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A Little Bush Maid

Mary Grant Bruce

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Title: A Little Bush Maid

Author: Mary Grant Bruce

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

A LITTLE BUSH MAID by MARY GRANT BRUCE

CONTENTS

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CHAPTER

I BILLABONG

II PETS AND PLAYTHINGS

III A MENAGERIE RACE

IV JIM'S IDEA

V ANGLER'S BEND

VI A BUSH FIRE

VII WHAT NORAH FOUND

VIII ON A LOG

IX FISHING

X THE LAST DAY

XI GOOD-BYE

XII THE WINFIELD MURDER

XIII THE CIRCUS

XIV CAMPING OUT

XV FOR FRIENDSHIP

XVI FIGHTING DEATH

XVII THE END OF THE STRUGGLE

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

ads:

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 digust,

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 stream-let, 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 be 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 be 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 be 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 regouts, Nell Cook is famous still--?"

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 was very much

astonished to find myself suddenly kicking in the mud. Ever been in that

lake? It isn't nice. It isn't deep enough to drown you, but the mud is a

caution. I got it all over me--face and all!"

"You must have looked your best!" said Jim.

"I did. I managed to stand up, very much amazed to find I wasn't

drowned. Two of the others walked out! I was too small to do more than

just manage to keep upright. The water was round my chest. I couldn't

have walked a yard."

"How did you manage?"

"A boat came along and picked up the survivors," grinned Wally. "They

wouldn't take us in. We were just caked with mud, so I don't blame

'em--but we hung on to the stern, and they towed us to the shore. We

were quite close to land. Then they went back and brought our boat to

us. They were jolly kind chaps--didn't seem to mind any trouble."

"You don't seem to have minded it, either," said Norah.

"We were too busy laughing," Wally said. "You have to expect these

things when you go in for a life on the ocean wave. The worst part of it

came afterwards, when we went home. That was really unpleasant. I was

staying at my aunt's in Toorak."

"Did you get into a row?"

"It was unpleasant," Wally repeated. "Aunts haven't much sympathy, you

know. They don't like mess, and I was no end messy. We won't talk about

it, I think, thank you." Wally rolled over on his back, produced an

apple and bit into it solemnly.

"Let us respect his silence," said Jim.

"You had aunts too?" queried Wally, with his mouth full.

"Not exactly aunts," Jim said. "But we had an old Tartar of a

housekeeper once, when we were small kids. She ruled us with a rod of

iron for about six months, and Norah and I could hardly call our souls

our own. Father used to be a good deal away and Mrs. Lister could do

pretty well as she liked."

"I did abominate that woman," said Norah reflectively.

"I don't wonder," replied Jim. "You certainly were a downtrodden little

nipper as ever was. D'you remember the time we went canoeing in the

flood on your old p'rambulator?"

"Not likely to forget it."

"What was it?" Wally asked. "Tell us, Jim."

"Norah had a pram--like most kids," Jim began.

"Well, I like that," said Norah, in great indignation. "It was yours

first!"

"Never said it wasn't," said Jim somewhat abashed by the laughter that

ensued. "But that was ages ago. It was yours at this time, anyhow. But

only the lower storey was left--just the floor of the pram on three

wheels. Norah used to sit on this thing and push herself along with two

sticks, like rowing on dry land."

"It was no end of fun," said Norah. "You _could_ go!"

"You could," grinned Jim. "I'll never forget the day I saw you start

from the top of the hill near the house. The pram got a rate on of a

mile a minute, and the sticks weren't needed. About half-way down it

struck a root, and turned three double somersaults in the air. I don't

know how many Norah turned--but when Dad and I got to the spot she was

sitting on a thick mat of grass, laughing like one o'clock, and the pram

was about half a mile away on the flat with its wheels in the air! We

quite reckoned you were killed."

"Yes, and Dad made me promise not to go down that hill again," said

Norah ruefully. "It was a horrid nuisance!"

"Well, there was a flood," said Jim. "Not very much of a one. We'd had a

good bit of rain, and the water-hole in the home paddock overflowed and

covered all the flat about two feet deep. At first it was a bit too deep

for Norah and her wheeled boat, but when it went down a bit she set off

voyaging. She did look a rum little figure, out in the middle of the

water, pushing herself along with her two sticks! Mrs. Lister didn't

approve of it, but as Dad had given her leave, the housekeeper couldn't

stop her."

At this point Norah was heard to murmur "Cat!"

"Just so!" said Jim. "Well, you know, I used to poke fun at Norah and

this thing. But one day I had gone down to the water's edge, and she

came up on it, poling herself through the water at a great rate, and it

occurred to me it didn't look half bad fun. So I suggested a turn

myself."

"You said, 'Here, kid, let's have that thing for a bit,'" said Norah

firmly.

"Did I?" said Jim, with meekness.

"Yes, you did. So I kindly got off."

"Then?" asked Harry.

"He got on. I said, 'Jim, dear, pray be careful about the holes, and let

me tell you where they are!'"

"I'm sure you did!" grinned Wally.

"And he said, 'If a kid like you can keep out of holes, I guess I can!'"

"I'm sure he did!" said Wally.

"Yes. So he set off. Now I had been over that flat so often in dry

weather that I knew every bit of it. But Jim didn't. He went off as hard

as he could, and got on very well for a little bit--"

"Am I telling this yarn, or are you?" inquired Jim, laughing.

"This is the part that is best for me to tell," said Norah solemnly.

"Then he turned suddenly, so suddenly I hadn't time to do more than yell

a warning, which he didn't hear--and the next minute the side wheels of

the pram went over the edge of a hole, and the thing turned upside down

upon poor old Jimmy!"

"How lovely!" said Wally, kicking with delight. "Well, and what

happened?"

"Oh, Jim can tell you now," laughed Norah. "I wasn't under the water!"

"I was!" said Jim. "The blessed old pram turned clean over and cast me

bodily into a hole. That was all I knew--until I tried to get out, and

found the pram had come, too, and was right on top of me--and do you

think I could move that blessed thing?"

"Well?"

"In came Norah," said Jim. "(I'll take it out of you now, my girl!) She

realised at once what had happened and waded in from the bank and pulled

the old pram off her poor little brother! I came up, spluttering, to see

Norah, looking very white, just preparing to dive in after me!"

"You never saw such a drowned rat!" said Norah, taking up the tale.

"Soaked--and muddy--and very cross! And the first thing he did was to

abuse my poor old wheely-boat!"

"Well--wouldn't you?" Jim laughed. "Had to abuse something! Anyhow, we

righted her and Norah waded farther in after the sticks, which had

floated peacefully away, and we pulled the wheely-boat ashore. Then we

roared laughing at each other. I certainly was a drowned rat, but Norah

wasn't much better, as she'd slipped nearly into the hole herself, in

pulling the pram off me. But when we'd laughed, the first thought

was--'How are we going to dodge Mrs. Lister!' It was a nasty problem!"

"What did you do?"

"Well, after consultation we got up near the house, planting the pram in

some trees. We dodged through the shrubbery until we reached that old

summer-house, and there I left Norah and scooted over to the stables,

and borrowed an overcoat belonging to a boy we had working and a pair of

his boots. Dad was away, or I might have gone straight to him. I put on

the borrowed things over my wet togs (and very nice I looked!) and

trotted off to the side of the house. No one seemed about, so I slipped

into my room through the window and then into Norah's, and got a bundle

of clothes, and back I scooted to the summer-house, left Norah's things

there, and found a dressing-room for myself among some shrubs close by.

"Well, do you know, that old cat, Mrs. Lister, had seen us all the time?

She'd actually spotted us coming up the paddock, dripping, and had

deliberately planted herself to see what we'd do. She knew all about my

expedition after clothes; then she followed us to the shrubbery, and

descended upon us like an avalanche, just as we got half-dressed!"

"'May I ask what you naughty little children are doing?' she said.

"Well, you know, that put my back up a bit--'cause I was nearly twelve,

and Dad didn't make a little kid of me. However, I tried to keep civil,

and tell her what had happened; but she told me to hold my tongue. She

grabbed Norah by the shoulder, and called her all the names under the

sun, and shook her. Then she said, 'You'll come to bed at once, miss!'

and caught hold of her wrist to drag her in.

"Now Norah had sprained her wrist not long before, and she had to be a

bit careful of it. We all knew that. She didn't cry out when Mrs. Lister

jerked her wrist, but I saw her turn white, and knew it was the bad

one."

"So he chucked himself on top of old Mrs. Lister, and pounded her as

hard as he could," put in Norah, "and she was so astonished she let me

go. She turned her attention to Jim then, and gave him a terrible whack

over the head that sent him flying. And just then we heard a voice that

was so angry we hardly recognised it for Dad's, saying--

"'What is this all about?'"

"My word, we were glad to see Dad!" said Jim. "He came over and put his

arm round Norah--poor little kid. Mrs. Lister had screwed her wrist till

it was worse than ever it had been, and she was as white as a sheet. Dad

helped her on with her clothes. All the time Mrs. Lister was pouring out

a flood of eloquence against us, and was nearly black in the face with

rage. Dad took no notice until Norah was dressed. Then he said, 'Come to

me in the study in twenty minutes,' and he picked Norah up and carried

her inside, where he dosed her, and fixed up her wrist. I put on my

clothes and followed them.

"Norah and I never said anything until Mrs. Lister had told her story,

which was a fine production, little truth, and three parts awful crams.

Then Dad asked for our side, and we just told him. He knew we never told

lies, and he believed us, and we told him some other things Mrs. Lister

used to do to us in the way of bullying and spite. I don't know that Dad

needed them, because Norah's wrist spoke louder than fifty tales, and he

didn't need any more evidence, though after all, she might have grabbed

the bad wrist by mistake, and she had done far worse things on purpose.

But the end of it was, Mrs. Lister departed that night, and Norah and I

danced a polka in the hall when we heard the buggy drive off."

"That being the case," said Norah gravely, "we'll all have an apple."

The apples were produced and discussed, and then it was time to think of

home, for the sun had long since left the glistening surface of the

falls. So they gathered themselves up, and reluctantly enough left the

beautiful scene behind them, with many a backward look.

The way home was rather silent. The shadow of the boys' departure was

over them all, and Norah especially felt the weight of approaching

loneliness. With Dad at home it would have been easier to let the boys

go, but the prospect of several days by herself, with only the servants

for company, was not a very comforting one. Norah wished dismally that

she had been born a boy, with the prospect of a journey, and mates, and

school, and "no end of larks." Then she thought of Dad, and though still

dismal, unwished the wish, and was content to remain a girl.

There was a little excitement on the homeward trip over a snake, which

tried to slip away unseen through the grass, and when it found itself

surrounded by enemies, coiled itself round Harry's leg, a proceeding

very painful to that youth, who nevertheless stood like a statue while

Jim dodged about for a chance to strike at the wildly waving head. He

got it at last, and while the reptile writhed in very natural annoyance,

Harry managed to get free, and soon put a respectful distance between

himself and his too-affectionate acquaintance. Jim finished up the

snake, and they resumed the track, keeping a careful look-out, and

imagining another in every rustle.

"Well done, old Harry!" said Wally. "Stood like a statue, you did!"

"Thanks!" said Harry. "Jim's the chap to say 'Well done' to, I think."

"Not me," said Jim. "Easy enough to try to kill the brute. I'd rather do

that than feel him round my leg, where I couldn't get at him."

"Well, I think I would, too," Harry said, laughing. "I never felt such a

desire to stampede in my life."

"It was beastly," affirmed Norah. She was a little pale. "It seemed

about an hour before he poked his horrid head out and let Jim get a

whack at it. But you didn't lose much time, then, Jimmy!"

"Could he have bitten through the leg of your pants?" queried Wally,

with interest.

"He couldn't have sent all the venom through, I think," Jim replied.

"But enough would have gone to make a very sick little Harry."

"It'd be an interesting experiment, no doubt," said Harry. "But, if you

don't mind, I'll leave it for someone else to try. I'd recommend a

wooden-legged man as the experimenter. He'd feel much more at his ease

while the snake was trying how much venom he could get through a pant

leg!"

CHAPTER XI

GOOD-BYE

"I was just a-goin' to ring the big bell," said Mrs. Brown.

She was standing on the front verandah as the children came up the lawn.

"Why, we're not late, Brownie, are we?" asked Norah.

"Not very." The old housekeeper smiled at her. "Only when your Pa's away

I allers feels a bit nervis about you--sech thoughtless young people,

an' all them animals and snakes about!"

"Gammon!" said Jim laughing. "D'you mean to say I can't look after them,

Brownie?"

"I'd rather not say anythink rash, Master Jim," rejoined Mrs. Brown with

a twinkle.

"I guess Mrs. Brown's got the measure of your foot, old man," grinned

Harry.

"Oh, well," said Jim resignedly, "a chap never gets his due in this

world. I forgive you, Brownie, though you don't deserve it. Got a nice

tea for us?"

"Sech as it is, Master Jim, it's waitin' on you," said Mrs. Brown, with

point.

"That's what you might call a broad hint," cried Jim. "Come on,

chaps--race you for a wash-up!"

They scattered, Mrs. Brown laying violent hands on the indignant Norah,

and insisting on arraying her in a clean frock, which the victim

resisted, as totally unnecessary. Mrs. Brown carried her point, however,

and a trim little maiden joined the boys in the dining-room five minutes

later.

Mrs. Brown's cooking was notable, and she had excelled herself over the

boys' farewell tea. A big cold turkey sat side by side with a ham of

majestic dimensions, while the cool green of a salad was tempting after

the hot walk. There were jellies, and a big bowl of fruit salad, while

the centre of the table was occupied by a tall cake, raising aloft

glittering white tiers. There were scones and tarts and wee cakes, and

dishes of fresh fruit, and altogether the boys whistled long and softly,

and declared that "Brownie was no end of a brick!"

Whereat Mrs. Brown, hovering about to see that her charges wanted

nothing, smiled and blushed, and said, "Get on, now, do!"

Jim carved, and Jim's carving was something to marvel at. No method came

amiss to him. When he could cut straight he did; at other times he

sawed; and, when it seemed necessary, he dug. After he had finished

helping every one, Wally said that the turkey looked as if a dog had

been at it, and the ham was worse, which remarks Jim meekly accepted as

his due. Nor did the inartistic appearance of the turkey prevent the

critic from coming back for more!

Everyone was hungry, and did full justice to "Brownie's" forethought;

while Norah, behind the tall teapot, declared that it was a job for two

men and a boy to pour out for such a thirsty trio. Harry helped the

fruit salad, and Harry's helpings were based on his own hunger, and

would have suited Goliath. Finally, Norah cut the cake with great

ceremony, and Wally's proposal that everyone should retire to the lawn

with a "chunk" was carried unanimously.

Out on the grass they lay and chattered, while the dusk came down, and

slowly a pale moon climbed up into the sky. Norah alone was silent.

After a while Harry and Wally declared they must go and pack, and Jim

and his sister were left alone.

Wally and Harry scurried down the hail. The sound of their merry voices

died away, and there was silence on the lawn.

Jim rolled nearer to Norah.

"Blue, old girl?"

"'M," said a muffled voice.

