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CHAPTER XII

ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE

“So you think he'll do, Jim?”

“Yes, I certainly do,” Jim answered. He was sitting with his father in the smoking-room at Billabong, his long legs outstretched before the fire, and his great form half-concealed in the depths of an enormous leather armchair. “Of course he'll want guidance; you couldn't expect him to know much about stock yet, though he's certainly picked up a good bit.”

“Yes—so it seems. His great point is his quick eye and his keenness. I haven't found him forget much.”

“No, and he's awfully ashamed if he does. He's a tiger for work, and very quick at picking up the way to tackle any new job. That was one of the things that pleased old Joe about him. I fancy the old chap had suffered at the hands of other new-chums who reckoned they could teach him how to do his work. 'Captin ain't orffered me not one bit of advice,' he told me with relief.”

Mr. Linton laughed.

“Yes, I've had them here like that,” he said. “Full of sublime enthusiasm for reforming Australia and all her ways. I don't say we don't need it, either, but not from a new-chum in his first five minutes.”

“Not much,” agreed Jim. “Well, there's nothing of that sort about old Bob. He just hoes in at anything that's going, and doesn't talk about it. Joe says he must have been reared sensible. He's all right, dad. I've had a lot of men through my hands in the last few years, and you learn to size 'em up pretty quickly.”

David Linton nodded, looking at his big son. Sometimes he had a pang of regret for Jim's lost boyhood, swallowed up in war. Then, when he was privileged to behold him rough-and-tumbling with Wally, singing idiotic choruses with Norah and Tommy, or making himself into what little Babs Archdale ecstatically called “my bucking donkey,” it was borne in upon him that there still was plenty of the boy left in Jim—and that there always would be. Nevertheless, he had great confidence in his judgment; and in this instance it happened to coincide with his own.

The door opened, and Bob Rainham came in, hesitating as he caught sight of the father and son.

“Come in, Bob,” Mr. Linton said. “I was just wishing you would turn up. We've been talking about you. I understand you've made up your mind to get a place of your own.”

“If you don't think I'm insane to tackle it, sir,” Bob answered. “Of course, I know I'm awfully ignorant. But I thought I could probably get hold of a good man, and if I can find a place anywhere in this district, Jim says he'll keep an eye on me. Between the two, I oughtn't to make very hopeless mistakes. And I might as well have my money invested.”

“Quite so. I think you're wise,” the squatter answered. “As it happens, I was in Cunjee yesterday, talking to an agent, and I heard of a little place that might suit you very well—just about the price you ought to pay, and the land's not bad. There's a decent cottage on it—you and Tommy could be very comfortable there. It's four miles from here, so we should feel you hadn't got away from us.”

“That sounds jolly,” said Bob. “I'd be awfully glad to think Tommy was so near to Norah. Is it sheep country, Mr. Linton?”

“So it's to be sheep, is it? Well, I'd advise you to put some young cattle on to some scrub country at the back, but you could certainly run sheep on the cleared paddocks,” Mr. Linton answered. “We could drive over and look at it to-morrow, if you like. The terms are easy; you'd have money over to stock it, or nearly so. And there's plenty to be done in improving the place, if you should buy it; you could easily add a good deal to its value.”

“That's what I'd like,” Bob answered eagerly. “It doesn't take a whole lot of brains to dig drains and cut scrub. I could be doing that while the sheep turn into wool and mutton!”

“So you could; though there's a bit more to be done to sheep than just to watch them turn,” said the squatter, with a twinkle. “I fancy Tommy will be pleased if you get this place.”

“Tommy's mad keen to start,” Bob said. “She says Norah has taught her more than she ever dreamed that her head could contain, and she wants to work it all off on me. I think she has visions of making me kill a bullock, so that she can demonstrate all she knows about corning and spicing and salting beef. I mentioned it would take two of us quite a little while to work through a whole bullock, but she evidently didn't think much of the objection.”

“I'll see you get none fat enough to kill,” grinned Jim. “Norah says Tommy's a great pupil, dad.”

“Oh, they have worked as if they were possessed,” Mr. Linton answered. “I never saw such painfully busy people. But Norah tells me she has had very little to teach Tommy—in fact, I think the teaching has been mutual, and they've simply swapped French and Australian dodges. At all events they and Brownie have lived in each other's pockets, and they all seem very content.”

“Are you all talking business, or may we come in?” demanded a cheery voice; and Norah peeped in, with Tommy dimly visible in the background.

“Come in—'twas yourselves we were talking about,” Jim said, rising slowly from the armchair; a process which, Norah was accustomed to say, he accomplished yard by yard. “Sit here, Tommy, and let's hear your views on Australia!”

Tommy shook her head.

“Too soon to ask me—and I've only seen Billabong,” she said, laughing. “Wait until I've kept house for Bob for a while, and faced life without nice soft buffers like Norah and Mrs. Brown!”

“I'm not a nice soft buffer!” said Norah indignantly. “Do I look like one, Jimmy?”

“Brownie certainly fits the description better,” Jim said. “Never mind, old girl, you'll probably grow into one. We'd be awfully proud of you if you got really fat, Norah.”

“Then I hope you'll never have cause for pride,” retorted his sister. “I couldn't ride Bosun if I did, and that would be too awful to think about. Oh, and Tommy's making a great stock-rider, Bob. She declared she could never ride astride, but she's perceiving the error of her ways.”

