get lonely sometimes?” Norah asked him.

The Hermit looked at her gravely.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Now and then one feels that one would give
something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend’s
hand-grip. Oh, there are times, Miss Norah, when I talk to myself—which
is bad—or yarn to old Turpentine, my snake, just to hear the sound of
words again. However, when these bad fits come upon me I know it’s a
sign that I must get the axe and go and chop down sufficient trees to
make me tired. Then I go to sleep, and wake up quite a cheerful being
once more!”

He hesitated.

“And there’s one thing,” he said slowly—“though it may be lonely here,
there is no one to trouble you; no one to treat you badly, to be
ungrateful or malicious; no bitter enemies, and no false friends, who
are so much worse than enemies. The birds come and hop about me, and I
know that it is because I like them and have never frightened them; old
Turpentine slides his ugly head over my knees, and I know he doesn’t
care a button whether I have any money in my pocket, or whether I have
to go out into the scrub to find my next meal! And that’s far, far more
than you can say of most human beings!”

He looked round on their grave faces, and smiled for the first time.

“This is uncommonly bad behaviour in a guest,” he said cheerily. “To
come to lunch, and regale one’s host and hostess with a sermon! It’s
too bad. I ask your forgiveness, young people, and please forget all I
said immediately. No, Miss Norah, I won’t have any damper, thank
you—after a three months’ course of damper one looks with joy once more
on bread. If Wally will favour me—I think the correct phrase is will
you ‘chuck me the butter?’”—whereat Wally “chucked” as desired, and the
meal proceeded merrily.




CHAPTER VIII.
ON A LOG


Lunch over, everyone seemed disinclined for action. The boys lay about
on the grass, sleepily happy. Norah climbed into a tree, where the
gnarled boughs made a natural arm-chair, and the Hermit propped his
back against a rock and smoked a short black pipe with an air of
perfect enjoyment. It was just hot enough to make one drowsy. Bees
droned lazily, and from some shady gully the shrill note of a cricket
came faintly to the ear. Only Billy had stolen down to the creek, to
tempt the fish once more. They heard the dull “plunk” of his sinker as
he flung it into a deep, still pool.

“Would you like to hear how I lost my boot?” queried the Hermit
suddenly.

“Oh, please,” said Norah.

The boys rolled over—that is to say Jim and Wally rolled over. Harry
was fast asleep.

“Don’t wake him,” said the Hermit. But Wally’s hat, skilfully thrown,
had already caught the slumberer on the side of the head.

Harry woke up with surprising promptness, and returned the offending
head-gear with force and directness. Wally caught it deftly and rammed
it over his eyes. He smiled underneath it at the Hermit like a happy
cherub.

“Now we’re ready, sir,” he said. “Hold your row, Harry, the—this
gentleman’s going to spin us a yarn. Keep awake if you can spare the
time!”

“I’ll spare the time to kick you!” growled the indignant Harry.

“I don’t know that you’ll think it’s much of a yarn,” the Hermit said
hurriedly, entering the breach to endeavour to allay further
discussion—somewhat to Jim’s disappointment. “It’s only the story of a
pretty narrow escape.

“I had gone out fishing one afternoon about a month ago. It was a grand
day for fishing—dull and cloudy. The sun was about somewhere, but you
couldn’t see anything of him, although you could feel his warmth. I’d
been off colour for a few days, and had not been out foraging at all,
and as a result, except for damper, my larder was quite empty.

“I went about a mile upstream. There’s a splendid place for fishing
there. The creek widens, and there’s a still, deep pool, something like
the pool at the place you call Anglers’ Bend, only I think mine is
deeper and stiller, and fishier! At all events, I have never failed to
get fish there.

“I fished from the bank for a while, with not very good luck. At all
events, it occurred to me that I could better it if I went out upon a
big log that lay right across the creek—a tremendous tree it must have
been, judging by the size of the trunk. You could almost ride across
it, it’s so wide—if you had a circus pony, that is,” added the Hermit
with a twinkle.

“So I gathered up my tackle, hung the fish I’d caught across a bough in
the shade, and went out on the log, and here I had good luck at once.
The fish bit just as soon as I put the bait into the water, and though
a good many of them were small there were some very decent-sized ones
amongst them. I threw the little chaps back, on the principle that—

Baby fish you throw away
Will make good sport another day,


and at last began to think I had caught nearly enough, even though I
intended to salt some. However, just as I thought it was time to strike
for camp, I had a tremendous bite. It nearly jerked the rod out of my
hands!

“‘Hallo!’ I said to myself, ‘here’s a whale!’ I played him for a bit,
for he was the strongest fish I ever had on a line in this country, and
at last he began to tire, and I reeled the line in. It seemed quite a
long time before I caught a glimpse of his lordship—a tremendous perch.
I tell you I felt quite proud as his head came up out of the water.

“He was nearly up to the log, when he made a sudden, last leap in the
air, and the quickness of it and his weight half threw me off my
balance. I made a hurried step on the log, and my right foot slipped
into a huge, gaping crack. It was only after I had made two or three
ineffectual struggles to release it that I found I was stuck.

“Well I didn’t realize the seriousness of the position for a few
minutes,” the Hermit went on. “I could understand that I was wedged,
but I certainly never dreamed that I could not, by dint of manoeuvring,
wriggle my foot out of the crack. So I turned my attention to my big
fish, and—standing in a most uncomfortable position—managed to land
him; and a beauty he was, handsome as paint, with queer markings on his
sides. I put him down carefully, and then tried to free myself.

“And I tried—and tried—and tried—until I was tired out, and stiff and
hopeless. By that time it was nearly dark. After I had endeavoured
unsuccessfully to get the boot clear, I unlaced it, and tried to get my
foot out of it—but I was in a trifle too far for that, and try as I
would I could not get it free. The crack was rather on the side of the
log. I could not get a straight pull. Hurt? Yes, of course it hurt—not
more from the pinching of the log, which you may try any time by
screwing your foot up in a vice, than from my own wild efforts to get
clear. My foot and ankle were stiff and sore from my exertions long
before I knocked off in despair. I might have tried to cut the wood
away, had I not left my knife on the bank, where I was fishing first. I
don’t know that it would have done much good, anyhow.

“Well, I looked at the situation—in fact, I had been looking at it all
the time. It wasn’t a very cheering prospect, either. The more I
pondered over it, the less chance I saw of getting free. I had done all
I could towards that end; now it only remained to wait for something to
‘turn up.’ And I was quite aware that nothing was in the least likely
to turn up, and also that in all probability I would wear out some time
before the log did.

“Night came on, and I was as hungry as a hunter—being a hunter, I knew
just how hungry that is. I hadn’t anything to eat except raw fish, and
I wasn’t quite equal to that yet. I had only one pipe of tobacco too,
and you may be sure I made the most of that, I smoked it very, very
slowly, and I wouldn’t like to say how long it lasted.

“From time to time I made fresh attempts to release my foot—all
unavailing, and all the more maddening because I could feel that my
foot wasn’t much caught—only just enough to hold it. But enough is as
good as a feast! I felt that if I could get a straight pull at it I
might get it out, and several times I nearly went head first into the
water, overbalancing myself in the effort to get that straight pull.
That wasn’t a pleasant sensation—not so bad, indeed, if one had got as
far as the water. But I pictured myself hanging from the log with a
dislocated ankle, and the prospect was not inviting.

“So the night crept on. I grew deadly sleepy, but of course I did not
care to let myself go to sleep; but worse than that was the stiffness,
and the cramp that tortured the imprisoned leg. You know how you want
to jump when you’ve got cramp? Well, I wanted to jump at intervals of
about a minute all through that night, and instead, I was more securely
hobbled than any old horse I ever saw. The mosquitoes worried me too.
Altogether it was not the sort of entertainment you would select from
choice!

“And then, just as day began to dawn, the sleepiness got the better of
me. I fought it unavailingly; but at last I knew I could keep awake no
longer, and I shut my eyes.

“I don’t know how long I slept—it couldn’t have been for any time, for
it was not broad daylight when I opened my eyes again. Besides, the
circumstances weren’t the kind to induce calm and peaceful slumber.

“I woke up with a start, and in my dreams I seemed to hear myself
crying out with pain—for a spasm of cramp had seized me, and it was
like a red-hot iron thrust up my leg. I was only half awake—not
realizing my position a bit. I made a sudden spring, and the next
moment off I went, headlong!