Jim felt for her hand in the darkness--and found it. The small, brown

fingers closed tightly round his rough paw.

"I know," he said comprehendingly. "I'm awfully sorry, old woman. I do

wish we hadn't to go."

There was no answer. Jim knew why--and also knowing perfectly well that

tears would mean the deepest shame, he talked on without requiring any

response.

"Beastly hard luck," he said. "We don't want to go a bit--fancy school

after this! Ugh! But there are three of us, so it isn't so bad. It

wouldn't matter if Dad was at home, for you. But I must say it's lowdown

to be leaving you all by your lonely little self."

Norah struggled hard with that abominable lump in her throat, despising

herself heartily.

"Brownie'll be awfully good to you," went on Jim. "You'll have to buck

up, you know, old girl, and not let yourself get dull. You practise like

one o'clock; or make jam, or something; or get Brownie to let you do

some cooking. Anything to keep you 'from broodin' on bein' a dorg,' as

old David Harum says. There's all the pets to look after, you

know--you've got to keep young black Billy up to the mark, or he'll

never feed 'em properly, and if you let him alone he changes the water

in the dishes when the last lot's dry. And, by George, Norah"--Jim had a

bright idea--"Dad told me last night he meant to shift those new

bullocks into the Long Plain. Ten to one he forgot all about it, going

away so suddenly. You'll have to see to it."

"I'd like that," said Norah, feeling doubtfully for her voice.

"Rather--best thing you can do," Jim said eagerly. "Take Billy with you,

of course, and a dog. They're not wild, and I don't think you'll have

any trouble--only be very careful to get 'em all--examine all the scrub

in the paddock. Billy knows how many there ought to be. I did know, but,

of course, I've forgotten. Of course Dad may have left directions with

one of the men about it already."

"Well, I could go too, couldn't I?" queried Norah.

"Rather. They'd be glad to have you."

"Well, I'll be glad of something to do. I wasn't looking forward to

to-morrow."

"No," said Jim, "I know you weren't. Never mind, you keep busy. You

might drive into Cunjee with Brownie on Tuesday--probably you'd get a

letter from Dad a day earlier, and hear when he's coming home--and if he

says he's coming home on Thursday, Wednesday won't seem a bit long.

You'll be as right as ninepence if you buck up."

"I will, old chap. Only I wish you weren't going."

"So do I," said Jim, "and so do the other chaps. They want to come again

some holidays."

"Well, I hope you'll bring them."

"My word! I will. Do you know, Norah, they think you're no end of a

brick?"

"Do they?" said Norah, much pleased. "Did they tell you?"

"They're always telling me. Now, you go to bed, old girl."

He rose and pulled her to her feet.

Norah put her arms round his neck--a very rare caress.

"Good night," she said. "I--I do love you, Jimmy!"

Jim hugged her.

"Same here, old chap," he said.

There was such scurrying in the early morning. Daylight revealed many

things that had been overlooked in the packing overnight, and they had

to be crammed in, somehow. Other things were remembered which had not

been packed, and which must be found, and diligent hunt had to be made

for them.

Norah was everybody's mate, running on several errands at once, finding

Jim's school cap near Harry's overcoat while she was looking for Wally's

cherished snake-skin. Her strong brown hands pulled tight the straps of

bulging bags on which their perspiring owners knelt, puffing. After the

said bags were closed and carried out to the buggy, she found the three

toothbrushes, and crammed each, twisted in newspaper, into its owner's

pocket. She had no time to think she was dull.

Mrs. Brown, who had been up since dawn, had packed a huge hamper, and

superintended its placing in the buggy. It was addressed to "Master

James, Master Harry, and Master Wallie," and later Jim reported that its

contents were such as to make the chaps at school speechless--a

compliment which filled Mrs. Brown with dismay, and a wish that she had

put in less pastry and perhaps a little castor oil. At present she felt

mildly safe about it and watched it loaded with a sigh of relief.

"Boom-m-m!" went the big gong, and the boys rushed to the dining-room,

where Norah was ready to pour out tea.

"You have some, Norah," said Harry, retaining his position close to the

teapot, whence Wally had vainly striven to dislodge him.

"Yes, old girl, you eat some breakfast," commanded Jim.

Norah flashed a smile at him over the cosy.

"Lots of time afterwards," she said, a little sadly.

"No time like the present." Wally took a huge bite out of a scone, and

surveyed the relic with interest. Someone put a smoking plateful before

him, and his further utterances were lost in eggs and bacon.

Mrs. Brown flitted about like a stout guardian angel, keeping an

especially watchful eye on Jim. If the supply on his plate lessened

perceptibly, it was replenished with more, like manna from above. To his

laughing protests she merely murmured, "Poor dear lamb!" whereat Wally

and Harry laughed consumedly, and Jim blushed.

"Well, you've beaten me at last, Brownie," Jim declared finally. He

waved away a chop which was about to descend upon his plate. "No truly,

Brownie dear; there are limits! Tea? No thanks, Norah, I've had about a

dozen cups already, I believe! You fellows ready?"

They were, and the table was briskly deserted.

There was a final survey of the boys' room, which resembled a rubbish

heap, owing to vigorous packing.

Everybody ran wildly about looking for something.

Wally was found searching frantically for his cap, which Norah

discovered--on his head. There was a hurried journey to the kitchen, to

bid the servants "Good-bye."

The buggy wheels scrunched the gravel before the hall door. The overseer

coo-ee'd softly.

"All aboard!"

"All right, Evans!" Jim appeared in the doorway, staggering under a big

Gladstone bag. Billy, similarly laden, followed. His black face was

unusually solemn.

"Chuck 'em in, Billy. Come on, you chaps!"

The chaps appeared.

"Good-bye, Norah. It's been grand!" Harry pumped her hand vigorously.

"Wish you were coming!" said Wally dismally. "Good-bye. Write to us,

won't you, Norah?"

"Now then, Master Jim!" Evans glanced at his watch.

"Right oh!" said Jim. He put his arm round the little girl's shoulders

and looked keenly into her face. There was no hint of breaking down.

Norah met his gaze steadily and smiled at him. But the boy knew.

"Good-bye, little chap," he said, and kissed her. "You'll keep your

pecker up?"

She nodded. "Good-bye, Jimmy, old boy."

Jim sprang into the buggy.

"All right, Evans."

They whirled down the drive. Looking back, waving their caps, the boys

carried away a memory of a brave little figure, erect, smiling and

lonely on the doorstep.

CHAPTER XII

THE WINFIELD MURDER

The next few days went by slowly enough.

Norah followed faithfully all Jim's plans for her amusement. She

practised, did some cooking, and helped Mrs. Brown preserve apricots;

then there were the pets to look to and, best of all, the bullocks to

move from one paddock to another. It was an easy job, and Evans was

quite willing to leave it to Norah, Billy and a dog. The trio made a

great business of it, and managed almost to forget loneliness in the

work of hunting through the scrub and chasing the big, sleepy half-fat

beasts out upon the clear plain. There were supposed to be forty-four in

the paddock, but Norah and Billy mustered forty-five, and were

exceedingly proud of themselves in consequence.

Next day Norah persuaded Mrs. Brown to allow herself to be driven into

Cunjee. There was nothing particular to go for, except that, as Norah

said, they would get the mail a day earlier; but Mrs. Brown was not

likely to refuse anything that would chase the look of loneliness from

her charge's face. Accordingly they set off after an early lunch, Norah

driving the pair of brown ponies in a light single buggy that barely

held her and her by no means fairy-like companion.

The road was good and they made the distance in excellent time, arriving

in Cunjee to see the daily train puff its way out of the station. Then

they separated, as Norah had no opinion whatever of Mrs. Brown's

shopping--principally in drapers' establishments, which this bush maiden

hated cordially. So Mrs. Brown, unhampered, plunged into mysteries of

flannel and sheeting, while Norah strolled up the principal street and

exchanged greetings with those she knew.

She paused by the door of a blacksmith's shop, for the smith and she

were old friends, and Norah regarded Blake as quite the principal person

of Cunjee. Generally there were horses to be looked at, but just now the

shop was empty, and Blake came forward to talk to the girl.

"Seen the p'lice out your way?" he asked presently, after the weather,

the crops, and the dullness of business had been exhausted as topics.

"Police?" queried Norah. "No. Why?"

"There was two mounted men rode out in your direction yesterday," Blake

answered. "They're on the track of that Winfield murderer, they

believe."

"What was that?" asked Norah blankly. "I never heard of it."

"Not heard of the Winfield murder! Why, you can't read the papers,

missy, surely?"

"No; of course I don't," Norah said. "Daddy doesn't like me to read

everyday ones."

Blake nodded.

"No, I s'pose not," he said. "You're too young to worry your little head

about murders and suchlike. But everybody was talkin' about the Winfield

affair, so I sorter took it for granted that you'd know about it."

"Well, I don't," said Norah. "What is it all about?"

"There's not very much I can tell you about it, missy," Blake said,

scratching his head and looking down at the grave lace. "Nobody knows

much about it.

"Winfield's a little bit of a place about twenty miles from 'ere, you

know--right in the bush and away from any rail or coach line. On'y a

couple o' stores, an' a hotel, an' a few houses. Don't suppose many

people out o' this district ever heard of it, it's that quiet an'

asleep.

"Well, there was two ol' men livin' together in a little hut a mile or

so from the Winfield township. Prospectors, they said they were--an'

there was an idea that they'd done pretty well at the game, an' had a

bit of gold hidden somewhere about their camp. They kept very much to

themselves, an' never mixed with anyone--when one o' them came into the

township for stores he'd get his business done an' clear out as quick as

possible.

"Well, about a month ago two fellows called Bowen was riding along a

bush track between Winfield an' their camp when they came across one o'

the ol' mates peggin' along the track for all he was worth. They was

surprised to see that he was carryin' a big swag, an' was apparently on

a move.

"'Hullo, Harris!' they says--'leavin' the district?' He was a civil

spoken ol' chap as a rule, so they was rather surprised when he on'y

give a sort o' grunt, an' hurried on.

"They was after cattle, and pretty late the same day they found

themselves near the hut where the two ol' chaps lived, an' as they was

hungry an' thirsty, they reckoned they'd call in an' see if they could

get a feed. So they rode up and tied their horses to a tree and walked

up to the hut. No one answered their knock, so they opened the door, an'

walked in. There, lyin' on his bunk, was ol' Waters. They spoke to him,

but he didn't answer. You see, missy, he couldn't, bein' dead."

"Dead!" said Norah, her eyes dilating.

Blake nodded.

"Stone dead," he said. "They thought at first he'd just died natural, as

there was no mark o' violence on 'im, but when they got a doctor to

examine 'im he soon found out very different. The poor ol' feller 'ad

been poisoned, missy; the doctor said 'e must a' bin dead twelve hours

when the Bowens found 'im. Everything of value was gone from the hut

along with his mate, old Harris--the black-hearted villain he must be!"

"Why, do they think he killed the other man?" Norah asked.

"Seems pretty certain, missy," Blake replied. "In fact, there don't seem

the shadder of a doubt. He was comin' straight from the hut when the

Bowens met 'im--an' he'd cleared out the whole place, gold an' all. Oh,

there ain't any doubt about Mr. Harris bein' the guilty party. The only

thing doubtful is Mr. Harris's whereabouts."

"Have the police been looking for him?" asked Norah.

"Huntin' high an' low--without any luck. He seems to have vanished off

the earth. They've bin follerin' up first one clue and then another

without any result. Now the last is that he's been seen somewhere the

other side of your place, an' two troopers have gone out to-day to see

if there's any truth in the rumour."

"I think it's awfully exciting," Norah said, "but I'm terribly sorry for

the poor man who was killed. What a wicked old wretch the other must

be!--his own mate, too! I wonder what he was like. Did you know him?"

"Well, I've seen old Harris a few times--not often," Blake replied.

"Still, he wasn't the sort of old man you'd forget. Not a bad-looking

old chap, he was. Very tall and well set up, with piercin' blue eyes,

long white hair an' beard, an' a pretty uppish way of talkin'. I don't

fancy anyone about here knew him very well--he had a way of keepin' to

himself. One thing, there's plenty lookin' out for him now."

"I suppose so," Norah said. "I wonder will he really get away?"

"Mighty small chance," said Blake. "Still, it's wonderful how he's

managed to keep out of sight for so long. Of course, once in the bush it

might be hard to find him--but sooner or later he must come out to some

township for tucker, an' then everyone will be lookin' out for him. They

may have got him up your way by now, missy. Is your Pa at home?"

"He's coming home in a day or two," Norah said; "perhaps to-morrow. I

hope they won't find Harris and bring him to our place."

"Well, it all depends on where they find him if they do get him," Blake

replied. "Possibly they might find the station a handy place to stop at.

However, missy, don't you worry your head about it--nothing for you to

be frightened about."

"Why, I'm not frightened," Norah said. "It hasn't got anything to do

with me. Only I don't want to see a man who could kill his mate, that's

all."

"He's much like any other man," said Blake philosophically. "Say, here's

someone comin' after you, missy, I think."

"I thought I'd find you here," exclaimed Mrs. Brown's fat, comfortable

voice, as its owner puffed her way up the slope leading to the

blacksmith's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. I've finished all my shopping,

Miss Norah, my dear, and the mail's in, and here's a letter for you, as

you won't be sorry to see."

"From Dad? How lovely!" and Norah, snatching at the grey envelope with

its big, black writing, tore it open hastily. At the first few words,

she uttered a cry of delight.

"Oh, he's coming home to-morrow, Brownie--only another day! He says he

thinks it's time he was home, with murderers roaming about the

district!" and Norah executed a few steps of a Highland fling, greatly

to the edification of the blacksmith.

"Dear sakes alive!" said Mrs. Brown, truculently. "I think there are

enough of us at the station to look after you, murderer or no

murderer--not as 'ow but that 'Arris must be a nasty creature! Still I'm

very glad your Pa's coming, Miss Norah, because nothing do seem right

when he's away--an' it's dull for you, all alone."

"Master Jim gone back, I s'pose?" queried Blake.

"Yesterday," Norah added.

"Then you must be lonely," the old blacksmith said, taking Norah's small

brown hand, and holding it for a moment in his horny fist very much as

if he feared it were an eggshell, and not to be dropped. "Master Jim's

growing a big fellow, too--goin' to be as big a man as his father, I

believe. Well, good-bye, missy, and don't forget to come in next time

you're in the township."

There was nothing further to detain them in Cunjee, and very soon the

ponies were fetched from the stables, and they were bowling out along

the smooth metal road that wound its way across the plain, and Norah was

mingling excited little outbursts of delight over her father's return

with frequent searches into a big bag of sweets which Mrs. Brown had

thoughtfully placed on the seat of the buggy.

"I don't know why Blake wanted to go telling you about that nasty

murderer," Mrs. Brown said. They were ten miles from Cunjee, and the

metal road had given place to a bush track, in very fair order.

"Why not?" asked Norah, with the carelessness of twelve years.

"Well, tales of murders aren't the things for young ladies' ears," Mrs.

Brown said primly. "Your Pa never tells you such things. The paper's

been full of this murder, but I would 'a' scorned to talk to you about

it."