“I thought I could never stick on without the moral support of the pommels,” said Tommy. “When you arrange yourself among pommels and horns and things on a side-saddle, there seems no real reason why you should ever come off, except of your own free will. But a man's saddle doesn't offer any encouragement to a poor scared new-chum. I pictured myself sliding off it whenever the horse side-stepped. However, somehow, it doesn't happen.”

“And what happens when your steed slews around after a bullock?” asked Jim.

“Indeed, I hardly know,” said Tommy modestly. “I generally shut my eyes, and hold on to the front of the saddle. After a while I open them, and find, to my astonishment, that nothing has occurred, and I'm still there. Then we sail along after Norah, and I hold up my head proudly and look as if that were really the way I have always handled cattle. And she isn't a bit taken in. It's dreadfully difficult to impress Norah.”

Every one laughed, and looked at the new-chum affectionately. This small English girl, so ready to laugh at her own mistakes, had twined herself wonderfully about their hearts. Even Brownie, jealous to the point of prickliness for her adored Norah, and at first inclined to turn up a scornful nose at “Miss Tommy's” pink and white daintiness, had been forced to admit that she “could 'andle things like a workman.” And that was high praise from Brownie.

The telephone bell whirred in the hall, and Jim went out to answer it. In a few minutes they heard his voice.

“Norah, just come here a moment.” He came back presently, leaving Norah at the telephone.

“It's Dr. Anderson,” he said. “They're in trouble in Cunjee—there's a pretty bad outbreak of influenza. Some returned men came up with it, and now it's spreading everywhere, Anderson says. Mrs. Anderson has been nursing in the hospital, but now two of her own kiddies have got it, so she has had to go home, and they're awfully shorthanded. Nurses seem to be scarce everywhere; they could only get one from Melbourne, and she's badly overworked.”

“Norah will go, I suppose,” said David Linton, with a half-sigh—the sigh of a man who has looked forward to peace and security, and finds it again slipping from his grasp.

“Oh, yes, I'm sure she will. They have a certain number of volunteers, not nearly enough.”

“I'm going,” said Tommy, and David Linton nodded at her kindly.

“What about you and me, Jim?” Bob asked.

“Well, Anderson says they have a number of men volunteers. Such a lot of returned fellows about with nothing to do yet. I told him to count on us for anything he wanted, but the need seems chiefly for women.”

“Must they go to-night? It's pretty late,” said Mr. Linton.

“No, not to-night,” Norah answered, entering. “It would be eight o'clock before I could get in, and Dr. Anderson says I'm to get a good sleep and come in early in the morning. Tommy, darling, will you mind if I leave you for a few days?”

“Horribly,” said Tommy drily. “It would be unpardonably rude for a hostess. So I 'm coming too.”

Norah laughed down at her.

“Somehow, I thought you would,” she said. “Well, Jimmy, you'll take us in after breakfast, won't you? We'll have it early.” She perched on the arm of her father's chair, letting her fingers rest for a moment on his close-cropped grey hair. “And I've never asked you if I could go, daddy.”

“No,” said David Linton; “you haven't.” He put his arm gently round her.

“But then I knew that you'd kick me out if I didn't. So that simplifies matters. You'll take care of yourself while I'm away, won't you, dad? No wild rides by yourself into the ranges, or anything of that sort?”

“Certainly not,” said her father. “I'll sit quietly at home, and let Brownie give me nourishment at short intervals.”

“Nothing she'd like better.” Norah laughed. “I don't believe Brownie will really feel that she owns us again until one of us is considerate enough to fall ill and give her a real chance of nursing and feeding us. Then the only thing to do is to forget you ever had a will of your own, and just to open your mouth and be fed like a young magpie, and Brownie's perfectly happy.”

“She won't be happy when she hears of this new plan,” Mr. Linton said. “Poor old soul, I'm sorry she should have any worry, when she has just got you home.”

“Yes; I'm sorry,” Norah answered. “But it can't be helped. I'll go and talk to her now, and arrange things—early breakfast among them.”

“You might make it a shade earlier than you meant to, while you're at it, Nor,” Jim observed. “Then we could turn off the track as we go in to-morrow to let Tommy have a look at the place that has been offered Bob—you know that place of Henderson's, off the main road. Bob can go over the land with us when we're coming back. But once you and Tommy get swallowed up in Cunjee, there's no knowing when we could get you out; and Tommy ought to inspect the house.”

“Oh, I'd love to,” said Tommy enthusiastically. “No mere man can be trusted to buy a house.”

“Don't go to look at it with any large ideas of up-to-date improvements floating in your mind,” Jim warned her. “It's sure to be pretty primitive, and probably there isn't even a bathroom.”

“Don't you worry, Tommy; we'll build you one,” said Mr. Linton.

“I'm not going to worry about anything; there are always washtubs,” spoke Tommy cheerfully—“and thank you, all the same, Mr. Linton. I didn't expect much when I came out to Australia, but I'm getting so much more than I expected that I'm in a state of bewilderment all the time. Someday I feel that I shall come down with a bump, and I shall be thankful if it's only over a bathroom.”

“Distressing picture of the valiant pioneer looking for discomforts and failing to find them,” said Bob, laughing. “It's so difficult to feel really pioneerish in a place where there are taps, and electric light, and motors, and no one appears to wear a red shirt, like every Australian bushman I ever saw on the stage.”

“Did you bring any out with you?” demanded Norah wickedly.