“I don’t suppose,” said the Hermit reflectively, poking a stem of grass
down his pipe, “that I’ll ever lose the memory of the sudden, abject
terror of that moment. They say ‘as easy as falling off a log,’ and it
certainly doesn’t take an able-bodied man long to fall off one, as a
rule; but it seemed to me that I was hours and years waiting for the
jerk to come on my imprisoned foot. I’m sure I lived through half a
lifetime before it really came.

“Then it came—and I hardly felt it! There was just a sudden
pull—scarcely enough to hurt very much, and the old boot yielded. Sole
from upper, it came clean away, and the pressure on my foot alone
wasn’t enough to hold me. It was so unexpected that I didn’t realize I
was free until I struck the water, and went down right into the mud at
the bottom of the creek.

“That woke me up, I can assure you. I came up choking and spluttering,
and blinded with the mud—I wouldn’t like to tell you for a moment that
it was pleasant, but I can truthfully say I never was more relieved in
my life. I struck out for the bank, and got out of the water, and then
sat down on the grass and wondered why on earth I hadn’t made up my
mind to jump off that log before.

“I hadn’t any boot left—the remainder had been kicked off as I swam
ashore. I made my way along the log that had held me so fast all night,
and there, wedged as tight as ever in the crack, was my old sole! It’s
there still—unless the mosquitoes have eaten it. I limped home with my
fish, cleaned them, had a meal and went to bed—and I didn’t get up
until next day, either!

“And so, Mr. Wally, I venture to think that it was my boot that you
landed this morning,” the Hermit said gravely. “I don’t grudge it to
you; I can’t say I ever wish to see it again. You”—magnanimously—“may
have it for your very own!”

“But I chucked it back again!” blurted out Wally, amidst a roar of
laughter from Jim and Harry at his dismayed face.

“I forgive you!” said the Hermit, joining in the laugh. “I admit it was
a relic which didn’t advertise its own fame.”

“I guess you’d never want to see it again,” Jim said. “That was a
pretty narrow escape—if your foot had been in just a bit farther you
might have been hanging from that old log now!”

“That was my own idea all that night,” observed the Hermit; “and then
Wally wouldn’t have caught any more than the rest of you this morning!
And that reminds me, I promised to show you a good fishing-place. Don’t
you think, if you’ve had enough of my prosy yarning, that we’d better
make a start?”

The party gathered itself up with alacrity from the grass. Lines were
hurriedly examined, and the bait tin, when investigated, proved to
contain an ample supply of succulent grubs and other dainties
calculated to tempt the most fastidious of fish.

“All ready?” said the Hermit.

“Hold on a minute,” Jim said. “I’ll let Billy know where we’re going.”

Billy was found fishing stolidly from a log. Three blackfish testified
to his skill with the rod, at which Wally whistled disgustedly and
Norah laughed.

“No good to be jealous of Billy’s luck,” she said. “He can always get
fish, when nobody else can find even a nibble. Mrs. Brown says he’s got
the light hand like hers for pastry.”

The Hermit laughed.

“I like Mrs. Brown’s simile,” he said. “If that was her pastry in those
turnovers at lunch, Miss Norah, I certainly agree that she has ‘the
light hand.’”

“Mrs. Brown’s like the cook in _The Ingoldsby Legends_, Dad says,”
Norah remarked.

“What,” said the Hermit—

“For soups and stews, and French ragouts,
Nell Cook is famous still—?”
“She’d make them even of old shoes
She had such wondrous skill!”


finished Norah delightedly. “However did you know, Mr. Hermit?”

The Hermit laughed, but a shade crossed his brow. “I used to read the
_Legends_ with a dear old friend many years before you were born, Miss
Norah,” he said gravely. “I often wonder whether he still reads them.”

“Ready?” Jim interrupted, springing up the bank. “Billy understands
about feeding the ponies. Don’t forget, mind, Billy.”

“Plenty!” quoth Billy, and the party went on its way. The Hermit led
them rapidly over logs and fallen trees, up and down gullies, and
through tangles of thickly growing scrub. Once or twice it occurred to
Jim that they were trusting very confidingly to this man, of whom they
knew absolutely nothing; and a faint shade of uneasiness crossed his
mind. He felt responsible, as the eldest of the youngsters, knowing
that his father had placed him in charge, and that he was expected to
exercise a certain amount of caution. Still it was hard to fancy
anything wrong, looking at the Hermit’s serene face, and the trusting
way in which Norah’s brown little hand was placed in his strong grasp.
The other boys were quite unconscious of any uncomfortable ideas, and
Jim finally dismissed his fears as uncalled for.

“I thought,” said the Hermit, suddenly turning, “of taking you to see
my camp as we went, but on second thoughts I decided that it would be
better to get straight to work, as you young people want some fish, I
suppose, to take home. Perhaps we can look in at my camp as we come
back. It’s not far from here.”

“Which way do you generally go to the river?” Norah asked.

“Why, anyway,” the Hermit answered. “Generally in this direction. Why
do you ask, Miss Norah?”

“I was wondering,” Norah said. “We haven’t crossed or met a single
track.”

The Hermit laughed.

“No,” he said, “I take very good care not to leave tracks if I can
avoid it. You see, I’m a solitary fellow, Miss Norah, and prefer, as a
rule, to keep to myself. Apart from that, I often leave camp for the
greater part of the day when I’m fishing or hunting, and I’ve no wish
to point out the way to my domain to any wanderers. Not that I’ve much
to lose, still there are some things. Picture my harrowed feelings were
I to return some evening and find my beloved frying-pan gone!”

Norah laughed.

“It would be awful,” she said.

“So I planned my camp very cunningly,” continued the Hermit, “and I can
tell you it took some planning to contrive it so that it shouldn’t be
too easily visible.”

“Well, it isn’t from the side I came on it,” Norah put in; “I never
dreamed of anything being there until I was right on the camp. It did
surprise me!”

“And me,” said the Hermit drily. “Well that is how I tried to arrange
camp, and you could be within a dozen yards of it on any side without
imagining that any was near.”

“But surely you must have made some sort of a track leading away from
it,” said Jim, “unless you fly out!”

The Hermit laughed.

“I’ll show you later how I manage that,” he said.

The bush grew denser as the little party, led by the Hermit, pushed
along, and Jim was somewhat surprised at the easy certainty with which
their guide led the way, since there was no sign of a track. Being a
silent youth, he held his tongue on the matter; but Wally was not so
reserved.

“However d’you find your way along here?” he asked. “I don’t even know
whether we’re near the creek or not.”

“If we kept still a moment you’d know,” the Hermit said. “Listen!” He
held up his hand and they all stood still. There came faintly to their
ears a musical splash of water.

“There’s a little waterfall just in there,” the Hermit said, “nothing
much, unless the creek is very low, and then there is a greater drop
for the water. So you see we haven’t got far from the creek. How do I
know the way? Why, I feel it mostly, and if I couldn’t feel it, there
are plenty of landmarks. Every big tree is as good as a signpost once
you know the way a bit, and I’ve been along here pretty often, so
there’s nothing in it, you see, Wally.”

“Do you like the bush, Mr. Hermit?” Norah asked.

The Hermit hesitated.

“Sometimes I hate it, I think, Miss Norah,” he said, “when the
loneliness of it comes over me, and all the queer sounds of it bother
me and keep me awake. Then I realise that I’m really a good way from
anywhere, and I get what are familiarly called the blues. However,
that’s not at all times, and indeed mostly I love it very much, its
great quietness and its beauty; and then it’s so companionable, though
perhaps you’re a bit young to understand that. Anyhow, I have my mates,
not only old Turpentine, my snake, but others—wallabies that have come
to recognise me as harmless, for I never hunt anywhere near home, the
laughing jackasses, two of them, that come and guffaw to me every
morning, the pheasants that I watch capering and strutting on the logs
hidden in the scrub. Even the plants become friends; there are creepers
near my camp that I’ve watched from babyhood, and more than one big
tree with which I’ve at least a nodding acquaintance!”

He broke off suddenly.

“Look, there’s a friend of mine!” he said gently. They were crossing a
little gully, and a few yards on their right a big wallaby sat staring
at them, gravely inquisitive. It certainly would not have been human
nature if Jim had not longed for a gun; but the wallaby was evidently
quite ignorant of such a thing, and took them all in with his cool
stare. At length Wally sneezed violently, whereat the wallaby started,
regarded the disturber of his peace with an alarmed air, and finally
bounded off into the scrub.