"I don't think Blake meant any harm," said Norah. "He didn't say so very

much. I don't suppose he'd have mentioned it, only that Mr. Harris is

supposed to have come our way, and even that doesn't seem certain."

"'Arris 'as baffled the police," said Mrs. Brown, with the solemn pride

felt by so many at the worsting of the guardians of the law. "They don't

reely know anythink about his movements, that's my belief. Why, it's

weeks since he was seen. This yarn about his comin' this way is on'y got

up to 'ide the fact that they don't know a thing about it. I don't

b'lieve he's anywhere within coo-ee of our place. Might be out of the

country now, for all anyone's sure of."

"Blake seemed to think he'd really come this way;" Norah said.

"Blake's an iggerant man," said Mrs. Brown loftily.

"Well, I'll keep a look-out for him, at any rate," laughed Norah. "He

ought to be easy enough to find--tall and good-looking and well set

up--whatever that may mean--and long white beard and hair. He must be a

pretty striking-looking sort of old man. I--" And then recollection

swept over Norah like a flood, and her words faltered on her lips.

Her hand gripped the reins tighter, and she drove on unconsciously.

Blake's words were beating in her ears. "Not a bad-looking old

chap--very tall and well set up--piercing blue eyes and a pretty uppish

way of talking." The description had meant nothing to her until someone

whom it fitted all too aptly had drifted across her mental vision.

The Hermit! Even while she felt and told herself that it could not be,

the fatal accuracy of the likeness made her shudder. It was perfect--the

tall, white-haired old man--"not the sort of old man you'd forget"--with

his distinguished look; the piercing blue eyes--but Norah knew what

kindliness lay in their depths--the gentle refined voice, so different

from most of the rough country voices. It would answer to Blake's

"pretty uppish way of talking." Anyone who had read the description

would, on meeting the Hermit, immediately identify him as the man for

whom the police were searching. Norah's common sense told her that.

A wave of horror swept over the little girl, and the hands gripping the

reins trembled. Common sense might tell one tale, but every instinct of

her heart told a very different one. That gentle-faced old man, with a

world of kindness in his tired eyes--he the man who killed his sleeping

mate for a handful of gold! Norah set her square little chin. She would

not--could not--believe it.

"Why, you're very quiet, dearie." Mrs. Brown glanced inquiringly at her

companion. "A minute ago you was chatterin', and now you've gone down

flat, like old soda-water. Is anything wrong?"

"No, I'm all right, Brownie. I was only thinking," said Norah, forcing a

smile.

"Too many sweeties, I expect," said Mrs. Brown, laying a heavy hand on

the bag and impounding it for future reference. "Mustn't have you get

indigestion, an' your Pa comin' home to-morrow."

Norah laughed.

"Now, did you ever know me to have indigestion in my life?" she queried.

"Well, perhaps not," Mrs. Brown admitted. "Still, you never can tell; it

don' do to pride oneself on anything. If it ain't indigestion, you've

been thinking too much of this narsty murder."

Norah flicked the off pony deliberately with her whip.

"Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy," she said. "He's not doing a bit

of the work. Nigger's worth two of him." The injured Darkie shot forward

with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and

in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too

inconvenient cross-examination.

Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She

had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem

as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity

between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should

fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as

disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly.

The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of

one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went,

"though," as poor Norah reflected, "you can't always tell a person just

by hearing what he's like." Then there was no denying that the conduct

of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the

deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some

weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being

discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their

way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his

hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that

he desired nothing so much as to be left alone--any one would have

gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the

mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing

conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated

as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had

to admit that it looked black against the Hermit.

Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest

eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her

confidence and friendship; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo

sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah's power to

believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the

one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted

against the thought that her friend could be so base.

"He was in trouble," Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy

mind; "he was unhappy. But I know he wasn't wicked. Why, Bobs made

friends with him!"

The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew "a good

sort."

"I won't say anything," she decided at last, as they wheeled round the

corner of the homestead. "If they knew there was a tall old man there,

they'd go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he's all

right. I'll hold my tongue about him altogether--even to Dad."

The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little

figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies,

while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare.

"Well, my little girl, it's good to see you again," Mr. Linton said,

putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a

small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. "Steady, dear--mind

the ponies." He jumped in, and put his arm round her. "Everything well?"

"Yes, all right, Daddy. I'm so glad to have you back!"

"Not gladder than I am to get back, my little lass," said her father.

"Good-day, Billy. Let 'em go, Norah."

"Did you see Jim?" asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward.

"No--missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school,

to find Master Jim had gone down the river--rowing practice. I was sorry

to miss him; but it wasn't worth waiting another day in town."

"Jim would be sorry," said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather

glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the

Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim's letters were

of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger.

"Yes, I suppose he would," Mr. Linton replied. "I regretted not having

sent a telegram to say I was going to the school--it slipped my memory.

I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you've been pretty dull, my

girlie?"

"Oh it was horrid after the boys went," Norah said. "I didn't know what

to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck

that you had to go away too."

"Yes, I was very sorry it happened so," her father said; "had we been

alone together I'd have taken you with me, but we'll have the trip some

other time. Did you have a good day's fishing on Saturday?"

"Yes," said Norah, flushing a little guiltily--the natural impulse to

tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. "We had a lovely

day, and caught ever so many fish--didn't get home till ever so late.

The only bad part was finding you away when we got back."

"Well, I'm glad you had good luck, at any rate," Mr. Linton said. "So

Anglers' Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We'll have to go out

there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy

like a three days' jaunt on fishing bent?"

"Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?"

"Well, of course--since we'd be away three days. In this weather it

would be a very good thing to do, I think."

"You are a blessed Daddy," declared his daughter rubbing her cheek

against his shoulder. "I never knew anyone with such beautiful ideas."

She jigged on her seat with delight. "Oh, and, Daddy, I'll be able to

put you on to such a splendid new hole for fishing!"

"Will you, indeed?" said Mr. Linton, smiling at the flushed face.

"That's good, dear. But how did you discover it?"

Norah's face fell suddenly. She hesitated and looked uncomfortable.

"Oh," she said slowly; "I--we--found it out last trip."

"Well, we'll go, Norah--as soon as I can fix it up," said her father.

"And now, have you heard anything about the Winfield murderer?"

"Not a thing, Daddy. Brownie thinks it's just a yarn that he was seen

about here."

"Oh, I don't think so at all," Mr. Linton said. "A good many people have

the idea, at any rate--of course they may be wrong. I'm afraid Brownie

is rather too ready to form wild opinions on some matters. To tell the

truth, I was rather worried at the reports--I don't fancy the notion of

escaped gentry of that kind wandering round in the vicinity of my small

daughter."

"Well, I don't think you need have worried," said Norah, laughing up at

him; "but all the same, I'm not a bit sorry you did, if it brought you

home a day earlier, Dad!"

"Well, it certainly did," said Mr. Linton, pulling her ear; "but I'm not

sorry either. I can't stand more than a day or two in town. As for the

murderer, I'm not going to waste any thought on him now that I am here.

There's the gate, and here comes Billy like a whirlwind to open it."

They bowled through the gate and up the long drive, under the arching

boughs of the big gum trees, that formed a natural avenue on each side.

At the garden gate Mrs. Brown stood waiting, with a broad smile of

welcome, and a chorus of barks testified to the arrival of sundry dogs.

"It's a real home-coming," Mr. Linton said as he walked up the path, his

hand on Norah's shoulder--and the little girl's answering smile needed

no words. They turned the corner by the big rose bush, and came within

view of the house, and suddenly Norah's smile faded. A trooper in dusty

uniform stood on the doorstep.

"Why, that's a pleasant object to greet a man," Mr. Linton said, as the

policeman turned and came to meet him with a civil salute. He nodded as

the man came up. "Did you want me?"

"It's only about this 'ere murderer, sir," said the trooper. "Some of us

is on a sort of a scent, but we haven't got fairly on to his tracks yet.

I've ridden from Mulgoa to-day, and I came to ask if your people had

seen anything of such a chap passing--as a swaggie or anything?"

"Not that I know of," said Mr. Linton. "What is he like?"

"Big fellow--old--plenty of white hair and beard, though, of course,

they're probably cut off by this time. Very decent-looking old chap,"

said the trooper reflectively--"an' a good way of speakin'."

"Well, I've seen no such man," said Mr. Linton decidedly--"of course,

though, I don't see all the 'travellers' who call. Perhaps Mrs. Brown

can help you."

"Not me sir," said Mrs. Brown, with firmness. "There ain't been no such

a person--and you may be sure there ain't none I don't see! Fact is,

when I saw as 'ow the murderer was supposed to be in this districk, I

made inquiries amongst the men--the white hands, that is--and none of

them had seen any such man as the papers described. I reckon 'e may just

as well be in any other districk as this--I s'pose the poor p'lice must

say 'e's somewheres!"

She glared defiantly at the downcast trooper.

"Wish you had the job of findin' him, mum," said that individual. "Well,

sir, there's no one else I could make inquiries of, is there?"

"Mrs. Brown seems to have gone the rounds," Mr. Linton said. "I really

don't think there's any one else--unless my small daughter here can help

you," he added laughingly.

But Norah had slipped away, foreseeing possible questioning.

The trooper smiled.

"Don't think I need worry such a small witness," he said. "No, I'll just

move on, Mr. Linton. I'm beginning to think I'm on a wild-goose chase."

CHAPTER XIII

THE CIRCUS

The days went by, but no further word of the Winfield murderer came to

the anxious ears of the little girl at Billabong homestead. Norah never

read the papers, and could not therefore satisfy her mind by their

reports; but all her inquiries were met by the same reply, "Nothing

fresh." The police were still in the district--so much she knew, for

she had caught glimpses of them when out riding with her father. The

stern-looking men in dusty uniforms were unusual figures in those quiet

parts. But Norah could not manage to discover if they had searched the

scrub that hid the Hermit's simple camp; and the mystery of the

Winfield murder seemed as far from being cleared up as ever.

Meanwhile there was plenty to distract her mind from such disquieting

matters. The station work happened to be particularly engrossing just

then, and day after day saw Norah in the saddle, close to her father's

big black mare, riding over hills and plains, bringing up the slow sheep

or galloping gloriously after cattle that declined to be mustered. There

were visits of inspection to be made to the farthest portions of the

run, and busy days in the yards, when the men worked at drafting the

stock, and Norah sat perched on the high "cap" of a fence and, watching

with all her eager little soul in her eyes, wished heartily that she had

been born a boy. Then there were a couple of trips with Mr. Linton to

outlying townships, and on one of these occasions Norah had a piece of

marvellous luck, for there was actually a circus in Cunjee--a real,

magnificent circus, with lions and tigers and hyaenas, and a camel, and

other beautiful animals, and, best of all, a splendid elephant of meek

and mild demeanour. It was the elephant that broke up Norah's calmness.

"Oh, Daddy!" she said. "Daddy! Oh, can't we stay?"

Mr. Linton laughed.

"I was expecting that," he said. "Stay? And what would Brownie be

thinking?"

Norah's face fell.

"Oh," she said. "I'd forgotten Brownie. I s'pose it wouldn't do. But

isn't it a glorious elephant, Daddy?"

"It is, indeed," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "I think it's too glorious

to leave, girlie. Fact is, I had an inkling the circus was to be here,

so I told Brownie not to expect us until she saw us. She put a basket in

the buggy, with your tooth-brush, I think."

The face of his small daughter was sufficient reward.

"Daddy!" she said. "Oh, but you are the MOST Daddy!" Words failed her at

that point.

Norah said that it was a most wonderful "spree." They had dinner at the

hotel, where the waiter called her "Miss Linton," and in all ways

behaved precisely as if she were grown up, and after dinner she and her

father sat on the balcony while Mr. Linton smoked and Norah watched the

population arriving to attend the circus. They came from all

quarters--comfortable old farm wagons, containing whole families; a few

smart buggies; but the majority came on horseback, old as well as young.

The girls rode in their dresses, or else had slipped on habit skirts

over their gayer attire, with great indifference as to whether it

happened to be crushed, and they had huge hats, trimmed with all the

colours of the rainbow. Norah did not know much about dress, but it

seemed to her theirs was queer. But one and all looked so happy and

excited that dress was the last thing that mattered.

It seemed to Norah a long while before Mr. Linton shook the ashes from

his pipe deliberately and pulled out his watch. She was inwardly dancing

with impatience.

"Half-past seven," remarked her father, shutting up his watch with a

click. "Well, I suppose we'd better go, Norah. All ready, dear?"

"Yes, Daddy. Must I wear gloves?"

"Why, not that I know of," said her father, looking puzzled. "Hardly

necessary, I think. I don't wear 'em. Do you want to?"

"Goodness--no!" said his daughter hastily.

"Well, that's all right," said Mr. Linton. "Stow them in my pocket and

come along."

Out in the street there were unusual signs of bustle. People were

hurrying along the footpath. The blare of brass instruments came from

the big circus tent, round which was lingering every small boy of Cunjee

who could not gain admission. Horses were tied to adjoining fences,

considerably disquieted by the brazen strains of the band. It was very

cheerful and inspiring, and Norah capered gently as she trotted along by

her father.

Mr. Linton gave up his tickets at the first tent, and they passed in to

view the menagerie--a queer collection, but wonderful enough in the eyes

of Cunjee. The big elephant held pride of place, as he stood in his

corner and sleepily waved his trunk at the aggravating flies. Norah

loved him from the first, and in a moment was stroking his trunk,

somewhat to her father's anxiety.

"I hope he's safe?" he asked an attendant.

"Bless you, yes, sir," said that worthy, resplendent in dingy scarlet

uniform. "He alwuz knows if people ain't afraid of him. Try him with

this, missy." "This" was an apple, and Jumbo deigned to accept it at

Norah's hands, and crunched it serenely.

"He's just dear," said Norah, parting reluctantly from the huge swaying

brute and giving him a final pat as she went.

"Better than Bobs?" asked her father.

"Pooh!" said Norah loftily. "What's this rum thing?"

"A wildebeest," read her father. "He doesn't look like it."

"Pretty tame beast, I think," Norah observed, surveying the

stolid-looking animal before her. "Show me something really wild,

Daddy."

"How about this chap?" asked Mr. Linton.

They were before the tiger's cage, and the big yellow brute was walking

up and down with long stealthy strides, his great eyes roving over the

curious faces in front of him. Some one poked a stick at him--an

attention which met an instant roar and spring on the tiger's part, and

a quick, and stinging rebuke from an attendant, before which the poker

of the stick fled precipitately. The crowd, which had jumped back as one

man, pressed nearer to the cage, and the tiger resumed his quick, silent

prowl. But his eyes no longer roved over the faces. They remained fixed

upon the man who had provoked him.

"How do you like him?" Mr. Linton asked his daughter.

Norah hesitated.

"He's not nice, of course," she said. "But I'm so awfully sorry for him,

aren't you, Daddy? It does seem horrible--a great, splendid thing like

that shut up for always in that little box of a cage. You feel he really

ought to have a great stretch of jungle to roam in."

"And eat men in? I think he's better where he is."