“I didn't. But honest, it was only because I had so many khaki ones, and I thought they'd do. Otherwise I'd certainly have thought that scarlet shirts were part of the ordinary outfit for the Colonies. And if you believed all the things they tell you in outfitting shops, you would bring a gorgeous assortment. We'd have even arrived here with tinware. It was lucky I knew some Australians—they delicately hinted that you really had a shop or two in the principal cities.”

“I've often marvelled at the queer collection people seem to bring out,” said Mr. Linton. “It's not so bad of late years, but ten years ago a jackeroo would arrive here with about a lorry-load of stuff, most of which he could have bought much more cheaply in Melbourne or Sydney—and he'd certainly never use the greater part of it. Apparently a London shop will sell you the same kind of outfit for a Melbourne suburb as if you were going into the wilds of West Africa. They haven't any conscience.”

“They just never learn geography,” said Norah. “And 'the Colonies' to them mean exactly the same thing, no matter in what continent the colony may be. If they can sell pioneers tinware to take out to Melbourne, so much the better for them. Well, I must see Brownie, or there may not be early breakfast for pioneers or any one else.”

Brownie rose to the occasion—there had never been any known occasion to which Brownie did not rise—and the hospital at Cunjee was still grappling with early morning problems next day when the Billabong motor pulled up at the door, after a flying visit to the new home—which Tommy, regarding with the large eye of faith, had declared to be full of boundless possibilities. Dr. Anderson came out to meet the new-comers, Norah and Tommy, neat and workmanlike; Jim, bearing their luggage; and Mr. Linton and Bob sharing a large humper, into which Brownie had packed everything eatable she could find—and Brownie's capacity for finding things eatable at short notice was one of her most astonishing traits. The little doctor, harassed as he was, greeted them with a twinkle.

“You Lintons generally appear bearing your sheaves with you,” he said. “Well, you're very welcome. How many of you do I keep?”

“Tommy and Norah, for certain,” said Mr. Linton. “And as many more of us as you please. Want us all, doctor?”

“Well, I really don't; there are a good many men volunteers. But if I might commandeer the car and a driver for a few hours, I should be glad,” the doctor went on. “There are some cases to be brought in from Mardale and Clinthorpe. I heard of them only this morning, on the telephone, and I was wondering how to get them in.”

“We're at your disposal, and you've only to telephone for us or the car whenever you want it,” said Mr. Linton. “How are things this morning?”

“Oh—bad enough. We have several very troublesome cases; people simply won't give in soon enough. My youngsters are very ill, but I'm not really worried about them as long as my wife keeps up. Our biggest trouble is that our cook here went down this morning. She told me she couldn't sleep a wink all night, and when she woke up in the morning her tongue was sticking to the roof of her head!—and certainly she has temperature enough for any strange symptoms. But we feel rather as if the bottom had dropped out of the universe, for none of our volunteers are equal to the job.”

“I can cook,” said Norah and Tommy together.

“Can you?” said the little doctor, staring at them as though the heavens had opened and rained down angels on his head. “Are you sure? You don't look like it!”

“I can guarantee them,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “Only you'll have to watch Norah, for the spell of the war is heavy upon her, and she'll boil your soup bones thirteen times, and feed you all on haricot beans and lentils if nobody checks her!”

“Dad, you haven't any manners,” said Norah severely. “May I cook, Doctor?”

“You can share the job,” said Dr. Anderson thankfully. “I really think it's more than enough for one of you. This place is getting pretty full. Of course, I've wired to town for a cook, but goodness knows if we'll get one; it's unlikely. Come on, now, and I'll introduce you to Sister.”

Sister proved to be a tall, capable, quiet woman, with war decorations. She greeted the volunteers thankfully, and unhesitatingly pronounced their place to be cooks, rather than nurses.

“I can get girls who will do well enough in the wards,” she said, “where I can direct them. But I can't be in the kitchen too. If you two can carry on without supervision it will be a godsend.”

So the kitchen swallowed up Norah and Tommy, and there they worked during the weeks that followed, while the influenza scourge raged round Victoria. The little cottage-hospital became full almost to bursting-point. Even the rooms for the staff had to be appropriated, and nurses and helpers slept in a cottage close by. Luckily for the cooks, Cunjee now boasted a gas supply and its citizens supplied them with gas-stoves, as Norah said, “in clutches,” so that they worked in comfort. It was hard work, with little time to spare, but the girls had learned method, and they soon mapped out a routine that prevented their ever being rushed or flurried. And they blessed the cold weather that saved constant watching lest supplies should go bad.

From Billabong came daily hampers that greatly relieved their labours. It was a matter of some amazement to the Lintons that Brownie did not volunteer for the hospital, and indeed, it had been the first thought of Brownie herself. But she repressed it firmly, though by no means feeling comfortable. To Murty she confided her views, and was relieved by his approval.

“I know I did ought to go,” she said, almost tearfully. “There's those two blessed lambs in the kitchen, doing wot I'd ought to be doing; and I know Mrs. Archdale 'ud come up an' run things 'ere for me. But wot 'ud 'appen if I did go, I ask you, Murty? Simply they'd take the two blessed lambs out of the kitchen an' put 'em to nursing in the wards, an' next thing you knew they'd both be down with the beastly flu' themselves. They're safer among the pots and pans, Murty. But when the master looks at me I don't feel comferable.”