“There you go!” said the Hermit good-humouredly, “scaring my poor
beastie out of his wits.”

“Couldn’t help it,” mumbled Wally.

“No, a sneeze will out, like truth, won’t it?” the Hermit laughed.
“That’s how Miss Norah announced herself to me to-day. I might never
have known she was there if she hadn’t obligingly sneezed! I hope.
you’re not getting colds, children!” the Hermit added, with mock
concern.

“Not much!” said Wally and Norah in a breath.

“Just after I came here,” said the Hermit, “I was pretty short of
tucker, and it wasn’t a good time for fishing, so I was dependent on my
gun for most of my provisions. So one day, feeling much annoyed after a
breakfast of damper and jam, I took the gun and went off to stock up
the larder.

“I went a good way without any luck. There didn’t seem anything to
shoot in all the bush, though you may be sure I kept my eyes about me.
I was beginning to grow disheartened. At length I made my way down to
the creek. Just as I got near it, I heard a whirr-r-r over my head, and
looking up, I saw a flock of wild duck. They seemed to pause a moment,
and then dropped downwards. I couldn’t see where they alighted, but of
course I knew it must be in the creek.

“Well, I didn’t pause,” said the Hermit. “I just made my way down to
the creek as quickly as ever I could, remaining noiseless at the same
time. Ducks are easily scared, and I knew my hopes of dinner were poor
if these chaps saw me too soon.

“So I sneaked down. Pretty soon I got a glimpse of the creek, which was
very wide at that point, and fringed with weeds. The ducks were calmly
swimming on its broad surface, a splendid lot of them, and I can assure
you a very tempting sight to a hungry man.

“However, I didn’t waste time in admiration. I couldn’t very well risk
a shot from where I was, it was a bit too far, and the old gun I had
wasn’t very brilliant. So I crept along, crawled down a bank, and found
myself on a flat that ran to the water’s edge, where reeds, growing
thickly, screened me from the ducks’ sight.

“That was simple enough. I crawled across this flat, taking no chances,
careless of mud, and wet, and sword grass, which isn’t the nicest thing
to crawl among at any time, as you can imagine; it’s absolutely
merciless to face and hands.”

“And jolly awkward to stalk ducks in,” Jim commented, “the rustle would
give you away in no time.”

The Hermit nodded.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s its worst drawback, or was, on this occasion.
It certainly did rustle; however, I crept very slowly, and the ducks
were kind enough to think I was the wind stirring in the reeds. At any
rate, they went on swimming, and feeding quite peacefully. I got a good
look at them through the fringe of reeds, and then, like a duffer,
although I had a good enough position, I must try and get a better one.

“So I crawled a little farther down the bank, trying to reach a knoll
which would give me a fine sight of the game, and at the same time form
a convenient rest for my gun. I had almost reached it when the sad
thing happened. A tall, spear-like reed, bending over, gently and
intrusively tickled my nose, and without the slightest warning, and
very greatly to my own amazement, I sneezed violently.

“If I was amazed, what were the ducks! The sneeze was so unmistakably
human, so unspeakably violent. There was one wild whirr of wings, and
my ducks scrambled off the placid surface of the water like things
possessed. I threw up my gun and fired wildly; there was no time for
deliberate taking of aim, with the birds already half over the ti-tree
at the other side.”

“Did you get any?” Jim asked.

“One duck,” said the Hermit sadly. “And even for him I had to swim; he
obligingly chose a watery grave just to spite me, I believe. He wasn’t
much of a duck either. After I had stripped and swum for him, dressed
again, prepared the duck, cooked him, and finally sat down to dinner,
there was so little of him that he only amounted to half a meal, and
was tough at that!”

“So was your luck,” observed Wally.

“Uncommonly tough,” agreed the Hermit. “However, these things are the
fortunes of war, and one has to put up with them, grin, and play the
game. It’s surprising how much tougher things look if you once begin to
grumble. I’ve had so much bad luck in the bush that I’ve really got
quite used to it.”

“How’s that?” asked Harry.

“Why,” said the Hermit, “if it wasn’t one thing, it was mostly another.
I beg your pardon, Miss Norah, let me help you over this log. I’ve had
my tucker stolen again and again, several times by birds, twice by
swaggies, and once by a couple of black fellows pilgrimaging through
the bush I don’t know whither. They happened on my camp, and helped
themselves; I reckoned myself very lucky that they only took food,
though I’ve no doubt they would have taken more if I hadn’t arrived on
the scene in the nick of time and scared them almost out of their
wits.”

“How did you do that?” asked Norah; “tell us about it, Mr. Hermit!”

The Hermit smiled down at Norah’s eager face.

“Oh, that’s hardly a yarn, Miss Norah,” he said, his eyes twinkling in
a way that made them look astonishingly young, despite his white hair
and his wrinkles. “That was only a small happening, though it capped a
day of bad luck. I had been busy in camp all the morning cooking, and
had laid in quite a supply of tucker, for me. I’d cooked some wild
duck, and roasted a hare, boiled a most splendid plum-duff and finally
baked a big damper, and I can tell you I was patting myself on the back
because I need not do any more cooking for nearly a week, unless it
were fish—I’m not a cook by nature, and pretty often go hungry rather
than prepare a meal.

“After dinner I thought I’d go down to the creek and try my luck—it was
a perfect day for fishing, still and grey. So I dug some worms—and
broke my spade in doing so—and started off.

“The promise of the day held good. I went to my favourite spot, and the
fish just rushed me—the worms must have been very tempting, or else the
fish larder was scantily supplied. At any rate, they bit splendidly,
and soon I grew fastidious, and was picking out and throwing back any
that weren’t quite large enough. I fished from the old log over the
creek, and soon had a pile of fish, and grew tired of the sport. I was
sleepy, too, through hanging over the fire all the morning. I kept on
fishing mechanically, but it was little more than holding my bait in
the water, and I began nodding and dozing, leaning back on the broad
old log.

“I didn’t think I had really gone to sleep, though I suppose I must
have done so, because I dreamed a kind of half-waking dream. In it I
saw a snake that crept and crept nearer and nearer to me until I could
see its wicked eyes gleaming, and though I tried to get away, I could
not. It came on and on until it was quite near, and I was feeling
highly uncomfortable in my dream. At last I made a great effort, flung
out my hand towards a stick, and, with a yell, woke up, to realise that
I had struck something cold, and clammy, and wet. What it was I
couldn’t be certain for an instant, until I heard a dull splash, and
then I knew. I had swept my whole string of fish into the water below!

“Oh, yes, I said things—who wouldn’t? I was too disgusted to fish any
more, and the nightmare having thoroughly roused me, I gathered up my
tackle and made tracks for home, feeling considerably annoyed with
myself.

“You must know I’ve a private entrance into my camp. It’s a track no
one would suspect of being a track, and by its aid I can approach
noiselessly. I’ve got into a habit of always sneaking back to camp—just
in case anyone should be there. This afternoon I came along quietly,
more from force of habit than from any real idea of looking out for
intruders. But half-way along it a sound pulled me up suddenly. It was
the sound of a voice.

“When you haven’t heard anyone speak for a good many months, the human
voice has quite a startling effect upon you—or even the human sneeze,
Miss Norah!” added the Hermit, with a twinkle. “I stopped short and
listened with all my might. Presently the voice came again, low and
guttural, and I knew it for a native’s.

“The conviction didn’t fill me with joy, as you may imagine. I stole
forward, until by peeping through the bushes I gained a view of the
camp—and was rewarded with the spectacle of two blacks—ill-favoured
brutes they were, too—quite at home, one in the act of stuffing my
cherished roast hare into a dirty bag, the other just taking a huge
bite out of my damper!

“The sight, as you may imagine, didn’t fill me with joy. From the
bulges in my black visitors’ bag I gathered that the ducks had preceded
the hare; and even as I looked, the gentleman with the damper relaxed
his well-meant efforts, and thrust it, too, into the bag. Then they put
down the bag and dived into the tent, and I heard rustlings and
low-toned remarks that breathed satisfaction. I reckoned it was time to
step in.

“Luckily, my gun was outside the tent—indeed I never leave it inside,
but have a special hiding-place for it under a handy log, for fear of
stray marauders overhauling my possessions. A gun is a pretty tempting
thing to most men, and since my duck-shooting failure I had treated
myself to a new double-barrel—a beauty.