"Well, you'd think the world was big enough for him to have a place

apart from men altogether," said Norah, holding to her point sturdily.

"Somewhere that isn't much wanted--a sandy desert, or a spare Alp! This

doesn't seem right, somehow. I think I've seen enough animals, Daddy,

and it's smelly here. Let's go into the circus."

The circus tent was fairly crowded as Norah and her father made their

way in and took the seats reserved for them, under the direction of

another official in dingy scarlet. Round the ring the tiers of seats

rose abruptly, each tier a mass of eager, interested faces. A lame

seller of fruit and drinks hobbled about crying his wares; at intervals

came the "pop" of a lemonade bottle, and there was a steady crunching of

peanut shells. The scent of orange peel rose over the circus smell--that

weird compound of animal and sawdust and acetylene lamps. In the midst

of all was the ring, with its surface banked up towards the outer edge.

They had hardly taken their seats when the band suddenly struck up in

its perch near the entrance, and the company entered to the inspiring

strains. First came the elephant, very lazy and stately--gorgeously

caparisoned now, with a gaily attired "mahout" upon his neck. Behind him

came the camel; and the cages with the other occupants of the menagerie,

looking either bored or fierce. They circled round the ring and then

filed out.

The band struck up a fresh strain and in cantered a lovely lady on a

chestnut horse. She wore a scarlet hat and habit, and looked to Norah

very like a Christmas card. Round the ring she dashed gaily, and behind

her came another lady equally beautiful in a green habit, on a black

horse; and a third, wearing a habit of pale blue plush who managed a

piebald horse. Then came some girls in bright frocks, on beautiful

ponies; and some boys, in tights, on other ponies; and then men, also in

tights of every colour in the rainbow, who rode round with bored

expressions, as if it were really too slow a thing merely to sit on a

horse's back, instead of pirouetting there upon one foot. They flashed

round once or twice and were gone, and Norah sat back and gasped,

feeling that she had had a glimpse into another world--as indeed she

had.

A little figure whirled into the ring--a tiny girl on a jet-black pony.

She was sitting sideways at first, but as the pony settled into its

stride round the ring she suddenly leaped to her feet and, standing

poised, kissed her hands gaily to the audience. Then she capered first

on one foot, then on another; she sat down, facing the tail, and lay

flat along the pony's back; she assumed every position except the

natural one. She leapt to the ground (to Norah's intense horror, who

imagined she didn't mean to), and, running fiercely at the pony, sprang

on his back again, while he galloped the harder. Lastly, she dropped a

handkerchief, which she easily recovered by the simple expedient of

hanging head downwards, suspended by one foot, and then galloped out of

the ring, amid the frantic applause of Cunjee.

"Could you do that, Norah?" laughed Mr. Linton.

"Me?" said Norah amazedly; "me? Oh, fancy me ever thinking I could ride

a bit!"

One of the lovely ladies, in a glistening suit of black, covered with

spangles, next entered. She also preferred to ride standing, but was by

no means idle. A gentleman in the ring obligingly handed her up many

necessaries--plates and saucers and knives--and she threw these about

the air, as she galloped with great apparent carelessness, yet never

failed to catch each just as it seemed certain to fall. Tiring of this

pursuit, she flung them all back at the gentleman with deadly aim, while

he, resenting nothing, caught them cleverly, and disposed of them to a

clown who stood by, open-mouthed. Then the gentleman hung bright ribbons

across the ring, apparently with the unpleasant intention of sweeping

the lady from her horse--an intention which she frustrated by lightly

leaping over each in turn, while her horse galloped beneath it. Finally,

the gentleman--whose ideas really seemed most unfriendly--suddenly

confronted her with a great paper-covered hoop, the very sight of which

would have made an ordinary horse shy wildly--but even at this obstacle

the lady did not lose courage. Instead, she leaped straight through the

hoop, paper and all, and was carried out by her faithful steed, amidst

yells of applause.

Norah gasped.

"Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely, Daddy!" she said.

Perhaps you boys and girls who live in cities, or near townships where

travelling companies pay yearly visits, can have no idea of what this

first circus meant to this little bush maid, who had lived all her

twelve years without seeing anything half so wonderful. Perhaps, too,

you are lucky to have so many chances of seeing things--but it is

something to possess nowadays, even at twelve, the unspoiled, fresh mind

that Norah brought to her first circus.

Everything was absolutely real to her. The clown was a being almost too

good for this world, seeing that his whole time was spent in making

people laugh uproariously, and that he was so wonderfully unselfish in

the way he allowed himself to be kicked and knocked about--always

landing in positions so excruciatingly droll that you quite forgot to

ask if he were hurt. All the ladies who galloped round the ring, and

did such marvellous things, treating a mettled steed as though he were

as motionless as a kitchen table, seemed to Norah models of beauty and

grace. There was one who set her heart beating by her daring, for she

not only leaped through a paper-covered hoop, but through three, one

after the other, and then--marvel of marvels--through one on which the

paper was alight and blazing fiercely! Norah held her breath, expecting

to see her scorched and smouldering at the very least; but the heroic

rider galloped on, without seeming so much as singed. Almost as

wonderful was the total indifference of the horses to the strange

sights around them.

"Bobs would be off his head!" said Norah.

She was especially enchanted with a small boy and girl who rode in on

the same brown pony, and had all sorts of capers, as much off the pony's

back as upon it. Not that it troubled them to be off, because they

simply ran, together, at the pony, and landed simultaneously, standing

on his back, while the gallant steed galloped the more furiously. They

hung head downwards while the pony jumped over hurdles, to their great

apparent danger; they even wrestled, standing, and the girl pitched the

boy off to the accompaniment of loud strains from the band and wild

cheers from Cunjee. Not that the boy minded--he picked himself up and

raced the pony desperately round the ring--the girl standing and

shrieking encouragement, the pony racing, the boy scudding in front,

until he suddenly turned and bolted out of the ring, the pony following

at his heels, but never quite catching him--so that the boy really won,

after all, which Norah thought was quite as it should be.

Then there were the acrobats--accomplished men in tight clothes--who cut

the most amazing somersaults, and seemed to regard no object as too

great to be leaped over. They brought in the horses, and stood ever so

many of them together, backed up by the elephant, and the leading

acrobat jumped over them all without any apparent effort. After which

all the horses galloped off of their own accord, and "put themselves

away" without giving anyone any trouble. Then the acrobats were hauled

up into the top of the tent, where they swung themselves from rope to

rope, and somersaulted through space; and one man hung head downwards,

and caught by the hands another who came flying through the air as if he

belonged there. Once he missed the outstretched hands, and Norah gasped

expecting to see him terribly hurt--instead of which he fell harmlessly

into a big net thoughtfully spread for his reception, and rebounded like

a tennis ball, kissing his hand gracefully to the audience, after which

he again whirled through the air, and this time landed safely in the

hands of the hanging man, who had all this while seemed just as

comfortable head downwards as any other way. There was even a little boy

who swung himself about the tent as fearlessly as the grown men, and cut

capers almost as dangerous as theirs. Norah couldn't help breathing more

freely when the acrobats bowed their final farewell.

Mr. Linton consulted his programme.

"They're bringing in the lion next," he said.

The band struck up the liveliest of tunes. All the ring was cleared now,

except for the clown, who suddenly assumed an appearance of great

solemnity. He marched to the edge of the ring and struck an attitude

indicative of profound respect.

In came the elephant, lightly harnessed, and drawing a huge cage on

wheels. On other sides marched attendants in special uniforms, and on

the elephant's back stood the lion tamer, all glorious in scarlet and

gold, so that he was almost hurtful to the eye. In the cage three lions

paced ceaselessly up and down. The band blared. The people clapped. The

clown bowed his forehead into the dust and said feelingly, "Wow!"

Beside the ring was another, more like a huge iron safe than a ring, as

it was completely walled and roofed with iron bars. The cage was drawn

up close beside this, and the doors slid back. The lions needed no

further invitation. They gave smothered growls as they leaped from their

close quarters into this larger breathing space. Then another door was

opened stealthily, and the lion tamer slipped in, armed with no weapon

more deadly than a heavy whip.

Norah did not like it. It seemed to her, to put it mildly, a risky

proceeding. Generally speaking, Norah was by no means a careful soul,

and had no opinion of people who thought over much about looking after

their skins; but this business of lions was not exactly what she had

been used to. They appeared to her so hungry, and so remarkably ill

tempered; and the man was as one to three, and had, apparently, no

advantage in the matter of teeth and claws.

"Don't like this game," said the bush maiden, frowning. "Is he safe,

Daddy?"

"Oh, he's all right," her father answered, smiling. "These chaps know

how to take care of themselves; and the lions know he's master. Watch

them Norah."

Norah was already doing that. The lions prowling round the ring, keeping

wary eyes on their tamer, were called to duty by a sharp crack of the

whip. Growling, they took their respective stations--two on the seats of

chairs, the third standing between them, poised on the two chair backs.

Then they were put through a quick succession of tricks. They jumped

over chairs and ropes and each other; they raced round the ring, taking

hurdles at intervals; they balanced on big wooden balls, and pushed them

along by quick changes of position. Then they leaped through hoops,

ornamented with fluttering strips of paper, and clearly did not care for

the exercise. And all the while their stealthy eyes never left those of

the tamer.

"How do you like it?" asked Mr. Linton.

"It's beastly!" said Norah, with surprising suddenness. "I hate it,

Daddy. Such big, beautiful things, and to make them do silly tricks like

these; just as you'd train a kitten!"

"Well, they're nothing more than big cats," laughed her father.

"I don't care. It's--it's mean, I think. I don't wonder they're cross.

And you can see they are, Daddy. If I was a lion I know I'd want to bite

somebody!"

The lions certainly did seem cross. They growled constantly, and were

slow to obey orders. The whip was always cracking, and once or twice a

big lioness, who was especially sulky, received a sharp cut. The outside

attendants kept close to the cage, armed with long iron bars. Norah

thought, watching them, that they were somewhat uneasy. For herself, she

knew she would be very glad when the lion "turn" was over.

The smaller tricks were finished, and the tamer made ready for the grand

"chariot act." He dragged forward an iron chariot and to it harnessed

the smaller lions with stout straps, coupling the reins to a hook on the

front of the little vehicle. Then he signalled to the lioness to take

her place as driver.

The lioness did not move. She crouched down, watching him with hungry,

savage eyes. The trainer took a step forward, raising his whip.

"You--Queen!" he said sharply.

She growled, not stirring. A sudden movement of the lions behind him

made the trainer glance round quickly.

There was a roar, and a yellow streak cleft the air. A child's voice

screamed. The tamer's spring aside was too late, He went down on his

face, the lioness upon him.

Norah's cry rang out over the circus, just as the lioness sprang--too

late for the trainer, however. The girl was on her feet, clutching her

father.

"Oh, Daddy--Daddy!" she said.

All was wildest confusion. Men were shouting, women screaming--two girls

fainted, slipping down, motionless, unnoticed heaps, from their seats.

Circus men yelled contradictory orders. Within the ring the lioness

crouched over the fallen man, her angry eyes roving about the disordered

tent.

The two lions in the chariot were making furious attempts to break away.

Luckily their harness was strong, and they were so close to the edge of

the ring that the attendants were able, with their iron bars, to keep

them in check. After a few blows they settled down, growling, but

subdued.

But to rescue the trainer was not so easy a matter. He lay in the very

centre of the ring, beyond the reach of any weapons; and not a man would

venture within the great cage. The attendants shouted at the lioness,

brandished irons, cracked whips. She heard them unmoved. Once she

shifted her position slightly and a moan came from the man underneath.

"This is awful," Mr. Linton said. He left his seat in the front row and

went across the ring to the group of white-faced men. "Can't you shoot

the brute?" he asked.

"We'd do it in a minute," the proprietor answered. "But who'd shoot and

take the chance of hitting Joe? Look at the way they are--it's ten to

one he'd get hit." He shook his head. "Well, I guess it's up to me to go

in and tackle her--I'd get a better shot inside the ring." He moved

forward.

A white-faced woman flung herself upon him and clung to him desperately.

Norah hardly recognised her as the gay lady who had so merrily jumped

through the burning hoops a little while ago. "You shan't go, Dave!" she

cried, sobbing. "You mustn't! Think of the kiddies! Joe hasn't got a

wife and little uns."

The circus proprietor tried to loosen her hold. "I've got to, my girl,"

he said gently. "I can't leave a man o' mine to that brute. It's my

fault--I orter known better than to let him take her from them cubs

to-night. Let go, dear." He tried to unclinch her hands from his coat.

"Has she--the lioness--got little cubs?"

It was Norah's voice, and Mr. Linton started to find her at his side.

Norah, very pale and shaky, with wide eyes, glowing with a great idea.

The circus man nodded. "Two."

"Wouldn't she--" Norah's voice was trembling almost beyond the power of

speech--"wouldn't she go to them if you showed them to her--put them in

the small cage? My--old cat would!"

"By the powers!" said the proprietor. "Fetch 'em, Dick--run." The clown

ran, his grotesque draperies contrasting oddly enough with his errand.

In an instant he was back, two fluffy yellow heaps in his arms. One

whined as they drew near the cage, and the lioness looked up sharply

with a growl. The clown held the cubs in her view, and she growled

again, evidently uneasy. Beneath her the man was quiet now.

"The cage--quick?"

The big lion cage, its open door communicating with the ring, stood

ready. The clown opened another door and slipped in the protesting cubs.

They made for the further door, but were checked by the stout cords

fastened to their collars. He held them in leash, in full view of the

lioness. She growled and moved, but did not leave her prey.

"Make 'em sing out!" the woman said sharply. Someone handed the clown an

iron rod sharpened at one end. He passed it through the bars, and

prodded a cub on the foot. It whined angrily, and a quick growl came

from the ring.

"Harder, Dick!"

The clown obeyed. There was a sharp, amazed yelp of pain from the cub,

and an answering roar from the mother. Another protesting cry--and then

again that yellow streak as the lioness left her prey and sprang to her

baby, with a deafening roar. The clown tugged the cubs sharply back into

the recesses of the cage as the mother hurled herself through the narrow

opening. Behind her the bars rattled into place and she was restored to

captivity.

It was the work of only a moment to rush into the ring, where the tamer

lay huddled and motionless. Kind hands lifted him and carried him away

beyond the performance tent, with its eager spectators. The attendants

quickly unharnessed the two tame lions, and they were removed in another

cage, brought in by the elephant for their benefit.

Norah slipped a hot, trembling hand into her father's.

"Let's go, Daddy--I've had enough."

"More than enough, I think," said Mr. Linton. "Come on, little girl."

They slipped out in the wake of the anxious procession that carried the

tamer. As they went, a performing goat and monkey passed them on their

way to the ring, and the clown capered behind them. They heard his

cheerful shout, "Here we are again!" and the laughter of the crowd as

the show was resumed.

"Plucky chap, that clown," Mr. Linton said.

In the fresh air the men had laid the tamer down gently, and a doctor

was bending over him examining him by the flickering light of torches

held by hands that found it hard to be steady.

"Not so much damaged as he might be," the doctor announced, rising.