“Yerra, let him look,” said Murty stoutly. “'Tis the great head ye have on ye; I'd never have thought of it. Don't go worryin', now. Are ye not sendin' them in the heighth of good livin' every day?”

“That's the least I can do,” said Brownie, brightening a little. “Only I'd like to think Miss Norah and Miss Tommy got some of it, and not just them patients, gethered up from goodness knows where.”

“Yerra, Miss Norah wouldn't want to know their addresses before she'd feed 'em,” said the bewildered Murty. But there came a suspicious smell from the kitchen, as of something burning, and Mrs. Brown fled with a swiftness that was surprising, considering her circumference.

Jim lived a moving existence in those days, flying between Billabong and Cunjee in the car, bringing supplies, always on hand for a job if wanted, and insisting that on their daily “time off” Norah and Tommy should come out for a spin into the country. Sometimes they managed to take Sister, too, or some of the other helpers. The car never went out with any empty seats. Presently they were recovering patients to be given fresh air or taken home; white-faced mothers, longing to be back to the house and children left in the care of “dad,” and whatever kindly neighbours might drop in; or “dads” themselves, much bewildered at the amazing illness that had left them feeling as if neither their legs nor their heads belonged to them. Occasionally, after dropping one of these convalescents, Jim would find jobs waiting to his hand about the bush homestead; cows to milk, a fence to be mended, wood waiting to be chopped. He used to do them vigorously, while in the house “mum” fussed over her restored man and tried to keep him from going out to run the farm immediately. There were generally two or three astonished children to show him where tools were kept—milk buckets, being always up-ended on a fence post, needed no introduction, and the pump, for a sluice afterwards, was not hard of discovery. The big Rolls-Royce used to purr gently away through the bush paddock afterwards, often with a bewildered “mum” looking amazedly at the tall young man who drove it.

Meanwhile Bob Rainham, left alone with his host, set about the business of his new farm in earnest, since there seemed nothing else for him to do; and David Linton, possibly glad of the occupation, threw himself into the work. The farm was bought on terms that seemed to Bob very easy—he did not know that Mr. Linton stood security for his payments—and then began the task of stocking it and of planning just what was best to do with each paddock. The house, left bare and clean by the last owners, was in good repair, save that the dingy white painting of the exterior, and the varnished pine walls and ceilings within were depressing and shabby. Mr. Linton decided that his house-warming present to Tommy should be a coat of paint for her mansion, and soon it looked new—dark red, with a gleaming white roof, while the rooms were painted in pretty fresh colours. “Won't Tommy get a shock!” chuckled Bob gleefully. The dinginess of the house had not escaped him on the morning that they had made their first inspection, but Tommy, who loved freshness and colours, had made no sign. Had you probed the matter, Tommy would probably have remarked, with some annoyance, that it was not her job to begin by grumbling.

Wally came hurtling back from Queensland at the first hint of the influenza outbreak, and was considerably depressed at finding his twin souls, Jim and Norah, engaged in jobs that for once he could not share. Therefore he, too, fell back on the new farm, and found Bob knitting his brow one evening over the question of furniture.

“I don't want to buy much,” he said. “Tommy doesn't, either; we talked it over. We'd rather do with next to nothing, and buy decent stuff by degrees if we get on well. Tommy says she doesn't want footling little gimcracky tables and whatnots and things, nor dressing-tables full of drawers that won't pull out. But I've been looking at the cheap stuff in Cunjee, and, my word, it's nasty! Still, I can't afford good things now, and Tommy wouldn't like it if I tried to get 'em. Tommy's death on the simple life.”

“How are you on tools?” queried Wally.

“Using tools? Pretty fair,” admitted Bob. “I took up carpentering at school; it was always a bit of a hobby of mine. I'm no cabinet-maker, if that's what you mean.”

“You don't need to be,” Wally answered. “Up where I come from—we were pretty far back in Queensland—we hardly ever saw real furniture, the stuff you buy in shops. It was all made out of packing-cases and odd bits of wood. Jolly decent, too; you paint 'em up to match the rooms, or stain 'em dark colours, and the girls put sort of petticoats round some of the things.”

“We began that way,” said David Linton, with a half-sigh. “There was surprisingly little proper furniture in our first house, and we were very comfortable.”

“Couldn't we begin, sir?” asked Wally eagerly. “This wet weather looks like setting in. Bob can't do much on the farm. If we could get out a few odd lengths of timber and some old packing cases from the township—”

“Heavens, you don't need to do that!” exclaimed their host. “The place is full of both; packing-cases have been arriving at Billabong since Jim was a baby, and very few of them have gone away again. There's plenty of timber knocking about, too. We'll go over to the farm if you like, Bob, and plan out measurements.”

“I think it's a splendid idea, thanks, sir,” said Bob slowly. “Only I don't quite see why I should bother you—”

“Oh, don't talk rubbish!” said David Linton, getting up. “I believe I'm glad of the job—the place seems queer without Jim and Norah.”

“My word!” said Wally. “Let's all turn carpenters, and give Tommy the surprise of her life!”