“I crept to the log, drew out both guns, and then retired to the
bushes—a little uncertain, to tell the truth, what to do, for I hadn’t
any particular wish to murder my dusky callers; and at the same time,
had to remember that they were two to one, and would be unhampered by
any feeling of chivalry, if we did come to blows. I made up my mind to
try to scare them—and suddenly I raised the most horrible, terrifying,
unearthly yell I could think of, and at the same time fired both
barrels of one gun quickly in the air!

“The effect was instantaneous. There was one howl of horror, and the
black fellows darted out of the tent! They almost cannoned into me—and
you know I must look a rum chap in these furry clothes and cap, with my
grandfatherly white beard! At all events, they seemed to think me so,
for at sight of me they both yelled in terror, and bolted away as fast
as their legs could carry them. I cheered the parting guests by howling
still more heartily, and firing my two remaining barrels over their
heads as they ran. They went as swiftly as a motor-car disappears from
view—I believe they reckoned they’d seen the bunyip. I haven’t seen a
trace of them since.

“They’d had a fine time inside the tent. Everything I possessed had
been investigated, and one or two books badly torn—the wretches!” said
the Hermit ruefully. “My clothes (I’ve a few garments beside these
beauties, Miss Norah) had been pulled about, my few papers scattered
wildly, and even my bunk stripped of blankets, which lay rolled up
ready to be carried away. There wasn’t a single one of my poor
possessions that had escaped notice, except, of course, my watch and
money, which I keep carefully buried. The tent was a remarkable
spectacle, and so close and reminiscent of black fellow that my first
act was to undo the sides and let the fresh air play through. I counted
myself very lucky to get off as lightly as I did—had I returned an hour
later none of my goods and chattels would have been left.”

“What about the tucker?” Harry asked; “did they get away with the bag
they’d stowed it in?”

“Not they!” said the Hermit; “they were far too scared to think of bags
or tucker. They almost fell over it in their efforts to escape, but
neither of them thought of picking it up. It was hard luck for them,
after they’d packed it so carefully.”

“Is that how you looked at it?” Jim asked, laughing.

“Well—I tried to,” said the Hermit, laughing in his turn. “Sometimes it
was pretty hard work—and I’ll admit that for the first few days my own
misfortunes were uppermost.”

“But you didn’t lose your tucker after all, you said?” queried Wally.
“I thought they left the bag?”

“They did,” the Hermit admitted. “But have you ever explored the
interior of a black fellow’s bag, Master Wally? No? Well, if you had,
you would understand that I felt no further hankerings over those
masterpieces of the cook’s art. I’m not extra particular, I believe,
but I couldn’t tackle them—no thanks! I threw them into the scrub—and
then washed my hands!”

“Poor you!” said Norah.

“Oh, I wasn’t so badly off,” said the Hermit. “They’d left me the
plum-duff, which was hanging in its billy from a bough. Lots of duff—I
had it morning, noon and night, until I found something fresh to
cook—and I haven’t made duff since. And here we are at the creek!”




CHAPTER IX.
FISHING


The party had for some time been walking near the creek, so close to it
that it was within sound, although they seldom got a glimpse of water,
save where the ti-tree scrub on the bank grew thinner or the light wind
stirred an opening in its branches. Now, however, the Hermit suddenly
turned, and although the others failed to perceive any track or
landmark, he led them quickly through the scrub belt to the bank of the
creek beyond.

It was indeed an ideal place for fishing. A deep, quiet pool, partly
shaded by big trees, lay placid and motionless, except for an
occasional ripple, stirred by a light puff of wind. An old wattle tree
grew on the bank, its limbs jutting out conveniently, and here Jim and
Wally ensconced themselves immediately, and turned their united
attention to business. For a time no sound was heard save the dull
“plunk” of sinkers as the lines, one by one, were flung into the water.

The Hermit did not fish. He had plenty at his camp, he said, and
fishing for fun had lost its excitement, since he fished for a living
most days of the week. So he contented himself with advising the others
where to throw in, and finally sat down on the grass near Norah.

A few minutes passed. Then Jim jerked his line hurriedly and began to
pull in with a feverish expression. It lasted until a big black fish
made its appearance, dangling from the hook, and then it was suddenly
succeeded by a look of intense disgust, as a final wriggle released the
prisoner, which fell back with a splash into the water.

“Well, I’m blessed!” said Jim wrathfully.

“Hard luck!” said Harry.

“Try again, Jimmy, and stick to him this time,” counselled Wally, in a
fatherly tone.

“Oh, you shut up,” Jim answered, re-baiting his hook. “I didn’t catch
an old boot, anyhow!”—which pertinent reflection had the effect of
silencing Wally, amidst mild mirth on the part of the other members of
the expedition.

Scarcely a minute more, and Norah pulled sharply at her line and began
to haul in rapidly.

“Got a whale?” inquired Jim.

“Something like it!” Norah pulled wildly.

“Hang on!”

“Stick to him!”

“Mind your eye!”

“Don’t get your line tangled!”

“Want any help, Miss Norah?”

“No thanks.” Norah was almost breathless. A red spot flamed in each
cheek.

Slowly the line came in. Presently it gave a sudden jerk, and was
tugged back quickly, as the fish made another run for liberty. Norah
uttered an exclamation, quickly suppressed, and caught it sharply,
pulling strongly.

Ah—he was out! A big, handsome perch, struggling and dancing in the air
at the end of the line. Shouts broke from the boys as Norah landed her
prize safely on the bank.

“Well done, Miss Norah,” said the Hermit warmly.

“That’s a beauty—as fine a perch as I’ve seen in this creek.”

“Oh, isn’t he a splendid fellow!” Norah cried, surveying the prey with
dancing eyes. “I’ll have him for Dad, anyhow, even if I don’t catch
another.”

“Yes, Dad’s breakfast’s all right,” laughed the Hermit. “But don’t
worry, you’ll catch more yet. See, there goes Harry.”

There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod,
hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.

“Not bad for a beginning!” he said, grinning. “But not a patch on
yours, Norah!”

“Oh, I had luck,” Norah said. “He really is a beauty, isn’t he? I think
he must be the grandfather of all the perches.”

“If that’s so,” said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of
“do or die” earnestness, “I reckon I’ve got the grandmother on now!”

A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.

“Hurry up, Jim!”

“Go slow!”

“There—he’s getting off again!”

“So are you!” said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing
hard.

“Only a boot, Jim—don’t worry!”

“Gammon!—it’s a shark!—look at his worried expression!”

“I’ll ‘shark’ you, young Harry!” grunted Jim. “Mind your eye—there he
comes!” And expressions of admiration broke from the scoffers as a
second splendid perch dangled in the air and was landed high and dry—or
comparatively so—in the branches of the wattle tree.

“Is he as big as yours, Norah?” queried Jim a minute later, tossing his
fish down on the grass close to his sister and the Hermit.

Norah laid the two fishes alongside.

“Not quite,” she announced; “mine’s about an inch longer, and a bit
fatter.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Jim said. “I said it was the grandmother I
had—yours is certainly the grandfather! I’m glad you got the biggest,
old girl.” They exchanged a friendly smile.

A yell from Wally intimated that he had something on his hook, and with
immense pride he flourished in the air a diminutive blackfish—so small
that the Hermit proposed to use it for bait, a suggestion promptly
declined by the captor, who hid his catch securely in the fork of two
branches, before re-baiting his hook. Then Harry pulled out a fine
perch, and immediately afterwards Norah caught a blackfish; and after
that the fun waxed fast and furious, the fish biting splendidly, and
all hands being kept busy. An hour later Harry shook the last worm out
of the bait tin and dropped it into the water on his hook, where it
immediately was seized by a perch of very tender years.

“Get back and grow till next year,” advised Harry, detaching the little
prisoner carefully, the hook having caught lightly in the side of its
mouth. “I’ll come for you next holidays!” and he tossed the tiny fellow
back into the water. “That’s our last scrap of bait, you chaps,” he
said, beginning to wind up his line.

“I’ve been fishing with an empty hook for I don’t know how long,” said
Jim, hauling up also. “These beggars have nibbled my bait off and
carefully dodged the hook.”

“Well, we’ve plenty, haven’t we?” Norah said. “Just look what a
splendid pile of fish!”

“They take a bit of beating, don’t they?” said Jim. “That’s right, Wal,
pull him up!” as Wally hauled in another fine fish. “We couldn’t carry
more if we had ’em.”