"That shoulder will take a bit of healing, but he looks healthy. His

padded uniform has saved his life. Let's get him to the private hospital

up the street. Everything necessary is there, and I'd like to have his

shoulder dressed before he regains consciousness."

The men lifted the improvised stretcher again, and passed on with it.

Norah and her father were following, when a voice called them. The wife

of the circus proprietor ran after them--a strange figure enough, in her

scarlet riding dress, the paint on her face streaked with tear marks.

"I'd like to know who you are," she said, catching Norah's hand. "But

for you my man 'ud 'a been in the ring with that brute. None of us had

the sense to think o' bringin' in the cubs. Tell me your name, dearie."

Norah told her unwillingly. "Nothing to make a fuss over," she added, in

great confusion.

"I guess you saved Joe's life, an' perhaps my Dave's as well," the woman

said. "We won't forget you. Good night, sir, an' thank you both."

Norah had no wish to be thanked, being of opinion that she had done less

than nothing at all. She was feeling rather sick, and--amazing feeling

for Norah--inclined to cry. She was very glad to get into bed at the

hotel, and eagerly welcomed her father's suggestion that he should sit

for a while in her room. Norah did not know that it was dawn before Mr.

Linton left his watch by the restless sleeper, quiet now, and sought his

own couch.

She woke late, from a dream of lions and elephants, and men who moaned

softly. Her father was by her bedside.

"Breakfast, lazy bones," he said.

"How's the tamer?" queried Norah, sitting up.

"Getting on all right. He wants to see you."

"Me!" said Norah. "Whatever for?"

"We've got to find that out," said her father, withdrawing.

They found out after breakfast, when a grateful, white-faced man,

swathed in bandages, stammered broken thanks.

"For it was you callin' out that saved me first," he said. "I'd never 'a

thought to jump, but I heard you sing out to me, an' if I hadn't she'd a

broke my neck, sure. An' then it was you thought o' bringing in the

cubs. Well, missy, I won't forget you long's I live."

The nurse, at his nod, brought out the skin of a young tiger,

beautifully marked and made into a rug.

"If you wouldn't mind takin' that from me," explained the tamer. "I'd

like to feel you had it, an' I'd like to shake hands with you, missy."

Outside the room Norah turned a flushed face to her father.

"Do let's go home, Daddy," she begged. "Cunjee's too embarrassing for me!"

CHAPTER XIV

CAMPING OUT

"About that fishing excursion, Norah?"

"Yes, Daddy." A small brown paw slid itself into Mr. Linton's hand.

They were sitting on the verandah in the stillness of an autumn evening,

watching the shadows on the lawn become vague and indistinct, and

finally merge into one haze of dusk. Mr. Linton had been silent for a

long time. Norah always knew when her father wanted to talk. This

evening she was content to be silent, too, leaning against his knee in

her own friendly fashion as she curled up at his feet.

"Oh, you hadn't forgotten, then?"

"Well--not much! Only I didn't know if you really wanted to go, Daddy."

"Why, yes," said her father. "I think it would be rather a good idea, my

girlie. There's not much doing on the place just now. I could easily be

spared. And we don't want to leave our trip until the days grow shorter.

The moon will be right, too. It will be full in four or five days--I

forget the exact date. So, altogether, Norah, I think we'd better

consult Brownie about the commissariat department, and make our

arrangements to go immediately."

"It'll be simply lovely," said his daughter, breathing a long sigh of

delight. "Such a long time since we had a camping out--just you and me,

Daddy."

"Yes, it's a good while. Well, we've got to make up for lost time by

catching plenty of fish," said Mr. Linton. "I hope you haven't

forgotten the whereabouts of that fine new hole of yours? You'll have

to take me to it if Anglers' Bend doesn't come up to expectations."

A deep flush came into Norah's face. For a little while she had almost

forgotten the Hermit--or, rather, he had ceased to occupy a prominent

position in her mind, since the talk of the Winfield murder had begun to

die away. The troopers, unsuccessful in their quest, had gone back to

headquarters, and Norah had breathed more freely, knowing that her

friend had escaped--this time. Still, she never felt comfortable in her

mind about him. Never before had she kept any secret from her father,

and the fact of this concealment was apt to come home closely to her at

times and cloud the perfect friendship between them.

"Master Billy will be delighted, I expect," went on Mr. Linton, not

noticing the little girl's silence. "Anything out of the ordinary groove

of civilisation is a joy to that primitive young man. I don't fancy it

would take much to make a cheerful savage of Billy."

"Can't you fancy him!" said Norah, making an effort to break away from

her own thoughts; "roaming the bush with a boomerang and a waddy, and

dressed in strips of white paint."

"Striped indeed!" said her father, laughing. "I've no doubt he'd enjoy

it. I hope his ancient instincts won't revive--he's the best hand with

horses we ever had on the station. Now, Norah, come and talk to

Brownie."

Mrs. Brown, on being consulted, saw no difficulties in the way. A day,

she declared, was all she wanted to prepare sufficient food for the

party for a week--let alone for only three days.

"Not as I'll stint you to three days," remarked the prudent Brownie.

"Last time it was to be three days--an' 'twas more like six when we saw

you again. Once you two gets away--" and she wagged a stern forefinger

at her employer. "And there's that black himp--he eats enough for five!"

"You forget the fish we're going to live on," laughed Mr. Linton.

"'M," said Brownie solemnly. "First catch your fish!"

"Why, of course, we mean to, you horrid old thing!" cried Norah,

laughing; "and bring you home loads, too--not that you deserve it for

doubting us!"

"I have seen many fishing parties go out, Miss Norah, my dear," said

Mrs. Brown impassively, "and on the 'ole more came 'ome hempty 'anded

than bringing loads--fish bein' curious things, an' very unreliable on

the bite. Still, we'll 'ope for the best--an' meanwhile to prepare for

the worst. I'll just cook a few extry little things--another tongue,

now, an' a nice piece of corned beef, an' per'aps a 'am. An' do you

think you could manage a pie or two, Miss Norah?"

"Try her!" said Mr. Linton, laughing.

"Let's tell Billy!"--and off went Norah at a gallop.

She returned a few minutes later, slightly crestfallen.

"Billy must be asleep," she said. "I couldn't get an answer. Lazy young

nigger--and it's still twilight!"

"Billy has no use for the day after the sun goes down, unless he's going

'possuming," her father said. "Never mind--the news will keep until the

morning."

"Oh, I know," said Norah, smiling. "But I wanted to tell him to-night."

"I sympathise with you," said her father, "and, meanwhile, to console

yourself, suppose you bend your mighty mind to the problem of getting

away. Do you see any objection to our leaving for parts unknown the day

after to-morrow?"

"Depends on Brownie and the tucker," said Norah practically.

"That part's all right; Brownie guarantees to have everything ready

to-morrow night if you help her."

"Why, of course I will, Daddy."

"And you have to get your own preparations made."

"That won't take long," said Norah, with a grin. "Brush, comb,

tooth-brush, pyjamas; that's all, Dad!"

"Such minor things as soap and towels don't appear to enter into your

calculations," said her father. "Well I can bear it!"

"Oh, you silly old Dad! Of course I know about those. Only Brownie

always packs the ordinary, uninteresting things."

"I foresee a busy day for you and Brownie tomorrow," Mr. Linton said.

"I'll have a laborious time myself, fixing up fishing tackle--if Jim and

his merry men left me with any. As for Billy, he will spend the day

grubbing for bait. Wherefore, everything being settled, come and play me

'The Last Rose of Summer,' and then say good-night."

Norah was up early, and the day passed swiftly in a whirl of

preparations. Everything was ready by evening, including a hamper of

monumental proportions, the consumption of which, Mr. Linton said, would

certainly render the party unfit for active exertion in the way of

fishing. Billy's delight had made itself manifest in the broad grin

which he wore all day while he dug for worms, and chased crickets and

grass-hoppers. The horses were brought in and stabled overnight, so that

an early start might be made.

It was quite an exciting day, and Norah was positive that she could not

go to sleep when her father sent her off to bed at an unusually early

hour, meeting her remonstrances with the reminder that she had to be up

with, or before, the lark. However, she was really tired, and was soon

asleep. It seemed to her that she had only been in this blissful

condition for three minutes when a hand was laid on her shoulder and she

started up to find daylight had come. Mr. Linton stood laughing at her

sleepy face.

"D'you mean to say it's morning?" said Norah.

"I've been led to believe so," her father rejoined. "Shall I pull you

out, or would you prefer to rise without assistance?"

"I'd much prefer to go to sleep again--but I'll tumble out, thank you,"

said his daughter, suiting the action to the word. "Had your bath,

Daddy?'

"Just going to it."

"Then I'll race you!" said Norah, snatching a towel and disappearing

down the hall, a slender, flying figure in blue pyjamas. Mr. Linton gave

chase, but Norah's start was too good, and the click of the lock greeted

him as he arrived at the door of the bathroom. The noise of the shower

drowned his laughing threats, while a small voice sang, amid splashes,

"You should have been here last week!"

Breakfast was a merry meal, although, as Norah said, it was unreasonable

to expect anybody to have an appetite at that hour. Still, with a view

to the future, and to avoid wounding Mrs. Brown too deeply, they made as

firm an attempt as possible, with surprisingly good results. Then brief

good-byes were said, the pack scientifically adjusted to the saddle on

the old mare, and they rode off in the cool, dewy morning.

This time there was no "racing and chasing o'er Cannobie Lea" on the way

to Anglers' Bend. Mr. Linton's days of scurrying were over, he said,

unless a bullock happened to have a difference of opinion as to the way

he should go, and, as racing by one's self is a poor thing Norah was

content to ride along steadily by her father's side, with only an

occasional canter, when Bobs pulled and reefed as if he were as anxious

to gallop as his young mistress could possibly be. It was time for lunch

when they at length arrived at the well-remembered bend on the creek.

The horses were unsaddled and hobbled, and then turned out to wander at

their own sweet will--the shortness of the hobbles a guarantee that they

would not stray very far; and the three wanderers sat on the bank of the

creek, very ready for the luncheon Mrs. Brown had carefully prepared and

placed near the top of the pack. This despatched, preparations were made

for pitching camp.

Here luck favoured them, for a visit to their former camping place

showed that tent poles and pegs were still there, and uninjured--which

considerably lessened the labour of pitching the tents. In a very short

time the two tents were standing, and a couple of stretchers rigged up

with bags--Mr. Linton had no opinion of the comfort of sleeping on beds

of leaves. While her father and Billy were at this work, Norah unpacked

the cooking utensils and provisions. Most of the latter were encased in

calico bags, which could be hung in the shade, secure from either ants

or flies, the remainder, packed in tins, being stowed away easily in the

corner of one of the tents.

When the stretchers were ready Norah unpacked the bedding and made their

beds. Finally she hung the tooth-brushes to the ridge poles and said

contentedly, "Daddy, it's just like home!"

"Glad you think so!" said Mr. Linton, casting an approving eye over the

comfortable-looking camp, and really there is something wonderfully

homelike about a well-pitched camp with a few arrangements for comfort.

"At any rate, I think we'll manage very well for a few days, Norah. Now,

while Billy lays in a stock of firewood and fixes up a 'humpy' for

himself to sleep in, suppose you and I go down and try to catch some

fish for tea?"

"Plenty!" laughed Norah.

It soon became evident that Anglers' Bend was going to maintain its name

as a place for fish. Scarcely was Norah's line in the water before a big

blackfish was on the hook, and after that the fun was fast and furious,

until they had caught enough for two or three meals. The day was ideal

for fishing--grey and warm, with just enough breeze to ripple the water

faintly. Mr. Linton and Norah found it very peaceful, sitting together

on the old log that jutted across the stream, and the time passed

quickly. Billy at length appeared, and was given the fish to prepare,

and then father and daughter returned to camp. Mr. Linton lit the fire,

and cutting two stout forked stakes, which he drove into the ground, one

on each side of the fire, he hung a green ti-tree pole across, in

readiness to hold the billy and frying-pan. Billy presently came up with

the fish, and soon a cheery sound of sizzling smote the evening air. By

the time that Norah had "the table set," as she phrased it, the fish

were ready, and in Norah's opinion no meal ever tasted half so good.

After it was over, Billy the indispensable removed the plates and washed

up, and Norah and her father sat by the fire and "yarned" in the cool

dusk. Not for long, for soon the little girl began to feel sleepy after

the full day in the open air, and the prospect of the comfortable

stretcher in her tent was very tempting. She brushed her hair outside in

the moonlight, because a small tent is not the place in which to wield a

hairbrush; then she slipped into bed, and her father came and tucked her

up before tying the flap securely enough to keep out possible intruders

in the shape of "bears" and 'possums. Norah lay watching the flickering

firelight for a little while, thinking there was nothing so glorious as

the open-air feeling, and the night scents of the bush; then she fell

asleep.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!!"

A cheeky jackass on a gum tree bough fairly roared with laughter, and

Norah woke up with a violent start. The sunlight was streaming across

her bed. For a moment she was puzzled, wondering where she was; then the

walls of the tent caught her eye, and she laughed at herself, and then

lay still in the very pleasure of the dewy morning and the wonderful

freshness of the air. For there is a delight in awaking after a night in

the open that the finest house in the world cannot give.

Presently the flap of the tent was parted and Mr. Linton peeped in.

"Hallo!" he said, smiling, "did the old jackass wake you? I found him as

good as an alarum clock myself. How about a swim?"

"Oh--rather!" said Norah, tumbling out of bed. She slipped on a jacket

and shoes, and presently joined her father, and they threaded their way

through the scrub until they came to a part of the creek where a beach,

flat and sandy, and shelving down to a fairly deep hole, offered

glorious bathing. Mr. Linton left Norah here, and himself went a few

yards farther up, round a bend in the creek.

At the first plunge the water was distinctly cold, but once the first

dip was taken Norah forgot all about chilliness, and only revelled in

the delights of that big pool. She could swim like a fish--her father

had seen to that in the big lagoon at home. Not until Mr. Linton's

warning voice sang out that it was time to dress did she leave the

water, and then with reluctance.

A brisk rub down with a hard towel and she rejoined her father. He cast

an approving look at her glowing face.

"Well, you look as if you'd enjoyed your swim," he said.

"Oh it was lovely, Daddy! Did you have a good bathe?"

"Yes--I struck a very good place--deep enough to dive in," her father

answered. "Not that I counsel diving altogether--you strike such a lot

of mud at the bottom--soft, sticky, black mud! I spent most of my bathe

in getting myself clean after my dive! Still, I had a good swim,

notwithstanding. I say, Norah, I'm ready for breakfast."

"So am I," said his daughter. "I hope Billy's got the fish on!"

However, there was no sign of the black retainer when they reached the

camp. The fire was blazing and the billy boiling, but of the other Billy

no trace existed.

"He's gone after the horses," Mr. Linton said. "I told him to see to

them--but he ought to be back. I hope they're all right. Well, you get

dressed, Norah."

By the time Norah's toilet was completed the fish, under Mr. Linton's

supervision, were in the pan, and she hurried to set out the breakfast

things. They were just beginning breakfast when the sound of hoofs was

heard and Billy rode into the clearing on his own pony, with evident

signs of perturbation on his ebony face.