They flung themselves at the work with energy. A visit to the new house, and a careful study of each room, revealed unsuspected possibilities to Bob, whose English brain, “brought up,” as Wally said, “on a stodgy diet of bedroom suites,” had failed to grasp what might be done by handy people with a soul above mere fashion in the matter of furniture. They came back with a notebook bulging with measurements and heads seething with ideas. First, they dealt with the bedrooms, and made for each a set of long shelves and a dressing-table-cupboard—the latter a noble piece of furniture, which was merely a packing-case, smoothed, planed and fitted with shelves; the whole to be completed with a seemly petticoat when Tommy should be able to detach her mind from influenza patients. They made her, too, a little work-table, which was simply a wide, low shelf, at which she could write or sew—planned to catch a good light from her window, so that as she sat near it, she could see the line of willows that marked the creek and the rolling plains that ended in the ranges behind Billabong. Tommy's room was painted in pale green; and when they had stained all these exciting additions dark green, Bob heaved a great sigh, and yearned audibly for the swift recovery of the influenza patients, so that Tommy could return and behold her new possessions.

“We could make washstands,” said Mr. Linton, when they had fitted out the two remaining bedrooms. “But washstands are depressing things, and would take up a good deal of space in these little rooms. You have a good water supply, Bob; why not have built-in basins with taps, and lay on water through the bedrooms?”

Bob whistled.

“My aunt! Is that really possible?”

“Quite, I should say. It wouldn't take elaborate plumbing, and the pipes could discharge into an irrigation drain for your vegetable garden. It would save Tommy ever so much work in carrying water, too. There's a fearsome amount of water carried in and out of bedrooms, and I can't see why pipes shouldn't do the work. It need not cost you much—just a shelf across a corner, with an enamelled basin let in.”

“Save you buying jugs and basins,” said Wally. “Great money-saving idea!”

“Rather,” said Bob. “Is there anyone in Cunjee who can plumb?”

“Oh, yes; there's a handy man who can do the whole thing. We'll get Jim to go and see him tomorrow.”

They left this job to the handy man, who proved equal to all demands, and went on themselves to higher flights. Kitchen and pantry were already fitted with shelves, but they built in a dresser, and found a spare corner, where they erected a linen press warranted to bring tears of joy to the eye of any housewife. Round the little dining-room and sitting-room they ran a very narrow shelf, just wide enough to carry flowers and ornaments, and they made wide, low window seats in each room. Then, becoming bold by success, they turned to cabinet making, and built into the dining-room a sideboard, which was only a glorified edition of the kitchen dresser, but looked amazingly like walnut, aided by a little stain; and for both sitting-rooms made low cupboards, with tops wide enough to serve as little tables. Even the verandah was furnished with wide shelf tables and a cupboard, and with low and broad seats.

“And it's all done by kindness—and packing cases!” said Jim, surveying the result with admiration.

“Indeed, I'm afraid a lot of your father's good timber has gone into it,” said Bob half ruefully. “He was awfully good about it, and the supply of just-what-you-want timber on Billabong seemed inexhaustible.”

“No, you really used very little good stuff,” David Linton said. “It's chiefly packing cases, truly, Jim. But we had plenty of time to plane it up and make it look decent. Bob ran an electric light into the workshop and we worked every night. I believe it's kept us from getting influenza from sheer boredom, with all you people away.”

“They'll soon be home,” Jim said cheerfully. “Influenza's dying out, I believe. No fresh cases for three days, and all the patients are getting better. The little Andersons are up and about. By the way, Dad, couldn't we bring those kiddies out to Billabong for a change?”

“Why, of course,” his father answered. “Tell Mrs. Anderson to come too, or, if she won't leave her husband, Brownie will be delighted at the chance of getting two children to look after again. Are the cooks quite cheery, Jim?”

“As cheery as possible,” Jim answered. “They got off early to-day, and I took them and Sister and the Anderson youngsters out for a run. Did 'em all good. I'm coming home to-night, and they don't want me to-morrow, because they're going to afternoon tea with some one or other. Flighty young things, those cooks! So I can help you carpenters or do any odd jobs.”

“We've lots,” said Wally, who was putting a finishing coat of dark green enamel to a rod destined as a towel rail for Tommy's room. “Simple jobs, suitable for your understanding. Take care, Jimmy, I've a wet paint brush, and you have a good suit on! I want to put shelves from floor to ceiling of the bathroom, because the walls are rough and unlined, and nothing on earth will make it a beautiful room. So Tommy may as well store there all the things she doesn't want anywhere else. And you can make her a medicine cupboard. I shan't have time to look at any of you unskilled labourers, for I'm going to build her a draining-rack for plates and things over the kitchen sink. And I can tell you, that takes brains!”

“Then it's not your job!” said Jim definitely.

“Isn't it? I'll show you, you old Bond Street fashion plate!” Wally stretched his long form, simply attired in a khaki shirt and dungaree trousers, much be-splashed by paint, and looked scornfully at his neatly dressed friend. “You needn't think, because you come here dressed like the lilies of the field and fresh from motoring girls round the country, that—”

“My hat!” said Jim justly incensed. “And I after cleaning out and whitewashing the hospital fowl-houses all the morning! Young Wally, you need some one to sit on your head.” He took off his coat slowly.

“Ten to one,” said Wally hastily, “if we had time to look into the matter we'd find you'd whitewashed the fowls as well! These Army Johnnies are so beastly impractical!” He gathered up his brushes and fled, pursued by his chum. Sounds of warfare came faintly from the distance.

“It's a good thing some of us are sane,” said Mr. Linton laughing. “Nearly finished, Bob?”

He was painting a shelf-table, screwed to the wall within a space at the end of the verandah, which they had completely enclosed with wire mosquito netting. Bob was hanging the door of this open-air room in position, a task requiring judgment, as the floor of the verandah was old and uneven.