“Then it’s a good thing my bait’s gone, too!” laughed Norah, winding
up. “Haven’t we had a most lovely time!”

Jim produced a roll of canvas which turned out to be two sugar bags,
and in these carefully bestowed the fish, sousing the whole thoroughly
in the water. The boys gathered up the lines and tackle and “planted”
the rods conveniently behind a log, “to be ready for next time,” they
said.

“Well, we’ve had splendid sport, thanks to you, sir,” Jim said, turning
to the Hermit, who stood looking on at the preparations, a benevolent
person, “something between Father Christmas and Robinson Crusoe,” as
Norah whispered to Harry. “We certainly wouldn’t have got on half as
well if we’d stayed where we were.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Hermit answered. “Yours is a good place—I’ve
often caught plenty of fish there—only not to be relied on as this pool
is. I’ve really never known this particular spot fail—the fish seem to
live in it all the year round. However, I’m glad you’ve had decent
luck—it’s not a bit jolly to go home empty-handed, I know. And now,
what’s the next thing to be done? The afternoon’s getting on—don’t you
think it’s time you came to pay me a visit at the camp?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Norah cried.

Jim hesitated.

“We’d like awfully to see your camp, if—if it’s not any bother to you,”
he said.

“Not the least in the world,” the Hermit said. “Only I can’t offer you
any refreshment. I’ve nothing but cold ’possum and tea, and the
’possum’s an acquired taste, I’m afraid. I’ve no milk for the tea, and
no damper, either!”

“By George!” said Jim remorsefully. “Why, we ate all your damper at
lunch!”

“I can easily manufacture another,” the Hermit said, laughing. “I’m
used to the process. Only I don’t suppose I could get it done soon
enough for afternoon tea.”

“We’ve loads of tucker,” Jim said. “Far more than we’re likely to eat.
Milk, too. We meant to boil the billy again before we start for home.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Norah said, struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s
coo-ee for Billy, and when he comes send him back for our things. Then
if—if Mr. Hermit likes, we could have tea at his camp.”

“Why, that’s a splendid notion,” the Hermit cried. “I’m delighted that
you thought of it, Miss Norah, although I’m sorry my guests have to
supply their own meal! It doesn’t seem quite the thing—but in the bush,
polite customs have to fall into disuse. I only keep up my own good
manners by practising on old Turpentine, my snake! However, if you’re
so kind as to overlook my deficiencies, and make them up yourselves, by
all means let us come along and coo-ee for sweet William!”

He shouldered one of the bags of fish as he spoke, disregarding a
protest from the boys. Jim took the second, and they set out for the
camp.

Their way led for some time along the track by which they had come, if
“track” it might be called. Certainly, the Hermit trod it confidently
enough, but the others could only follow in his wake, and wonder by
what process he found his way so quickly through the thick bush.

About half a mile along the creek the Hermit suddenly turned off almost
at right angles, and struck into the scrub. The children followed him
closely, keeping as nearly at his heels as the nature of the path would
permit.

Norah found it not very pleasant. The Hermit went at a good rate,
swinging over the rough ground with the sure-footed case of one
accustomed to the scrub and familiar with the path. The boys unhampered
by skirts and long hair, found no great difficulty in keeping up with
him, but the small maiden of the party, handicapped by her clothes, to
say nothing of being youngest of them all, plodded along in the rear,
catching on sarsaparilla vines and raspberry tangles, plunging head
first through masses of dogwood, and getting decidedly the worst of the
journey.

Harry was the first to notice that Norah was falling “into the
distance,” as he put it, and he ran back to her immediately.

“Poor old kid!” he said shamefacedly. “I’d no idea you were having such
a beast of a time. Sorry, Norah!” His polite regrets were cut short by
Norah’s catching her foot in a creeper and falling bodily upon him.

“Thank you,” said Harry, catching her deftly. “Delighted, I’m sure,
ma’am! It’s a privilege to catch any one like you. Come on, old girl,
and I’ll clear the track for you.”

A little farther on the Hermit had halted, looking a trifle guilty.

“I’m really sorry, Miss Norah,” he said, as Norah and Harry made their
way up to the waiting group. “I didn’t realise I was going at such a
pace. We’ll make haste more slowly.”

He led the way, pausing now and again to make it easier for the little
girl, holding the bushes aside and lifting her bodily over several big
logs and sharp watercourses. Finally he stopped.

“I think if you give Billy a call now, Jim,” he said, “he won’t have
much difficulty in finding us.”

To the children it seemed an utter impossibility that Billy should ever
find them, though they said nothing, and Jim obediently lifted up his
voice and coo-ee’d in answer to the Hermit’s words. For himself, Jim
was free to confess he had quite lost his bearings, and the other boys
were as much at sea as if they had suddenly been dropped down at the
North Pole. Norah alone had an idea that they were not far from their
original camping-place; an idea which was confirmed when a long
“Ai-i-i!” came in response to Jim’s shout, sounding startlingly near at
hand.

“Master Billy has been making his way along the creek,” commented the
Hermit. “He’s no distance off. Give him another call.”

“Here!” Jim shouted. Billy answered again, and after a few more
exchanges, the bushes parted and revealed the sable retainer, somewhat
out of breath.

“Scoot back to camp, Billy,” Jim ordered. “Take these fish and soak ’em
in the creek, and bring back all our tucker—milk and all. Bring
it—Where’ll he bring it, sir?” to the Hermit.

“See that tall tree, broken with the bough dangling?” the Hermit asked,
pointing some distance ahead. Billy nodded. “Come back to that and
cooee, and we’ll answer you.”

“Plenty!” said Billy, shouldering the bags of fish, and departing at a
run. Billy had learnt early the futility of wasting words.

“Come along,” said the Hermit, laughing.

He turned off into the scrub, and led the way again, taking, it seemed
to Norah, rather a roundabout path. At length he stopped short, near a
dense clump of dogwood.

“My back door,” he said politely.

They stared about them. There was no sign of any door at all, nor even
of any footprints or marks of traffic. The scrub was all about them;
everything was very still and quiet in the afternoon hush.

“Well, you’ve got us beaten and no mistake!” Jim laughed, after they
had peered fruitlessly about. “Unless you camp in the air, I don’t
see—”

“Look here,” said the Hermit.

He drew aside a clump of dogwood, and revealed the end of an old log—a
huge tree-trunk that had long ago been a forest monarch, but having
fallen, now stretched its mighty length more than a hundred feet along
the ground. It was very broad and the uppermost side was flat, and here
and there bore traces of caked, dry mud that showed where a boot had
rested. The dogwood walled it closely on each side.

“That’s my track home,” the Hermit said. “Let me help you up, Miss
Norah.”

He sprang up on the log as he spoke, and extended a hand to Norah, who
followed him lightly. Then the Hermit led the way along the log, which
was quite broad enough to admit of a wheelbarrow being drawn down its
length. He stopped where the butt of the old tree, rising above the
level of the trunk, barred the view, and pulling aside the dogwood,
showed rough steps, cut in the side of the log.

“Down here, Miss Norah.”

In a moment they were all on the ground beside him—Wally, disdaining
the steps, having sprung down, and unexpectedly measured his length on
the earth, to the accompaniment of much chaff. He picked himself up,
laughing more than any of them, just as Norah popped her head through
the scrub that surrounded them, and exclaimed delightedly—.

“Why, here’s the camp.”

“I say,” Jim said, following the Hermit into the little clearing,
“you’re well planted here!”

The space was not very large—a roughly circular piece of ground, ringed
round with scrub, in which big gum trees reared their lofty heads. A
wattle tree stood in the centre, from its boughs dangling a rough
hammock, made of sacking, while a water bag hung from another
convenient branch. The Hermit’s little tent was pitched at one side;
across the clearing was the rude fireplace that Norah had seen in the
morning. Everything, though tough enough, was very clean and tidy, with
a certain attempt at comfort.

The Hermit laughed.

“Yes, I’m pretty well concealed,” he agreed. “You might be quite close
to the camp and never dream that it existed. Only bold explorers like
Miss Norah would have hit upon it from the side where she appeared to
me this morning, and my big log saves me the necessity of having a
beaten track home. I try, by getting on it at different points, to
avoid a track to the log, although, should a footmark lead anyone to
it, the intruder would never take the trouble to walk down an old
bushhung tree-trunk, apparently for no reason. So that I feel fairly
secure about my home and my belongings when I plan a fishing expedition
or an excursion that takes me any distance away.”