"What's up, Billy?" Mr. Linton asked sharply.

"That feller pack-mare," Billy said briefly. "Broken hobbles--clear out.

Plenty!" He produced a hobble as he spoke, the broken leather telling

its own tale.

Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation of anger.

"That comes of not seeing to the hobbles myself," he said sharply. "No

sign of her?"

Billy shook his head.

"Not likely," Mr. Linton said; "that old mare would make for home like a

shot. I dare say she's half-way there by now. Well, Billy, there's only

one thing to do--get your pony saddled and go after her."

Billy's face expressed unuttered depths of woe.

"Get your breakfast first," said his master; "there's no particular

hurry, for you're bound to have to go all the way home--and bring some

good hobbles back with you, if you do!"

Billy slid to the ground.

"Plenty!" he said ruefully.

Billy, a black vision of despondency, had faded away into the distance,

making his chestnut pony pay for the disappointment of his long ride

back to the homestead for the missing mare. Norah and her father had

"cleaned up house," as Norah put it, and again they were sitting on the

old log that spanned the creek.

Their lines were in water, but the fish were shy. The promise of a hot

day had driven them to the shady hollows under the banks. The juiciest

worms failed to lure them from their hiding-places. Norah thought it

dull and said so.

Her father laughed.

"You'll never make a fisherman without cultivating an extra stock of

patience," he said. "The thought of last night's luck ought to make you

happy."

"Well, it doesn't," his daughter answered decidedly. "That was

yesterday, and this is to-day; and it is dull, Daddy, anyhow."

"Well, keep on hoping," said Mr. Linton; "luck may change at any minute.

Norah, do you know, I have something to tell you?"

"What?" Norah's dullness was gone. There was something unusual in her

father's tone.

"I'm afraid you won't think it the best news," he said, smiling at her

eager face. "But it had to come some day, I suppose. I couldn't keep you

a baby always. There's a tutor coming to make a learned lady of my

little bush maid."

"Daddy!" There were worlds of horror in the tone.

"Oh, don't!" said her father. "You make me feel a criminal of the

deepest dye. What can I do with you, you ignorant small child? I can't

let you grow up altogether a bush duffer, dear." His voice was almost

apologetic. "I can assure you it might have been worse. Your Aunt Eva

has been harrowing my very soul to make me send you to a boarding

school. Think of that now!"

"Boarding school!" said Norah faintly. "Daddy, you wouldn't?"

"No--not at present, certainly," said her father. "But I had to agree to

something--and, really, I knew it was time. You're twelve, you know,

Norah. Be reasonable."

"Oh, all right," said Norah, swallowing her disgust. "If you say it's

got to be, it has to be, that's all, Daddy. My goodness, how I will hate

it! Have I got to learn heaps of things?"

"Loads," said her father, nodding; "Latin, and French, and drawing, and

geography, and how to talk grammar, and any number of things I never

knew. Then you can teach the tutor things--riding, and cooking, and

knitting, and the care of tame wallabies, and any number of things he

never dreamed of. He's a town young man, Norah, and horribly ignorant of

all useful arts."

"I'll turn him over to Billy after school," said Norah laughing. "Is he

nice, Dad?"

"Very, I should say," rejoined her father. "He's the son of an old

friend"--and his face saddened imperceptibly. "Your Aunt Eva said it

ought to be a governess, and perhaps it would have been one only young

Stephenson came in my way. He wanted something to do, and for his

father's sake I chose him for my daughter's instructor."

"Who's his father, Daddy?"

"Well, you wouldn't know if I told you, girlie. A dear old friend of

mine when I was a young man--the best friend I ever had. Jim is named

after him."

"Is he dead now?"

Mr. Linton hesitated.

"We lost him years ago," he said sadly. "A great trouble came upon

him--he lost some money, and was falsely accused of dishonesty, and he

had to go to prison. When he came out his wife refused to see him; they

had made her believe him a thief, and she was a hard woman, although she

loved him. She sent him a message that he must never try to see her or

their boy."

"She was cruel." Norah's eyes were angry.

"She was very unhappy, so we mustn't judge her," her father said,

sighing. "Poor soul, she paid for her harshness. Later the truth of the

whole bad business came out, and she would have given the world to be

able to beg his forgiveness-only it was too late."

"Was he dead, Daddy?"

"They found his body in the river," said Mr. Linton. "Poor old chap, he

couldn't stand the loss of his whole world. I've wished ever since that

I could tell him I never believed the lie for a moment. I was in England

at the time, and I knew nothing about it until he was dead."

"Poor old Daddy," said Norah softly.

"Oh, it's an old story, now," Mr. Linton said. "Only I never lose the

regret--and wish that I could have done something to help my old friend.

I don't quite know why I've told you about it, except that I want you to

be kind to young Dick Stephenson, because his life has been a sad enough

one."

"Is his mother alive?"

"She lives in Melbourne," said her father. "I think she only lives for

this boy, and the time when she can go to her husband and beg his

forgiveness. He'll give it, too--poor old Jim. He could never bear

malice in his life, and I'm certain death couldn't change his nature.

The lad seems a good chap; he's had a first-rate education. But his

mother never gave him any profession; I don't know why. Women aren't

made for business. So he wants to teach."

"I'll be good to him, Daddy." Norah slipped her hand into her father's.

"That's my little girl. I knew I could depend on you," said Mr. Linton.

A far-away look came into his eyes, and he pulled hard at his pipe.

Norah guessed he was thinking of days of long ago.

She pulled her bait up, and examination told her it was untouched. The

fish were certainly shy, and another half-hour's tempting did not bring

them to the hook. It was exceedingly dull. Norah wound up her line

slowly. She also had been thinking.

"I'm going for a walk, Daddy," she said.

"All right, dear; don't go far," said her father absently.

Norah walked soberly along the log until she reached the creek bank, and

then jumped ashore. She looked round at her father, but he was absorbed

in his fishing and his thoughts, and so the little girl slipped away

into the bush. She made her way among the trees quickly, keeping to the

line of the creek. Presently she sat down on a moss-grown stump and

thought deeply.

The Hermit had been pretty constantly in Norah's mind since the troopers

had been scouring the district in their search for the Winfield

murderer. She had longed intensely to warn him--scenting certain

unpleasantness to him, and possible danger, although she was loyally

firm in the belief that he could not be the man for whom they were

searching. Still, how like the description was! Even though Norah's

faith was unshaken, she knew that the veriest hint of the Hermit's

existence would bring the troopers down on him as fast as they could

travel to his camp. She put aside resolutely the thoughts that flocked

to her mind--the strange old man's lonely life, his desire to hide

himself from his fellow-men.

"I don't understand it a bit," she said aloud. "But I'll have to tell

him. He ought to know."

With that she sprang up and ran on through the scrub. It was thick

enough to puzzle many a traveller, but the little maid of the bush saw

no difficulties in the way. It was quite clear to her, remembering how

the Hermit had guided their merry party on the first visit, weeks ago.

At the exact spot on the creek she struck off at right angles into the

heart of the trees, keeping a sharp lookout for the tall old form that

might appear at any moment--hoping that her father might not grow tired

of fishing and coo-ee for her to return.

But there was silence in the bush, and no sign of the Hermit could be

seen. The thought came to Norah that he might have struck camp, and gone

farther back into the wild country, away from the men he dreaded. But

she put the idea from her. Somehow she felt that he was there.

She came to the clump of dogwood that hid the old log along which lay

the last part of the track to the Hermit's camp and, climbing up, ran

along it lightly. There were no recent footprints upon it. Suddenly the

silence of the surroundings fell heavily on her heart.

Reaching the end of the log that gave access to the clearing, she took a

hasty glance round. The ashes of the fire were long dead. No one was

there.

Norah's heart thumped heavily. For a moment she fought with the longing

to run back--back from this strange, silent place--back to Daddy. Then

she gulped down something in her throat, and giving herself an impatient

shake, she went resolutely across the clearing to the tent and peeped

in.

The interior of the tent was as neat and homelike as when Norah had seen

it first. The quaint bits of furniture stood in their places, and the

skins lay on the floor. But Norah saw nothing but her friend's face.

The Hermit was lying on his bunk--a splendid old figure in his dress of

soft furry skins, but with a certain helplessness about him that brought

Norah's heart into her mouth. As the flap of the tent lifted he turned

his head with difficulty, and looked at the little girl with weary,

burning eyes that held no light of recognition. His face was ghastly

white beneath the sunburnt skin, which was drawn like parchment over the

cheekbones. A low moan came from his dry lips.

"Water!"

Norah cast a despairing glance around. An empty billy by the old man

told its own tale, and a hurried search in the camp only revealed empty

vessels.

"I'll be back in a minute," said Norah, sobbing.

Afterwards she could not remember how she had got down to the creek. Her

blouse was torn, and there were long scratches on her wrists, and she

was panting, as she came back to the sick man, and, struggling to raise

his heavy head, held a cup to his lips. He drank fiercely, desperately,

as Norah had seen starving cattle drink when released after a long

journey in the trucks. Again and again he drank--until Norah grew afraid

and begged him to lie down. He obeyed her meekly and smiled a little,

but there was no comprehension in the fevered eyes. She put her hand on

his forehead and started at its burning heat.

"Oh, what'll I do with you!" she said in her perplexity.

"Do?" said the Hermit with startling suddenness. "But I'm dead!" He

closed his eyes and lay very still. "Dead--ages ago!" He muttered. A

second he lay so, and then he turned and looked at her. "Where's the

child?" he asked. "I must go to him; let me go, I tell you!" He tried to

rise, but fell back weakly. "Water!" he begged.

She gave him water again, and then bathed his face and hands, using her

handkerchief for a sponge. He grew quieter, and once or twice Norah

thought he seemed to know her; but at the end he closed his eyes and lay

motionless.

"I'll be back very soon," she said. "Do please be still, dear Mr.

Hermit!" She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and he stirred and

murmured a name she could not catch. Then he relapsed into

unconsciousness, and Norah turned and ran wildly into the scrub.

To bring Daddy--Daddy, who knew everything, who always understood! There

was no other thought in her mind now. Whatever the Hermit might have

done, he needed help now most sorely--and Daddy was the only one who

could give it. Only the way seemed long as she raced through the trees,

seeing always that haggard, pain-wrung face on the rude bunk. If only

they were in time!

Mr. Linton, sitting on the log and lazily watching his idle float,

started at the voice that called to him from the bank; and at sight of

the little girl be leaped to his feet and ran towards her.

"Norah! What is it?"

She told him, clinging to him and sobbing; tugging at him all the time

to make him come quickly. A strange enough tale it seemed to Mr.

Linton--of hermits and hidden camps, and the Winfield murderer, and

someone who needed help,--but there was that in Norah's face and in her

unfamiliar emotion that made him hurry through the scrub beside her,

although he did not understand what he was to find, and was only

conscious of immense relief to know that she herself was safe, after the

moment of terror that her first cry had given him. Norah steadied

herself with a great effort, as they came to the silent camp.

"He's there," she said, pointing.

Mr. Linton understood something then, and he went forward quickly. The

Hermit was still unconscious. His hollow eyes met them blankly as they

entered the tent.

"Oh, he's ill, Daddy! Will he die?"

But David Linton did not answer. He was staring at the unconscious face

before him, and his own was strangely white. As Norah looked at him,

struck with a sudden wonder, her father fell on his knees and caught the

sick man's hand.

"Jim!" he said, and a sob choked his voice. "Old chum--Jim!"

CHAPTER XV

FOR FRIENDSHIP

"Daddy!"

At the quivering voice her father lifted his head and Norah saw that his

eyes were wet.

"It's my dear old friend Stephenson," he said brokenly. "I told you

about him. We thought he was dead--there was the body; I don't

understand, but this is he, and he's alive, thank God!"

The Hermit stirred and begged again for water, and Mr. Linton held him

while he drank. His face grew anxious as he felt the scorching heat of

the old man's body.

"He's so thirsty," Norah said tremulously, "goodness knows when he'd had

a drink. His poor lips were all black and cracked when I found him."

"Had he no water near him?" asked her father, quickly. "You got this?"

"Yes, from the creek," Norah nodded. "I'll get some more, Daddy; the

billy's nearly empty."

When Norah returned, laden with two cans, her father met her with a very

grave face.

"That's my girl," he said, taking the water from her. "Norah, I'm afraid

he's very ill. It looks uncommonly like typhoid."

"Will he--will he die, Daddy?"

"I can't tell, dear. What's bothering me is how to get help for him. He

wants a doctor immediately--wants a dozen things I haven't got here. I

wish that blessed black boy hadn't gone! I don't quite know what to

do--I can't leave you here while I get help--he's half delirious now."

"You must let me go," said Norah quietly. "I can--easily."

"You!" said her father, looking down at the steady face. "That won't do,

dear--not across fifteen miles of lonely country. I--" The Hermit cried

out suddenly, and tried to rise, and Mr. Linton had to hold him down

gently, but the struggle was a painful one, and when it was over the

strong man's brow was wet. "Poor old chap!" he muttered brokenly.

Norah caught his arm.

"You see, I must go, Daddy," she said. "There's no one else--and he'll

die! Truly I can, Daddy--quite well. Bobs'll look after me."

"Can you?" he said, looking down at her. "You're sure you know the

track?"

"Course I can," said his daughter scornfully.

"I don't see anything for it," Mr. Linton said, an anxious frown

knitting his brow. "His life hangs on getting help, and there's no other

way, I'll have to risk you, my little girl."

"There's no risk," said Norah. "Don't you worry, Daddy, dear. Just tell

me what you want."

Mr. Linton was writing hurriedly in his pocket-book.

"Send into Cunjee for Dr. Anderson as hard as a man can travel," he said

shortly. "Don't wait for him, however; get Mrs. Brown to pack these

things from my medicine-chest, and let Billy get a fresh horse and bring

them back to me, and he needn't be afraid of knocking his horse up. I'm

afraid we're too late as it is. Can he find his way here?"

"He's been here."

"That's all right, then. Tell Anderson I think it's typhoid, and if he

thinks we can move him, let Wright follow the doctor out with the

express-wagon--Mrs. Brown will know what to send to make it comfortable.

Can you manage Bobs?"

"Yes--of course."

Mr. Linton put his hand on her shoulder.

"I've got to let you go," he said. "It's the only way. Remember, I won't

have a minute's peace until I know you've got safely home."

"I'll be all right, Daddy--true. And I'll hurry. Don't bother about me."

"Bother!" he said. "My little wee mate." He kissed her twice.

"Now--hurry!"

* * * * *

Bobs, grazing peacefully under a big gum tree, was startled by a little

figure, staggering beneath saddle and bridle. In a minute Norah was on

his back, and they were galloping across the plain towards home.

* * * * *

A young man sat on the cap of the stockyard fence at Billabong

homestead, swinging his legs listlessly and wishing for something to do.

He blessed the impulse that had brought him to the station before his

time, and wondered if things were likely to be always as dull.

"Unless my small pupil stirs things up, I don't fancy this life much,"

he said moodily, in which he showed considerable impatience of judgment,

being but a young man.

Across the long, grey plain a tiny cloud gathered, and the man watched

it lazily. Gradually it grew larger, until it resolved itself into

dust--and the dust into a horse and rider.