“Nearly, sir,” he mumbled, his utterance made difficult by the fact of having several screws in his mouth. He worked vigorously for a few moments, and then stood back to survey his job. “This is going to be a great little room—though it's hard just now to imagine that it will ever be warm enough for it.”

“Just you wait a few months until we get a touch of hot weather, and the mosquitoes come out!” said David Linton. “Then you and Tommy will thankfully entrench yourselves in here at dusk, and listen to the singing hordes dashing themselves against the netting in the effort to get at you!”

“That's the kind of thing they used to tell me on the Nauru,” Bob said laughing; “but I didn't quite expect it from you, Mr. Linton!”

The squatter chuckled.

“Well, indeed, it's no great exaggeration in some years,” he said. “They can be bad enough for anything, though it isn't always they are. But an open-air room is never amiss, for if there aren't mosquitoes a lamp will attract myriads of other insects on a hot night. That looks all right, Bob; you've managed that door very well.”

“First rate!” said Jim and Wally approvingly, returning arm in arm.

“You're great judges!” David Linton rejoined, looking at the pair. “Have you returned to work, may I ask, or are you still imitating the lilies of the field?”

“Jim is; he couldn't help it,” said Wally. “But I have been studying that oak tree out in the front, Mr. Linton. It seems to me that a seat built round it would be very comforting to weary bones on warm evenings—”

Bob gathered up his tools with decision in each movement.

“Wally has come to that state of mind in which he can't look at anything on the place without wanting to build something out of a packing case in it, or round it, or on top of it!” he said. “When the sheep come I'll have to keep you from them, or you'll be building shelves round them!”

“Why, you're nearly as bad yourself!” grinned Wally.

“I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop. I'm going to leave nice little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend up the pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed. And then I've got to think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across the flat, and generally earning my living.”

“Don't you worry,” said David Linton. “You couldn't have done much outside in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-furnished. And we'll help you through with the other things.”

“You're all just bricks,” said Bob, his fair skin flushing—“only I begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon. I can't always expect to have my work done for me.”

“You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else,” Jim said drily. “Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer. Just stop talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to say to her mansion.”

“Say?” queried Mr. Linton. “Why, she'll point out to us all the places where she wants shelves!”

“Shelves?” yelled the three as one man.

“Yes, certainly. There was never a woman born who had enough. Don't lose sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up shelves as long as you've an inch of wall to put them on. Come along, boys, and we'll go home.”





CHAPTER XIII

THE HOME ON THE CREEK

“I think it's the loveliest home that ever was!” said Tommy solemnly.

“Well, indeed, it takes some beating,” Wally agreed.

“Creek Cottage”—the name was of Tommy's choosing—was ready for occupation, and they had just finished a tour of it. There was nothing in it that was not fresh and bright and dainty—like Tommy herself. The rooms were small, but they had good windows, where the crisp, short curtains were not allowed to obscure the view. There were fresh mattings and linoleums on the floors, and the home-made furniture now boasted, where necessary, curtains of chintz or cretonne, that matched its colouring. Norah and Tommy had spent cheery hours over those draperies. The curtains for Tommy's “suite” had been Norah's gift—of dark-green linen, embroidered in dull blue silks; and in the corner there was a little sofa with cushions of the same. Tommy had purred—was, in fact, still purring—over that home-made furniture, and declared it superior to any that money could buy. She had also suggested new ideas for shelves.

They had not troubled furniture shops much. Save for a few comfortable arm-chairs, there was nothing solid and heavy in the house; but it was all pleasant and home-like, and the little rooms, bright with books and pictures and flowers, had about them the touch of welcome and restfulness that makes the difference between a home and a mere house. The kitchen was Tommy's especial pride—it was cool and spotless, with fresh-painted walls and ceilings, and shining white tiles round the white sink—over which Wally's draining-rack sat in glory. Dazzling tin-ware decorated the walls, and the dresser held fresh and pretty china. For weeks it had been a point of honour for no one to visit Cunjee without bringing Tommy a gift for the kitchen—meat fork, a set of skewers, a tin pepper castor; offerings wrapped in many coverings of tissue paper, and presented with great solemnity, generally at dinner. The last parcel had been from Mr. Linton, and had eclipsed all the others—an alarum clock, warranted to drive the soundest sleeper from her bed. Bob declared it specially designed to ensure his getting fed at something approaching a reasonable hour.

A wide verandah ran round the whole house, and rush lounges and deck chairs stood about invitingly—Tommy had insisted that there should be plenty of seating accommodation on the verandah for all the Linton party, since they filled the little rooms to an alarming extent. Near where they stood the drawing-room opened out by a French window. Something caught Tommy's eye, and she dived into the room—to return, laughing with new treasure-trove—a sink brush and saucepan-scrubber, tied up with blue ribbon.

“Your doing?” she asked, brandishing them.

“Not mine.” Wally shook his head. “I don't do frivolous things like that. But I heard Jim wheedling blue ribbon out of Norah this morning, and I don't fancy he has much use for it ordinarily. You'd better ask him.”

“It's like both of you—you nice stupids!” she said.

“What?—the pot-scrub! That's not polite of you, Miss Rainham; and so untrue, where I'm concerned.” Wally sat down on the arm of a lounge and regarded her with a twinkle. “What's old Bob doing?”

Tommy laughed happily.

“I think whenever we don't know where Bob is, he's safe to be out looking at either the sheep or the pigs,” she said. “He just loves them; and he says he can see them growing.”