“Well, it’s a great idea,” Jim said. “Of course, a beaten track to your
camp would be nothing more or less than an invitation to any swaggie or
black fellow to follow it up.”

“That’s what I thought,” the Hermit said; “and very awkward it would
have been for me, seeing that one can’t very well put a padlock on a
tent, and that all my belongings are portable. Not that there’s
anything of great value. I have a few papers I wouldn’t care to lose, a
watch and a little money—but they’re all safely buried in a cashbox
with a good lock. The rest I have to chance, and, as I told you, I’ve
so far been pretty lucky in repelling invaders. There’s not much
traffic round here, you know!”

Jim and Norah laughed. “Not much,” they said, nodding.

“My tent’s not large,” the Hermit said, leading the way to that
erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had
there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a
comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner
explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many
strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.

“It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day,” said
Wally.

“It would,” said the Hermit, “if I did untie them. They’re only part of
my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally.” He
slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which
opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.

“A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all
those,” said the Hermit. “He’d be rather disgusted, on completing the
job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And
perhaps by that time I might be home!”

The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A
hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a
sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly
fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a
rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable
ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and
upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a
further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from
illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the
tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah,
beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood
that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several
blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore
marks of long and honourable use.

The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and
interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and
tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a
benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim
and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said,
reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager
for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp,
wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little
material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.

“A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser,”
Wally said. “I wouldn’t like it myself.”

“Once would be enough for most chaps.” Harry grinned.

“Oh, get out! you know what I mean,” retorted Wally. “You chaps are
never satisfied unless you’re pulling my leg—it’s a wonder I don’t
limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose.”

“He’s an educated chap, too,” Harry said—“talks like a book when he
likes. I wonder what on earth he’s doing it for?”

They had dropped their voices instinctively, and had moved away from
the tent.

“He’s certainly not the ordinary swaggie,” Norah said slowly.

“Not by a good bit,” Wally agreed. “Why, he can talk like our English
master at school! Perhaps he’s hiding.”

“Might be,” Harry said. “You never can tell—he’s certainly keen enough
on getting away from people.”

“He’s chosen a good place, then.”

“Couldn’t be better. I wonder if there’s anything in it—if he really
has done anything and doesn’t want to be found?”

“I never heard such bosh!” said Norah indignantly. “One would think he
really looked wicked, instead of being such a kind old chap. D’you
think he’s gone and committed a murder, or robbed a bank, or something
like that? I wonder you’re not afraid to be in his camp!”

The boys stared in amazement.

“Whew-w-w!” whistled Wally.

Harry flushed a little.

“Oh steady, Norah!” he protested—“we really didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. It was only an idea. I’ll admit be doesn’t look a hardened
sinner.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have such ideas,” Norah said stoutly; “he’s a
great deal too nice, and look how kind he’s been to us! If he chooses
to plant himself in the bush, it’s no one’s business but his own.”

“I suppose not,” Harry began. He pulled up shortly as the Hermit,
followed by Jim, emerged from the tent.

The Hermit had a queer smile in his eyes, but Jim looked desperately
uncomfortable.

Jim favoured the others with a heavy scowl as he came out of the tent,
slipping behind the Hermit in order that he might deliver it
unobserved. It was plain enough to fill them with considerable
discomfort. They exchanged glances of bewilderment.

“I wonder what’s up now?” Wally whispered.

Jim strolled over to them as the Hermit, without saying anything,
crossed to his fireplace, and began to put some sticks together.

“You’re bright objects!” he whispered wrathfully. “Why can’t you speak
softly if you must go gabbling about other people?”

“You don’t mean to say he heard us?” Harry said, colouring.

“I do, then! We could hear every word you said, and it was jolly
awkward for me. I didn’t know which way to look.”

“Was he wild?” whispered Wally.

“Blessed if I know. He just laughed in a queer way, until Norah stuck
up for him, and then he looked grave. ‘I’m lucky to have one friend,’
he said, and walked out of the tent. You’re a set of goats!” finished
Jim comprehensively.

“Well, I’m not ashamed of what I said, anyhow!” Norah answered
indignantly. She elevated her tip-tilted nose, and walked away to where
the Hermit was gathering sticks, into which occupation she promptly
entered. The boys looked at each other.

“Well, I am—rather,” Harry said. He disappeared into the scrub,
returning presently with a log of wood as heavy as he could drag.
Wally, seeing his idea, speedily followed suit, and Jim, after a stare,
copied their example. They worked so hard that by the time the Hermit
and Norah had the fire alight, quite a respectable stack of wood
greeted the eye of the master of the camp. He looked genuinely pleased.

“Well, you are kind chaps,” he said. “That will save me wood-carting
for many a day, and it is a job that bothers my old back.”

“We’re very glad to get it for you, sir,” Jim blurted, a trifle
shamefacedly. A twinkle came into the Hermit’s eyes as he looked at
him.

“That’s all square, Jim,” he said quietly, and without any more being
said the boys felt relieved. Evidently this Hermit was not a man to
bear malice, even if he did overhear talk that wasn’t meant for him.

“Well,” said the Hermit, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, “it’s
about time we heard the dusky Billy, isn’t it?”

“Quite time, I reckon,” Jim replied. “Lazy young beggar!”

“Well, the billy’s not boiling yet, although it’s not far off it.”

“There he is,” Norah said quickly, as a long shout sounded near at
hand. The Hermit quickly went off in its direction, and presently
returned, followed by Billy, whose eyes were round as he glanced about
the strange place in which he found himself, although otherwise no sign
of surprise appeared on his sable countenance. He carried the bags
containing the picnic expedition’s supply of food, which Norah promptly
fell to unpacking. An ample supply remained from lunch, and when
displayed to advantage on the short grass of the clearing the meal
looked very tempting. The Hermit’s eyes glistened as Norah unpacked a
bag of apples and oranges as a finishing touch.

“Fruit!” he said. “Oh, you lucky people! I wish there were fruit shops
in the scrub. I can dispense with all the others, but one does miss
fruit.”

“Well, I’m glad we brought such a bagful, because I’m sure we don’t
want it,” Norah said. “You must let us leave it with you, Mr. Hermit.”

“Water’s plenty boilin’,” said Billy

Tea was quickly brewed, and presently they were seated on the ground
and making a hearty meal, as if the lunch of a few hours ago had never
been.

“If a fellow can’t get hungry in the bush,” said Wally, holding out his
hand for his fifth scone, “then he doesn’t deserve ever to get hungry
at all!” To which Jim replied, “Don’t worry, old man—that’s a fate
that’s never likely to overtake you!” Wally, whose hunger was of a
generally prevailing kind, which usually afflicted him most in school
hours, subsided meekly into his tea-cup.

They did not hurry over the meal, for everyone was a little lazy after
the long day, and there was plenty of time to get home—the long summer
evening was before them, and it would merge into the beauty of a
moonlit night. So they “loafed” and chatted aimlessly, and drank huge
quantities of the billy-tea, that is quite the nicest tea in the world,
especially when it is stirred with a stick. And when they were really
ashamed to eat any more they lay about on the grass, yarning, telling
bush tales many and strange, and listening while the Hermit spun them
old-world stories that made the time slip away wonderfully. It was with
a sigh that Jim roused himself at last.

“Well,” he said, “it’s awfully nice being here, and I’m not in a bit of
a hurry to go—are you, chaps?”

The chaps chorused “No.”

“All the same, it’s getting late,” Jim went on, pulling out his
watch—“later than I thought, my word! Come on—we’ll have to hurry.
Billy, you slip along and saddle up the ponies one-time quick!”

Billy departed noiselessly.

“He never said ‘Plenty!’” said Wally disappointedly, gathering himself
up from the grass.

“It was an oversight,” Jim laughed. “Now then, Norah, come along. What
about the miserable remains?”

“The remains aren’t so miserable,” said Norah, who was on her knees
gathering up the fragments of the feast. “See, there’s a lot of bread
yet, ever so many scones, heaps of cake, and the fruit, to say nothing
of butter and jam.” She looked up shyly at the Hermit. “Would you—would
you mind having them?”

The Hermit laughed.

“Not a bit!” he said. “I’m not proud, and it is really a treat to see
civilized food again. I’ll willingly act as your scavenger, Miss
Norah.”

Together they packed up the remnants, and the Hermit deposited them
inside his tent. He rummaged for a minute in a bag near his bed, and
presently came out with something in his hand.