"Someone coming," he said, with faint interest. "By Jove, it's a girl!

She's racing, too. Wonder if anything's wrong?"

He slipped from the fence and went forward to open the gate, looking at

the advancing pair. A big bay pony panting and dripping with sweat, but

with "go" in him yet for a final sprint; and on his back a little girl,

flushed and excited, with tired, set lips. He expected her to stop at

the gate, but she flashed by him with a glance and a brief "Thank you,"

galloping up to the gate of the yard. Almost before the pony stopped she

was out of the saddle and running up the path to the kitchen. The man

saw Mrs. Brown come out, and heard her cry of surprise as she caught the

child to her.

"Something's up," said the stranger. He followed at a run.

In the kitchen Norah was clinging to Mrs. Brown, quivering with the

effort not to cry.

"Someone ill in the bush?" said the astonished Brownie, patting her

nurseling. "Yes, Billy's here, dearie--and all the horses are in.

Where's the note? I'll see to it. Poor pet! Don't take on, lovey, there.

See, here's your new governess, Mr. Stephenson!"

Norah straightened with a gasp of astonishment.

"You!" she said.

"Me!" said Dick Stephenson ungrammatically, holding out his hand.

"You're my pupil, aren't you? Is anything wrong?"

"There's a poor gentleman near to dyin' in the scrub," volunteered Mrs.

Brown, "an' Miss Norah's come all the way in for help. Fifteen mile, if

it's a inch! I don't know ow' you did it, my blessed pet!"

"You don't mean to say you did!" said the new "governess" amazed. Small

girls like this had not come his way. "By Jove, you're plucky! I say,

what's up?"

Norah was very pale.

"Are you really Mr. Stephenson?" she asked. "I . . . You'll be

surprised. . . . He's . . ." Her voice failed her.

"Don't worry to talk," he said gently. "You're done up."

"No--" She steadied her voice. "I must tell you. It's--it's--your

father!"

Dick Stephenson's face suddenly darkened.

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "You're making a mistake; my

father is dead."

"He's not," said Norah, "He's my dear Hermit, and he's out there with

typhoid, or some beastly thing. We found him--and Dad knows him quite

well. It's really him. He never got drowned."

"Do you know what you're saying?" The man's face was white.

But Norah's self-command was at an end. She buried her face in Brownie's

kind bosom, and burst into a passion of crying.

The old woman rocked her to and fro gently until the sobs grew fainter,

and Norah, shame-faced, began to feel for her handkerchief. Then Mrs.

Brown put her into the big cushioned rocking-chair.

"Now, you must be brave and tell us, dearie," she said gently. "This is

pretty wonderful for Mr. Stephenson."

So Norah, with many catchings of the breath, told them all about the

Hermit, and of her father's recognition of him, saying only nothing of

her long and lonely ride. Before she had finished Billy was on the road

to Cunjee, flying for the doctor. Dick Stephenson, white-faced, broke in

on the story.

"How can I get out there?" he asked shortly.

"I'll take you," Norah said.

"You!--that's out of the question."

"No, it isn't. I'm not tired," said Norah, quite unconscious of saying

anything but the truth. "I knew I'd have to, anyhow, because only Billy

and I know the way to the Hermit's camp, and he has to fetch the doctor.

You tell Wright to get Banker for you, and put my saddle on Jim's

pony--and to look well after Bobs. Hurry, while Brownie gets the other

things!"

Dick Stephenson made no further protests, his brain awhirl as he raced

to the stables. Brownie protested certainly, but did her small maid's

bidding the while. But it was a very troubled old face that looked long

after the man and the little girl, as they started on the long ride back

to the camp.

Mile after mile they swung across the grey plain.

Norah did not try to talk. She disdained the idea that she was tired,

but a vague feeling told her that she must save all her energies to

guide the way back to the camp hidden in the scrub, where the Hermit lay

raving, and her father sat beside the lonely bed.

Neither was her companion talkative. He stared ahead, as if trying to

pierce with his eyes the line of timber that blurred across the

landscape. Norah was glad he did not bother her with questions. She had

told him all she knew, and now he was content to wait.

"It must be hard on him, all the same," thought Norah, looking at the

set young face, and sparing an instant to approve of the easy seat in

the saddle displayed by her new "governess." To believe that your father

was dead all these years, and then suddenly to find him alive--but how

far apart in every way! "Why, you hardly know," mused Norah, "whether

you'll like him--whether he'll be glad to see you! Not that anyone could

fail to like the Hermit--anyone with sense, that is!"

Mile after mile! The plain slipped away beneath the even beat of the

steadily cantering hoofs. The creek, forded slowly, sank into the

distance behind them; before, the line of timber grew darker and more

definite. Jim's pony was not far inferior to Bobs in pace and easiness,

and his swinging canter required no effort to sit, but a great weariness

began to steal over his rider. Dick Stephenson, glancing at her

frequently, saw the pallor creeping upon the brave little face.

He pulled up.

"We'll go steady for a while," he said. "No good knocking you up

altogether."

Norah checked her pony unwillingly.

"Oh, don't you think we ought to hurry?" she said. "Dad's waiting for

those medicines you've got, you know."

"Yes, I know. But I don't think we'll gain much by overdoing it."

"If you're thinking about me," Norah said impatiently, "you needn't. I'm

as right as rain. You must think I'm pretty soft! Do come on!"

He looked at her steadily. Dark shadows of weariness lay under the brave

eyes that met his.

"Why, no," he said. "Fact is, I'm a bit of a new chum myself where

riding's concerned--you mustn't be too ashamed of me. I think we'd

better walk for a while. And you take this."

He poured something from his flask into its little silver cup and handed

it to Norah. Their eyes met, and she read his meaning through the

kindness of the words that cloaked what he felt. Above her weariness a

sense of comfort stole over Norah. She knew in that look that henceforth

they were friends.

She gulped down the drink, which was hateful, but presently sent a

feeling of renewed strength through her tired limbs. They rode on in

silence for some time, the horses brushing through the long soft grass.

Dick Stephenson pulled hard at his pipe.

"Did--did my father know you this morning?" he asked suddenly.

Norah shook her head mournfully.

"He didn't know anyone," she answered, "only asked for water and said

things I couldn't understand. Then when Dad came he knew him at once,

but the Hermit didn't seem even to know that Dad was there."

"Did he look very bad?"

"Yes--pretty bad," said Norah, hating to hurt him. "He was terribly

flushed, and oh! his poor eyes were awful, so burning and sunken.

And--oh!--let's canter, Mr. Stephenson, please!"

This time there was no objection. Banker jumped at the quick touch of

the spur as Stephenson's heel went home. Side by side they cantered

steadily until Norah pulled her pony in at length at the entrance to the

timber, where the creek swung into Anglers' Bend.

"We're nearly there," she said.

But to the man watching in the Hermit's camp the hours were long indeed.

The Hermit was too weak to struggle much. There had been a few sharp

paroxysms of delirium, such as Norah had seen, during which David Linton

had been forced to hold the old man down with unwilling force. But the

struggles soon brought their own result of helpless weakness, and the

Hermit subsided into restless unconsciousness, broken by feeble

mutterings, of which few coherent words could be caught. "Dick" was

frequently on the fevered lips. Once he smiled suddenly, and Mr. Linton,

bending down, heard a faint whisper of "Norah."

Sitting beside his old friend in the lonely silence of the bush, he

studied the ravages time and sorrow had wrought in the features be knew.

Greatly changed as Jim Stephenson was, his face lined and sunken, and

his beard long and white as snow, it was still, to David Linton, the

friend of his boyhood come back from the grave and from his burden of

unmerited disgrace. The frank blue eyes were as brave as ever; they met

his with no light of recognition, but with their clear gaze undimmed. A

sob rose in the strong man's throat--if he could but see again that

welcoming light!--hear once more his name on his friend's lips! If he

were not too late!

The Hermit muttered and tossed on his narrow bed. The watcher's thoughts

fled to the little messenger galloping over the long miles of lonely

country--his motherless girl, whom he had sent on a mission that might

so easily spell disaster. Horrible thoughts came into the father's mind.

He pictured Bobs putting his hoof into a hidden crab-hole--falling--Norah

lying white and motionless, perhaps far from the track. That was not the

only danger. Bad characters were to be met with in the bush and the pony

was valuable enough to tempt a desperate man--such as the Winfield

murderer, who was roaming the district, nobody knew where. There was a

score of possible risks; to battle with them, a little maid of twelve,

strong only in the self-reliance bred of the bush. The father looked at

the ghastly face before him, and asked himself questions that

tortured--Was it right to have let the young life go to save the old

one that seemed just flickering out? He put his face in his hands and

groaned.

How long the hours were! He calculated feverishly the time it would take

the little messenger to reach home if all went well; then how long it

must be before a man could come out to him. At that thought he realised

for the first time the difficulty Norah had seen in silence--who should

come out to him? Black Billy must fetch the doctor and guide him to the

sick man; but no one else save Norah herself knew the track to the

little camp, hidden so cunningly in the scrub, at that rate it might be

many hours before he knew if his child were safe. Anxiety for the

remedies for his friend was swallowed up in the anguish of uncertainty

for Norah. It seemed to him that he must go to seek her--that he could

not wait! He started up, but, as if alarmed by his sudden movement, the

Hermit cried out and tried to rise, struggling feebly with the strong

hands that were quick to hold him back. When the struggle was over David

Linton sat down again. How could he leave him?

Then across his agony of uncertainty came a clear childish voice. The

tent flaps were parted and Norah stood in the entrance white and

trembling, but with a glad smile of welcome on her lips--behind her a

tall man, who trembled, too. David Linton did not see him. All the world

seemed whirling round him as he caught his child in his arms.

CHAPTER XVI

FIGHTING DEATH

"You!" Mr. Linton said.

He had put Norah gently into the rough chair, and turned to Dick

Stephenson, who was standing by his father, his lips twitching. They

gripped hands silently.

"You can recognise him?"

"I'd know him anywhere," the son said. "Poor old dad! You think--?"

"I don't know," the other said hastily. "Can't tell until Anderson

comes. But I fancy it's typhoid. You brought the things? Ah!" His eyes

brightened as they fell on the leather medicine-case Mrs. Brown had

sent, and in a moment he was unstrapping it with quick, nervous

fingers..

The Hermit stirred, and gasped for water. He drank readily enough from

the glass Mr. Linton held to his lips, while his son supported him with

strong young arms. There was not much they could do.

"Anderson should be here before long," Mr. Linton said. "What time did

Billy leave?"

"A little after twelve."

"What did he ride?"

"A big black."

"That's right," Mr. Linton nodded. "Anderson would motor out to

Billabong, I expect, and Mrs. Brown would have the fresh horses ready.

They should not be very long, with ordinary luck. Billy left about

twelve, did he? By Jove, Norah must have made great time! It was after

half-past ten when she left me."

"She and the pony looked as if they'd done enough."

"And she came back! I hadn't realised it all in the minute of seeing

her," her father said, staring at Stephenson. "Norah, dear, are you

quite knocked up?" He turned to speak, but broke off sharply. Norah was

gone.

Mr. Linton turned on his heel without a word, and hurried out of the

tent, with Stephenson at his side. Just for a moment the Hermit was

forgotten in the sudden pang of anxiety that gripped them both. In the

open they glanced round quickly, and a sharp exclamation of dismay broke

from the father.

Norah was lying in a crumpled heap under a tree. There was something

terribly helpless in the little, quiet figure, face downwards, on the

grass.

Just for a moment, as he fell on his knees beside her, David Linton lost

his self-control. He called her piteously, catching the limp body to

him. Dick Stephenson's hand fell on his shoulder.

"She's only fainted," he said huskily. "Over-tired, that's all. Put her

down, sir, please"--and Mr. Linton, still trembling, laid the little

girl on the grass, and loosened her collar, while the other forced a few

drops from his flask between the pale lips.

Gradually Norah's eyes flickered and opened, and colour crept into her

cheeks.

"Daddy!" she whispered.

"Don't talk, my darling," her father said. "Lie still."

"I'm all right now," Norah said presently. "I'm so sorry I frightened

you, Daddy--I couldn't help it."

"You should have kept still, dear," said her father. "Why did you go

out?"

"I felt rummy," said his daughter inelegantly; "a queer, whirly-go-round

feeling. I guessed I must be going to tumble over. It didn't seem any

good making a duffer of myself when you were busy with the Hermit, so I

cut out."

Dick Stephenson turned sharply and, without a word, strode back into the

tent.

Norah turned with a sudden movement to her father, clinging to the rough

serge of his coat. Something like a tear fell on her upturned face as

the strong arms enfolded her.

"Why--Daddy--dear old Dad!" she whispered.

It was nearly twilight when Dr. Anderson and black Billy rode into the

clearing, to the joy of the anxious watchers.

The doctor did not waste any words. He slipped off his horse and entered

the tent. Presently Dick Stephenson came out and sat down beside Norah

to await the verdict.

"I can't do any good there," he said, "and there's no room."

Norah nodded. Just then there seemed nothing to say to this son whose

father, so lately given back from the grave, seemed to be slipping away

again without a word. She slid her hand into his and felt his fingers

close warmly upon it.

"I can stand it," he said brokenly, after a little, "if he can only know

we--the world--knows he was never guilty--if I can only tell him that. I

can't bear him to die not knowing that."

"He'd know it anyhow."

The little voice was very low, but the lad heard it.

"I--I guess he will," he said, "and that's better. But I would like to

make it up to him a bit--while he's here."

Then they were silent. The shadows deepened across the clearing. Long

since the sun had disappeared behind the rim of encircling trees.

The tent flaps parted and the doctor and Mr. Linton came out. Dick rose

and faced them. He could not utter the question that trembled on his

lips.

The doctor nodded cheerily.

"Well, Norah?" he said. "Yes; I think we'll pull the patient through

this time, Mr. Stephenson. It'll be a fight, for he's old and weakened

by exposure and lack of proper food, but I think we'll do it." He talked

on hopefully, appearing not to see the question the son could not

altogether hide. "Take him home? Yes, we'll get him home to-morrow, I

think. We can't nurse him out here. The express-wagon's following with

all sorts of comforting things. Trust your old Mrs. Brown for that,

Norah. Most capable woman! Mattresses, air pillows, nourishment--she'd

thought of everything, and the wagon was all ready to start when I got

to Billabong. By the way, Billy was to go back to show Wright the way.

Where are you, Billy? Why haven't you gone?"

"Plenty!" said Billy hastily, as he disappeared.

"Queer chap, that," said Dr. Anderson, lighting a cigarette. "That's

about the only remark he's made all day, and in the motor he didn't say

as much--sat like an ebony statue, with his eyes bulging in unholy

terror. I hear you've been flying all over the country, Norah. What do

you mean by looking so white?"

The tale of Norah's iniquities was unfolded to him, and the doctor felt

her pulse in a friendly way.

"You'll have to go to bed soon," he said. "Can't have you knocking

yourself up, you know; and we've got to make an early start to-morrow to

avoid the worst heat of the day for the patient. Also, you will take a

small tabloid to make you 'buck up,' if you know what that means,

Norah!" Norah grinned. "Ah, well, Mr. Stephenson here will make you

forget all that undesirable knowledge before long--lost in a maze of

Euclid, and Latin, and Greek, and trigonometry, and things!"