There was a hint of Spring in the air, and more than a hint of good grass in the green paddocks stretching away from the house. By the creek the willows were putting out long, tender shoots that would soon be a thick curtain. The lucerne patch that stretched along its bank was dense and high. The Rainhams had been delayed in taking possession of Creek Cottage; a severe cold had smitten Tommy just at the end of her labours in the hospital, and, being thoroughly tired out, it had been some time before she could shake off its effects. Mr. Linton and Norah had put down their feet with joint firmness, declaring that in no circumstances should she begin housekeeping until she was thoroughly fit; so the Rainhams had remained at Billabong. Tommy was petted and nursed in a way she had not known since Aunt Margaret had died, while Bob worked feverishly at his farm, riding over every day from Billabong, with a package of Brownie's sandwiches in his pocket, and returning at dusk, dirty and happy. Bob was responding to Australian conditions delightfully, and was only discontented because he could not make his farm all that he wanted it to be within the first week.

Therein, however, he had unexpected help. The Cunjee district was a friendly one; station owners and farmers alike looked kindly on the young immigrant who turned so readily to work after four years' fighting. Moreover, Tommy's work in the hospital was well known; the general opinion being that “anything might be expected from young Norah Linton, but you wouldn't think a bit of a new-chum kid like Bob Rainham's sister would turn to and cook for a crowd, and she hardly off the ship!” So the district laid its heads together and consulted Mr. Linton; with the result that one morning Bob found himself unexpectedly accompanied to work by his host. It was nothing unusual for Jim or Wally, or both, to go with him. He was cutting a drain, which they declared to be a job for which they had a particular fancy. But to-day he found Monarch saddled with the other horses, and Mr. Linton, not only ready to start, but hurrying them off; and there was no lunch to carry, Norah airily declaring that since she and Tommy were to be deserted they declined to be downtrodden, and would motor over with a hamper and picnic at Creek Cottage. There was a mysterious twinkle in Norah's eye; Bob scented something afoot, and tried—in vain—to pump her on the matter. He rode away, his curiosity unsatisfied.

But when they rode up the homestead paddock at his farm, he gave a long whistle.

“What on earth—?” he began amazedly.

There were men in sight everywhere, and all working. Eight or nine ploughs were moving across the paddocks destined for cultivation; already wide strips of freshly turned earth showed that they had been some time at work. On the flat where Bob had begun his drain was a line of men, and some teams with earth-scoops, cutting a deep channel. There were even men digging in the garden; and the sound of axes came faintly from a belt of scrub that Bob was planning to clear—some day. He gaped at them.

“What does it mean?”

“It's a bee,” said Wally kindly. “A busy bee, improving each shining hour.”

Bob turned a puzzled, half-distressed face to Mr. Linton.

“I say, sir—what is it?”

“It's just that, my boy,” said David Linton. “The district had a fancy to help you—Cunjee thinks a heap of soldiers, you see. So a lot of the fellows got together and planned to put in a day on the creek, doing odd jobs.”

“I say,” said poor Bob flushing scarlet, “I never heard such a thing—and I hardly know any of them. Whatever am I to say to them, sir?”

“I wouldn't say much at all,” said David Linton laughing. “You'll only embarrass them if you do. Just take a hand in any job you like, and carry on—as we're all going to do.”

“There's one man you know, anyhow,” said Jim grinning. He pointed out old Joe Howard, the nearest to them among the ploughmen.

“Heavens!” ejaculated Bob. “You don't mean to tell me old Joe has come of his own accord!”

“Couldn't keep him away,” Jim said. “He remarked that you were a very decent young feller, and he'd taught you how to work, so he might as well lend an 'and. It's like old Joe's cheek, but he'll claim for ever that he made you a worker.”

“Oh, let him,” said Bob. “It doesn't hurt me, and it may amuse him.” His gaze travelled across the busy paddocks. “Well—I'm just staggered,” he said. “The least I can do is to get to work quickly.”

They turned the horses out and scattered; Bob to cutting scrub—it was the job he liked least, so it seemed to him the decent thing to tackle it—Jim to the drain construction, while Wally joined the band of workers in the garden, since he knew Tommy's plans concerning it; and Mr. Linton attacked a fence that needed repairs. In the middle of the morning came the Billabong motor, driven by Norah, with Brownie and a maid in the tonneau with Tommy, and hampers packed wherever possible. A cart with other supplies had been driven over by Evans in the very early morning, since Billabong had undertaken the feeding of the workers for the day. The Rolls-Royce picked its way delicately round the paddocks, while the girls carried drinks and huge slabs of cake to the different bands of workers—this being the time for “smoke-oh.” Then they hurried back to the cottage, where Brownie and Maria were busy unpacking hampers on the verandah, and Brownie was preparing to carve great joints of beef and mutton and pork in readiness for the hungry horde that would descend on them at dinner time.

It was all ready when the men trooped up from the paddocks—squatters and stockmen, farmers, horse breakers, bush workers of every degree; all dirty and cheery, and filled with a mighty hunger. Soap and water awaited them at the back; then they came round to sit on the edge of the long verandahs, balancing heaped plates on their knees, and making short work of Brownie's provisions. Jokes and cheery talk filled the air. Tommy, carrying plates shyly at first, found herself the object of much friendly interest. “Little Miss Immigrant,” they called her, and vied with each other in making her feel that they were all welcoming her. But they did not waste much time over dinner—soon one after another got up and sauntered away, lighting his pipe, and presently there were straggling lines of figures going back to work across the paddocks. After which Norah and Tommy bullied Bob into eating something—he had been far too anxious to wait on his hungry “bee” to think of feeding himself, and then the ladies of the party lunched with the ardour of the long-delayed, and fell upon the colossal business of dish-washing.