“I amuse myself in my many odd moments by this sort of thing,” he said.
“Will you have it, Miss Norah?”

He put a photograph frame into her hand—a dainty thing, made from the
native woods, cunningly jointed together and beautifully carved. Norah
accepted it with pleasure.

“It’s not anything,” the Hermit disclaimed—“very rough, I’m afraid. But
you can’t do very good work when your pocket-knife is your only tool. I
hope you’ll forgive its shortcomings, Miss Norah, and keep it to
remember the old Hermit.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, “and
I’m ever so much obliged. I’ll always keep it.”

“Don’t forget,” the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. “And
some day, perhaps, you’ll all come again.”

“We must hurry,” Jim said.

They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun,
sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten
responsibility.

“It’s every man for his own steed,” he said. “Can you manage your old
crock, Norah?”

“Don’t you wish yours was half as good?” queried Norah, as she took the
halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.

Jim grinned.

“Knew I’d got her on a soft spot!” he murmured, wrestling with a
refractory crupper.

Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the
load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on
a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool
resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so
heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy’s balance, and,
after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off
with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a
decisive “Bust!” amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily,
the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log,
not much the worse, except in temper.

“Damp in there, Billy?” queried Wally, with a grave face.

“Plenty!” growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and
a dripping leg.

The Hermit had taken Norah’s saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it
up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him
keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old
man stroked the pony’s glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put
his nose into his hand.

“He likes you,” Norah said; “he doesn’t do that to everyone. Do you
like horses?”

“Better than men,” said the Hermit. “You’ve a good pony, Miss Norah.”

“Yes, he’s a beauty,” the little girl said. “I’ve had him since he was
a foal.”

“He’ll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?”

“About that, I think.”

“And we’ll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where
we are,” said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. “We’ll have to say
good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, and good-bye,” said the Hermit, holding out his hand. “I’m
sorry you’ve all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays—?”

“We’ll come out,” nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. “And if ever you
find your way in as far as our place—”

“I’m afraid not,” said the Hermit hastily. “As I was explaining to Miss
Norah, I’m a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again.”

The boys said “good-bye” and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah
swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.

“Good-bye,” he said.

Norah looked at him pitifully.

“I won’t say good-bye,” she said. “I’m coming back—some day. So
it’s—‘so long!’”

“So long,” the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then
something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the
saddle and kissed his cheek.

He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures
scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and,
with slow steps, went back into the scrub.


They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was
dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well,
and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they
had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The
track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is
not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode
almost in silence.

It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds
to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great
flapping thing flew into Harry’s face, and he uttered a startled yell
before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat
mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters
they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to
“Way Down Upon the Swanee River” and more modern songs, which aren’t
half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had
exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry “obliged” with one of
Gordon’s poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with
vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly
that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.

“Old Harry’s our champion elocutioner at school, you know,” Wally said.
“You should have heard him last Speech Day! He got more clapping than
all the rest put together.”

“Shut up, young Wally!” growled Harry in tones of affected wrath.

“Same to you,” said Wally cheerfully. “Why, you had all the mammas
howling into their hankies in your encore piece!”

After which nothing would satisfy Norah but another recitation, and
another after that; and then the timber ended, and there was only the
level plain be tween them and home, with the moon just high enough to
make it sufficiently light for a gallop. They tore wildly homeward, and
landed in a slightly dishevelled bunch at the gate of the paddock.

No one was about the stables.

“Men all gone off somewhere,” said Jim laconically, proceeding to let
his pony go. His example was followed by each of the others, the steeds
dismissed with a rub and a pat, and the saddles placed on the stands.

“Well, I don’t know about you chaps,” said Jim, “but I’m as hungry as a
hunter!”

“Same here,” chorused the chaps.

“Come along and see what good old Brownie’s put by for us,” said Norah,
disappearing towards the house like a small comet.

The boys raced after her. In the kitchen doorway Mrs. Brown stood, her
broad face resplendent with smiles.

“I was just beginning to wonder if any of you had fallen into the
creek,” she said. “You must be hungry, poor dears. Supper’s ready.”

“Where’s Dad?” asked Norah.

“Your Pa’s gone to Sydney.”

“Sydney!”

“Yes, my dears. A tallygrum came for him—something about some valuable
cattle to be sold, as he wants.”

“Oh,” said Jim, “those shorthorns he was talking about?”

“Very like, Master Jim. Very sorry, your Pa were, he said, to go so
suddint, and not to see you again, and the other young gentlemen
likewise, seein’ you go away on Monday. He left his love to Miss Norah,
and a letter for you; and Miss Norah, you was to try not to be dull,
and he would be back by Thursday, so he ’oped.”

“Oh,” said Norah, blankly. “It’s hardly a homecoming without Dad.”

Supper was over at last, and it had been a monumental meal. To behold
the onslaughts made by the four upon Mrs. Brown’s extensive
preparations one might have supposed that they had previously been
starving for time uncounted.

“Heigho!” said Jim. “Our last day to-morrow.”

Groans followed from Harry and Wally.

“What do you want to remind a fellow for?”

“Couldn’t help it—slipped out. What a jolly sell not to see old Dad
again!” Jim wrinkled his brown handsome face into a frown.

“You needn’t talk!” said Norah gloomily. “Fancy me on Monday—not a soul
to speak to.”

“Poor old Norah—yes, it’s rough on you,” said Jim. “Wish you were
coming too. Why can’t you get Dad to let you go to school in
Melbourne?”

“Thanks,” said Norah hastily, “I’d rather not. I think I can bear this
better. School! What on earth would I do with myself, shut up all day?”

“Oh, all right; I thought you might like it. You get used to it, you
know.”

“I couldn’t get used to doing without Dad,” returned Norah.

“Or Dad to doing without you, I reckon,” said Jim. “Oh, I suppose it’s
better as it is—only you’ll have to get taught some day, old chap, I
suppose.”

“Oh, never mind that now,” Norah said impatiently. “I suppose I’ll have
a governess some day, and she won’t let me ride astride, or go after
the cattle, or climb trees, or do anything worth doing, and everything
will be perfectly hateful. It’s simply beastly to be getting old!”

“Cheer up, old party,” Jim laughed. “She might be quite a decent sort
for all you know. As for riding astride, Dad’ll never let you ride any
other way, so you can keep your mind easy about that. Well, never mind
governesses, anyhow; you haven’t got one yet, and sufficient unto the
day is the governess thereof. What are we going to do to-morrow?”

“Can’t do very much,” said Norah, still showing traces of gloom. “It’s
Sunday; besides, the horses want a spell, and you boys will have to
pack—you leave pretty early on Monday, you know.”

“Oh, botheration!” said Wally, jumping up so suddenly that he upset his
chair. “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk of going back until we actually
get there; it’s bad enough then. Let’s go and explore somewhere
to-morrow.”

“We can do that all right,” said Jim, glad of any turn being given to
the melancholy conversation. “We’ve never taken you chaps to the falls,
two miles up the creek, and they’re worth seeing.”

“It’s a nice walk, too,” added Norah, putting sorrow to flight by
deftly landing a pellet of bread on Harry’s nose. “Think you can
struggle so far, Harry?”

“Yes, and carry you back when you knock up,” said that gentleman,
returning the missile, without success, Norah having retreated behind a
vase of roses. “I think it would be a jolly good plan.”

“Right oh!” said Jim. “That’s settled. We’ll pack up in the morning,
get Brownie to give us dinner early, and start in good time. It doesn’t
really take long to walk there, you know, only we want to be able to
loaf on the way, and when we get to the falls.”

“Rather,” said Harry. “I never see any fun in a walk when you tear
somewhere, get there, and tear back again. Life’s too short. Come on,
Norah, and play to us.”

So they trooped into the drawing-room, and for an hour the boys lay
about on sofas and easy chairs, while Norah played softly. Finally she
found that her entire audience was sound asleep, a state of things she
very naturally resented by gently pouring water from a vase on their
peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah.




CHAPTER X.
THE LAST DAY


“Now then, Harry, are you ready?”

“Coming,” said Harry’s cheerful voice. He appeared on the verandah,
endeavouring to cram a gigantic apple into his pocket.

“Norah’s,” he said, in response to Jim’s lifted eyebrows. “Don’t know
if she means to eat it in sections or not—it certainly doesn’t mean to
go into my pocket as it is.” He desisted from his efforts. “Try it in
the crown of your hat, old man.”