"I say!" gasped Norah.

"Well, you may," grinned the doctor. "I foresee lively times for you and

your tutor in the paths of learning, young lady. First of all, however,

you'll have to be under-nurse to our friend the patient, with Mrs. Brown

as head. And that reminds me--someone must sit up to-night."

"That's my privilege," said Dick Stephenson quickly. And all that night,

after the camp had quieted to sleep, the son sat beside his newly-found

father, watching in the silver moonlight every change that flitted

across the wan old face. The Hermit had not yet recovered consciousness,

but under the doctor's remedies he had lost the terrible restlessness of

delirium and lay for the most part calmly. In heart, as he watched him,

Dick was but a little boy again, loving above all the world the tall

"Daddy" who was his hero--longing with all the little boy's devotion and

all the strength of his manhood to make up to him for the years he had

suffered alone.

But the calm face on the bed never showed sign of recognition. Once or

twice the Hermit muttered, and his boy's name was on his lips. The pulse

fluttered feebly. The great river flowed very close about his feet.

CHAPTER XVII

THE END OF THE STRUGGLE

The long slow journey to Billabong homestead was accomplished.

The Hermit had never regained consciousness throughout the weary hours

during which every jolt of the express-wagon over the rough tracks had

sent a throb to the hearts of the watchers. All unconscious he had lain

while they lifted him from the bunk where he had slept for so many

lonely nights. The men packed his few personal belongings quickly.

Norah, remembering a hint dropped by the Hermit in other days, had

instituted a search for buried papers, which resulted in the unearthing

of a tin box containing various documents. She had insisted, too, that

the rough furniture should go, and it was piled in the front of the

wagon. Another man had brought out the old pack mare for the baggage of

the original fishing party, and the whole cavalcade moved off before the

sun had got above the horizon.

But it was a tedious journey. Dr. Anderson sat beside his patient,

watching the feeble action of the heart and the flickering pulse, plying

him with stimulants and nourishment, occasionally calling a halt for a

few minutes' complete rest. Close to the wheel Dick Stephenson rode, his

eyes scarcely leaving his father's face. On the other side, Norah and

her father rode in silent, miserable anxiety, fretting at their utter

helplessness. Dr. Anderson glanced sharply now and then at the little

girl's face.

"This isn't good for her," he said at length quietly to Mr. Linton.

"She's had too much already. Take her home." He raised his voice. "You'd

better go on," he said; "let Mrs. Brown know just what is coming; she'll

need you to help her prepare the patient's room, Norah. You, too,

Stephenson."

"I won't leave him, thanks," he said. "I'd rather not--he might become

conscious."

"No chance of that," the doctor said, "best not, too, until we have him

safely in bed. However, stay if you like--perhaps it's as well. I think,

Linton, you'd better send a wire to Melbourne for a trained nurse."

"And one to mother," Dick said quickly.

"That's gone already," Mr. Linton said. "I sent George back with it last

night when he brought the mare out." He smiled in answer to Dick's

grateful look. "Well, come on, Norah."

The remembrance of that helpless form in the bottom of the wagon haunted

Norah's memory all through the remainder of the ride home. She was

thoroughly tired now--excitement that had kept her up the day before had

prevented her from sleeping, and she scarcely could keep upright in the

saddle. However, she set her teeth to show no sign of weakness that

should alarm her father, and endeavoured to have a smile for him

whenever his anxious gaze swept her white face.

The relief of seeing the red roof of home! That last mile was the

longest of all--and when at length they were at the gate, and she had

climbed stiffly off her pony, she could only lean against his shoulder

and shake from head to foot. Mr. Linton picked her up bodily and carried

her, feebly protesting, into Mrs. Brown.

"Only knocked up," he said, in answer to the old woman's terrified

exclamation. "Bed is all she needs--and hot soup, if you've got it.

Norah, dear"--as she begged to be allowed to remain and help-- "you can

do nothing just now, except get yourself all right. Do as I tell you,

girlie;" and in an astonishingly short space of time Norah found herself

tucked up in bed in her darkened room, with Daddy's hand fast in hers,

and a comforting feeling of everything fading away to darkness and

sleep.

It was twilight when she opened her eyes again, and Brownie sat knitting

by her side.

"Bless your dear heart," she said fervently. "Yes, the old gentleman's

come, an' he's quite comfertable in bed--though he don't know no one

yet. Dr. Anderson's gone to Cunjee, but he's coming back in his steam

engine to stay all night; an' your pa's having his dinner, which he

needs it, poor man. An' he don't want you to get up, lovey, for there

ain't nothin' you can do. I'll go and get you something to eat."

But it was Mr. Linton who came presently, bearing a tray with dainty

chicken and salad, and a glass of clear golden jelly. He sat by Norah

while she ate.

"We're pretty anxious, dear," he told her, when she had finished, and

was snugly lying down again, astonishingly glad of her soft bed. "You

won't mind my not staying. I must be near old Jim. I'll be glad when

Anderson's back. Try to go to sleep quickly." He bent to kiss her. "You

don't know what a comfort your sleep has been to me, my girlie," he

said. "Good-night!"

It was the third day of the struggle with death over the Hermit's

unconscious body, and again twilight was falling upon Billabong.

The house was hushed and silent. No footfall was allowed to sound where

the echo might penetrate to the sick-room. Near its precincts Mrs. Brown

and the Melbourne trained nurse reigned supreme, and Dr. Anderson came

and went as often as he could manage the fourteen-mile spin out from

Cunjee in his motor.

Norah had a new care--a little fragile old lady, with snowy hair, and

depths of infinite sadness in her eyes, whom Dick Stephenson called

"mother." The doctor would not allow either mother or son into the

sick-room--the shock of recognition, should the Hermit regain

consciousness suddenly, might be too much. So they waited about,

agonisingly anxious, pitifully helpless. Dick rebelled against the

idleness at length. It would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade

from the Chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within

easy call of the house. But for the wife and mother there was no help.

She was gently courteous to all, gently appreciative of Norah's attempts

to occupy her thoughts. But throughout it all--whether she looked at the

pets outside, or walked among the autumn roses in the garden, or

struggled to eat at the table--she was listening, ever listening.

In the evening of the third day Mr. Linton came quickly into the

drawing-room. Tears were falling down his face. He went up to Mrs.

Stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's--it's all right, we think," he said brokenly. "He's conscious and

knew me, dear old chap! I was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes

opened and all the fever had gone. 'Why, Davy!' he said. I told him

everything was all right, and he mustn't talk--and he's taken some

nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. Anderson's delighted."

Then he caught Mrs. Stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet,

unconscious.

Then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, harassing

convalescence. The patient did not seem to be alive to any outside

thought. He gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent,

asking no questions, only when Mr. Linton entered the room showing any

sign of interest. The doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

"Do you think I could go and see him?" Norah was outside the door of the

sick-room. The doctor often found her there--a little silent figure,

listening vainly for her friend's voice. She looked up pleadingly. "Not

if you think I oughtn't to," she said.

"I don't believe it would hurt him," Dr. Anderson said, looking down at

her. "Might wake him up a bit--I know you won't excite him."

So it was that the Hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his

side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.

"Why, it's my little friend," he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand.

"This seems a queer world--old friends and new, all mixed up."

"I'm so glad you're better, dear Mr. Hermit," Norah said. She bent and

kissed him. "And we're all friends--everybody."

"You did that once before," he said feebly. "No one had kissed me for

such a long, long while. But mustn't let you."

"Why?" asked Norah blankly.

"Because--because people don't think much of me, Miss Norah," he said, a

deep shade falling on his fine old face. "They say I'm no good. I don't

suppose I'd be allowed to be here, only I'm an old man, and I'm going to

die."

"But you're not!" Norah cried. "Dr. Anderson says you're not!

And--and--oh, you're making a great mistake. Everyone wants you."

"Me!" said the Hermit, in sudden bitter scorn. "No, only strangers like

you. Not my own."

"Oh, you don't know," Norah protested. She was painfully aware of the

order not to excite the patient, but it was awful to let him be so

unhappy! "Dad's not a stranger--he always knew you. And see how he wants

you!"

"Dad?" the Hermit questioned feebly. "Is David Linton your father?" She

nodded, and for a minute he was silent. "No wonder you and I were

friends!" he said. "But you're not all--not even you and Davy."

"No, but--"

He forced a smile, in pity for her perplexity.

"Dear little girl, you don't understand," he said. "There's something

even friendship can't wipe out, though such friendship as your father's

can bridge it over. But it's always there--a black, cruel gulf. And

that's disgrace!"

Norah could not bear the misery of his eyes.

"But if it's all a horrible mistake?" she said. "If everybody knew

it--?"

"If it's a mistake!"

The Hermit's hand was on her wrist like a vice. For a moment Norah

shivered in fear of what her words might have done.

"What do you mean? For God's sake, tell me?"

She steadied her voice to answer him bravely.

"Please, you mustn't get excited, dear Mr. Hermit," she said. "I'll tell

you. Dad told me all about it before we found you. It's all a terrible

mistake. Every one knows you were a good man. Everyone wants to be

friends with you. Only they thought you were dead."

"I managed that." His voice was sharp and eager. "I saw the other body

in the river and the rest was easy." He struggled for calmness and Norah

held a glass of water to his lips.

"Please don't get excited!" she begged.

"I won't," he smiled at her. "Tell me--does everyone know?"

"Everyone," Norah nodded. There was a step behind her and a sudden light

flashed into the Hermit's eyes.

"Davy! Is it true? I am cleared?"

"Years ago, old man." David Linton's voice was husky. "All the world

wants to make it up to you."

"All the world--they're only two!" the sick man said. "Do they know?"

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

For a moment Mr. Linton hesitated, not knowing what risk he might run.

"Oh! for pity's sake don't be cautious, David," the Hermit begged. "I'll

be calm--anything--only don't refuse a starving man bread! Davy, tell

me!"

"They're here, old man."

"Here! Can I--will they--?"

"Ah, we've got to be careful of you, Jim, old chap," Mr. Linton said.

"You've been a very sick man--and you're not better yet. But they're

only living on the hope of seeing you--of having you again--of making it

up to you."

"And they believe in me?"

"The boy--Dick--never believed a word against you," Mr. Linton said.

"And your wife--ah, if she doubted, she has paid for it again and again

in tears. You'll forgive her, Jim?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I've been bitter enough God knows, but it all

seems gone. You'll bring her, Davy?"

But at the word Norah was out of the room, racing along the hall.

Out in the gardens Dick Stephenson dug mightily in the hard soil, and

his mother watched him, listening always. She heard the flying footsteps

on the gravel and turned quickly to meet Norah.

"Mr. Stephenson, he wants you!"

"Is he worse?" Dick gasped.

"No--I think he's all right. But he knows everything and he wants you

both!"

In his room the Hermit heard the steps in the hall--the light, slow

feet, and the man's tread, that curbed its impatience, lingering to

support them. His breath came quickly as he stared at the door.

Then for a moment they faced each other, after the weary years; each

gaunt and wan and old, but in their eyes the light and the love of long

ago. The hermit's eyes wandered an instant to his son's face, seeking in

the stalwart man the little lad he knew. Then they came back to his

wife.

"Mary!"

"Jim!" She tottered to the bed.

"Jim--can you forgive me?"

"Forgive--oh, my girl!" The two grey heads were close together. David

Linton slipped from the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

EVENING

They were all sitting on the lawn in the twilight.

Norah had dispensed afternoon tea with laborious energy, ably seconded

by Dick, who carried cups and cake, and made himself generally useful.

Then they had talked until the sun slipped over the edge of the plain.

There was so much to talk of in those days.

The Hermit had been allowed to leave his room a fortnight since. He was

still weak, but strength was coming every day--strength that follows on

happiness. Norah declared he grew better every day and no one

contradicted her.

He and his wife sat hand in hand. They were rarely seen any other

way--perfect content on each placid face. Dick lay on the grass at their

feet and smoked, and threw stems of buffalo grass at Norah, who returned

them honourably. Mr. Linton, also smoking, surveyed the group with

satisfaction.

They had been talking over plans for the future, plans which Mr.

Linton's masterfulness modified very considerably.

"Go away?" he said. "Certainly not! I've engaged your son as tutor to my

daughter, and I really can't spare him from the poor neglected child!

Then, as you, curiously enough, don't wish to leave your son, the course

is quite clear--you must stay here."

"I'm not going to live on you, Davy."

"You needn't. I'm bitterly in need of someone with a head for figures--a

thing I never possessed. You can help me tremendously. And, good as dear

old Brownie is, I know Norah ought to be with a gentlewoman--to learn

the things that aren't in school books. It's the best chance you and I

have ever had, isn't it, Norah? We aren't going to let it--or you--slip

through our hands."

"It's--it's all very well, Davy, old man--"

"I know it is. Now, can't you let well alone, Jim? Talk of it again in

five years' time--you may have better luck then. I don't say you

will--but you may! Hang it all, man, you're not going to thwart me when

I've just got my family together!"

"Well, I won't for a while," the Hermit said-and immediately received a

kiss on the top of his head.

"Thank you, Norah," he said meekly.

"Don't mention it," Norah answered politely. "Oh, I'm so glad you're

going to stay with us, Mr. Hermit!"

Norah had flatly declined to call her friend anything but the name she

had given him in the bush. As for the Hermit, he was perfectly content

with anything Norah did and had no idea of objecting.

"You heard, didn't you, Norah, that they'd found your friend, the

Winfield murderer?" Mr. Linton asked.

"Daddy!--no!"

"Found his body in an old shaft--not far from Winfield. He had the

stolen property on him, so there's no doubt of his guilt. So that clears

your Hermit, even in your suspicious mind!"

"Ah, don't, Daddy," Norah said, flushing. "I wasn't suspicious. I was a

duffer."

"I don't think you were," the Hermit said decidedly. "A very sensible

duffer, anyhow."

Dick laughed.

"No use trying to come between those two," he said.

"Not a bit," said the Hermit with great cheerfulness. He smiled at

Norah. "You brought me back to life--twice."

"When I think--but for Norah," Mrs. Stephenson murmured brokenly, "no

one would have known you were dying in that dreadful tent."

"Yes," said the Hermit, "but I didn't know anything about it. My best

memory is of my little friend who brought me good news when I was

wishing with all my soul that I'd died in the tent!"

"Don't, Jim!" said Mr. Linton.

"Well, between one and another there's a fair chance of spoiling my

pupil," laughed Dick, stretching himself. "I'll have to be doubly stern

to counteract the evil influences, Norah. You can prepare for awful

times. When next Monday comes, Mr. Linton--may it be soon!--you can say

good-bye to your pickle of a daughter. She will come out from my mill

ground into the most approved type of young lady--accomplishments,

prunes and prisms personified!"

Mr. Linton laughed.

"Will she?" he said, pulling Norah's hair gently. "I wonder! Well, you

can do your worst, Dick. Somehow, I fancy that under all the varnish

I'll find my little bush maid."

The End

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