“Thanks—my hat’s got all it knows to hold my brains,” retorted Jim.
“You can’t take that thing. Here, Norah,” as that damsel appeared on
the step, “how do you imagine Harry’s going to cart this apple?”

“Quite simple,” said Norah airily. “Cut it in four, and we’ll each take
a bit.”

“That’s the judgment of Solomon,” said Wally, who was lying full length
on the lawn—recovering, as Jim unkindly suggested, from dinner.

“Well, come along,” Jim said impatiently—“you’re an awfully hard crowd
to get started. We want to reach the falls in fair time, to see the
sunlight on them—it’s awfully pretty. After about three or four o’clock
the trees shade the water, and it’s quite ordinary.”

“Just plain, wet water,” murmured Wally. Jim rolled him over and over
down the sloping lawn, and then fled, pursued by Wally with dishevelled
attire and much grass in his mouth. The others followed more steadily,
and all four struck across the paddock to the creek.

It was a rather hot afternoon, and they were glad to reach the shade of
the bank and to follow the cattle track that led close to the water.
Great fat bullocks lay about under the huge gum trees, scarcely raising
their eyes to glance at the children as they passed; none were eating,
all were chewing the cud in lazy contentment. They passed through a
smaller paddock where superb sheep dotted the grass—real aristocrats
these, accustomed to be handled and petted, and to live on the fat of
the land—poor grass or rough country food they had never known. Jim and
Norah visited some special favourites, and patted them. Harry and Wally
admired at a distance.

“Those some of the sheep you saved from the fire?” queried Harry.

Norah flushed.

“Never did,” she said shortly, and untruthfully. “Don’t know why you
can’t talk sense, Jim!”—at which that maligned youth laughed
excessively, until first the other boys, and then Norah, joined in,
perforce.

After again climbing over the sheep-proof fence of the smaller paddock
they came out upon a wide plain, almost treeless, save for the timber
along the creek, where their cattle track still led them. Far as they
could see no fence broke the line of yellow grass. There were groups of
cattle out on the plain. These were store bullocks, Jim explained, a
draft recently arrived from Queensland, and hardly yet acclimatised.

“It takes a good while for them to settle down,” Norah said, “and then
lots of ’em get sick—pleuro and things; and we inoculate them, and
their tails drop off, and sometimes the sick ones get bad-tempered, and
it’s quite exciting work mustering.”

“Dangerous?” asked Wally.

“Not with a pony that knows things like Bobs,” said Bobs’ mistress. “He
always keeps his weather eye open for danger.”

“Not a bad thing, as you certainly don’t,” laughed Jim.

“Well—do you?”

“Certainly I do,” said Jim firmly, whereat Norah laughed very heartily.

“When I leave school, Dad says I can go on the roads with the cattle
for one trip,” said Jim. “Be no end of fun—takes ever so long to bring
them down from Queensland, and the men have a real good time—travel
with a cook, and a covered buggy and pair to bring the tucker and tents
along.”

“What’ll you be?” asked Wally—“cook?”

“No, slushy,” said Harry.

“No, I’ll take you two chaps along in those billets,” grinned Jim.

“I don’t know who’d be cook,” said Norah solemnly; “but I don’t think
the men would be in very good condition at the end of the trip,
whichever of you it was!”

With such pleasantries they beguiled the way, until, on rounding a bend
in the track, a dull roar came plainly to their ears.

“What’s that?” asked Wally, stopping to listen.

“That’s the falls, my boy,” replied Jim. “They’re really quite
respectable falls—almost Niagarous! Come along, we’ll see them in a
couple of minutes.”

The sound of falling water became plainer and plainer as they pushed
on. At this point the track was less defined and the scrub thicker—Jim
explained that the cattle did not come here much, as there was no
drinking-place for them for a good distance below the falls. They might
almost have imagined themselves back in the bush near the Hermit’s
camp, Harry said, as they pushed their way through scrub and
undergrowth, many raspberry vines adding variety, if not charm, to the
scramble. The last part of the walk was up bill, and at length they
came out upon a clearer patch of ground.

For some time the noise of the falls had deepened, until now it was a
loud roar; but the sound had hardly prepared the boys for the sight
that met their gaze. High up were rocky cliffs, sparsely clothed with
vegetation, and through these the creek had cut its way, falling in one
sheer mass, fifty feet or more, into the bed below, hollowed out by it
during countless ages. The water curved over the top of the fall in one
exquisite wave, smooth as polished marble, but half-way down a point of
rock jutted suddenly out, and on this the waters dashed and split,
flying off from it in a cloud of spray. At the foot the cataract roared
and bubbled and seethed in one boiling mass of rapids.

But the glory of it all was the sunlight. It fell right on the mass of
descending water; and in the rays the fall glittered and flashed with
all the colours of the rainbow, and the flying spray was like powdered
jewels. It caught the drops hanging on the ferns that fringed the
water, and turned them into twinkling diamonds. The whole fall seemed
to be alive in the sunbeams’ dancing light.

“Oh-h, I say,” whispered Harry. “Fancy never showing us this before!”
He cast himself on the ground and lay, chin in hands, gazing at the
wonder before him.

“We kept it to the last,” said Norah softly. She sat down by him and
the others followed their example.

“Just think,” said Harry, “that old creek’s been doing that ever since
time began—every day the sun comes to take his share at lighting it up,
long before we were born, and ages after we shall die! Doesn’t it make
you feel small!”

Norah nodded understandingly. “I saw it once by moonlight,” she said.
“Dad and I rode here one night—full moon. Oh, it was lovely! Not like
this, of course, because there wasn’t any colour—but a beautiful white,
clean light, and the fall was like a sheet of silver.”

“Did you ever throw anything over?” asked Wally. His wonderment was
subsiding and the boy in him woke up again.

“No good,” said Jim. “You never see it again. I’ve thrown a stick in up
above, and it simply whisks over and gets sucked underneath the curtain
of water at once, and disappears altogether until it reaches the smooth
water, ever so far down.”

“Say you went over yourself?”

“Wouldn’t be much left of you,” Jim answered, with a laugh. “The bed of
the creek’s simply full of rocks—you can see a spike sticking up here
and there in the rapids. We’ve seen sheep come down in flood-time—they
get battered to bits. I don’t think I’ll try any experiments, thank
you, young Wally.”

“You always were a disobliging critter,” Wally grinned.

“Another time a canoe came over,” Jim said. “It belonged to two chaps
farther up—they’d just built it, and were out for the first time, and
got down too near the falls. They didn’t know much about managing their
craft, and when the suck of the water began to take them along they
couldn’t get out of the current. They went faster and faster,
struggling to paddle against the stream, instead of getting out at an
angle and making for the bank—which they might have done. At last they
could hear the roar of the falls quite plainly.”

“What happened to them?” asked Wally. “Did they go over?”

“Well, they reckoned it wasn’t healthy to remain in the canoe,” said
Jim. “It was simply spinning along in the current, and the falls were
almost in sight. So they dived in, on opposite sides—the blessed canoe
nearly tipped over when they stood up, and only the shock of the cross
drive kept her right. Of course the creek’s not so very wide, even
farther up beyond the falls, and the force of their spring sent them
nearly out of the current. They could both swim well, and after a
struggle they got to the banks, just in time to see the canoe whisk
over the waterfall!”

“What hard luck!”

“It was rather. They started off down-stream to find it, but for a long
way they couldn’t see a trace. Then, right in the calm water, ever so
far down, they found it—bit by bit. It was broken into so much
matchwood!”

“What did they do?” asked Wally.

“Stood and stared at it from opposite sides, like two wet images,” said
Jim, laughing. “It’s lowdown to grin, I suppose, but they must have
looked funny. Then one of them swam across and they made their way to
our place, and we fixed them up with dry things and drove them home. I
don’t think they’ve gone in for canoeing since!” finished Jim
reflectively.

“Well, I guess it would discourage them a bit,” Wally agreed. “Getting
shipwrecked’s no fun.”

“Ever tried it?”

“Once—in Albert Park Lagoon,” Wally admitted bashfully. “Some of us
went out for a sail one Saturday afternoon. We didn’t know much about
it, and I really don’t know what it was that tipped the old boat over.
I was the smallest, so naturally I wasn’t having any say in managing
her.”

“That accounts for it,” said Jim dryly.

“Didn’t mean that—goat!” said Wally. “Anyhow, I

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