Afternoon tea came early, by which time nearly all the ploughing was done, and the brown ribbon of the new drain stretched, wide and deep, across the flat. The girls took the meal round the paddocks, this time with Bob to carry the steaming billies of tea; it gave him a chance to thank his helpers, when it was difficult to say whether the thanker or the thanked were the more embarrassed. Soon after “cow time” loomed for some of the workers, and whatever waits in Australia, it must not be the cow; so that here and there a man shouldered his tools, and, leaving them at the shed, caught his horse and rode away—apologizing to Bob, if he happened to meet him, for going so early, with the brief apology of the dairy farmer, “Gotter get home an' milk.” But the majority worked on until dusk came down and put an end to their efforts, and then came up for their horses, singing and laughing.

Bob stood at the gate, bareheaded, as they rode away. By this time he had no words at all. He wished from the bottom of his heart that he could tell them what good fellows he thought them; but he could only stand, holding the gate for them with Tommy by his side; and it may be that the look on each tired young face moved “the bee” more than eloquence would have done. They shouted cheery good-byes as they went. “Good luck, Miss Immigrant! Good luck, Captain!” And the dusk swallowed them up, leaving only the sound of the cantering hoofs.

Thanks to “the bee,” the little farm on the creek looked very flourishing on the great day when the lady of the house came down in state to take possession of her domain. Bob had worked hard in the garden, where already rows of vegetables showed well; Jim and Wally had aided Norah and Tommy in the making of a flower garden, laying heavy toll on Hogg's stores for the purpose; to-day it was golden and white with daffodils and narcissi and snowdrops. The cultivation paddocks, no longer brown, rippled with green oats; and cattle were grazing on the rough grass of the flats, once a swamp, but already showing the influence of the big drain. Bob had great plans for ploughing all his flats next year. Dairy cows pastured in the creek paddock near the house; beyond, Bob's beloved sheep were steadily engrossed in the fascinating pursuit of “turning into wool and mutton.” He never grew tired of watching the process.

The ever-present problem of labour, too, had solved itself pleasantly enough. Sarah, for many years housemaid at Billabong, had married a man on a farm near Cunjee, whose first attempt at renting a place for himself had been brought to an untimely end by the drought; and Sarah had returned to Billabong, to help in preparing for the home-coming of the long-absent family, while her husband secured a temporary job in Cunjee and looked about for another chance. There Jim had found him, while helping at the hospital; the end of the matter being that Sarah and Bill and their baby were installed at Creek Cottage, Bill to be general utility man on the farm, and to have a share of profits, while Sarah helped Tommy in the house. Every one was satisfied, and already there were indications that Tommy would be daft over the baby.

Sarah came out now to say that tea was ready—she had insisted on being responsible for everything on this first day. Not that there was much to do, for Brownie had sent over a colossal hamper, declaring that Miss Tommy shouldn't be bothered with thinking about food when she wasn't 'ardly settled. So they packed into the little dining-room; where, indeed, it took no small ingenuity to stow so large a party, when three of the six happened to be of the size of David Linton and Jim and Wally; and Tommy did the honours of her own table for the first time.

“And to think,” she said presently, “that six months ago there was only Lancaster Gate! Of course, there was always Bob”—she flashed him a quick smile—“but Bob was—”

“In the air,” put in Norah.

“Very much so. And it didn't seem a bit certain that I could ever get him out of it; or, if I did, that I could ever escape from Lancaster Gate.”

“And you wouldn't, if the she-dragon had had her way,” Bob said.

“No. There was nothing to do but run. But even when I dreamed of running, I never thought of more than a workman's cottage, with you earning wages and me trying to make both ends meet. And now—look at us! Bloated capitalists and station owners.”

“Well, you were a cook not so long ago. I wouldn't be too proud,” Wally gibed.

“All the more reason for me to be proud—I've risen in the world,” declared Tommy. “Left my situation to better myself—isn't that the right way to put it? And we've got the jolliest home in Australia—thanks to all of you. Do have some more cake, Mr. Linton; I'd love to say I made it myself, but Brownie did—still, all the same, it's mine.”

“Don't you worry,” he told her. “I'm coming here plenty of times for cake of your own baking.”

“That's what I want.” She beamed at him. “All of you. Bob and I will feel lost and lonesome if we don't see you all—oh, often.”

“But you're going to,” Norah said. “We'll be over goodness knows how many times a week, and you two are always coming to dinner on Sunday, and ever so many other days as well.”

“Was it in your plans that any work should be done on this estate?” queried Bob solemnly.

“Why, yes, in your spare time,” Wally answered. “Any time you're not on the road between here and Billabong, or catching a horse to go there, or letting one go after coming back, or minding the Billabong horde when it comes over, you can do a little towards improving the creek. I say, Bob, it sounds the sort of life I'd love. Can't you give me a job, old man?”

“Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you came back from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for a job,” retorted Bob. “However, I'll take you on as milker if you like—it's about the only thing you haven't sampled.”

“No,” said Wally, “you won't. Whatever beast I finally take to by way of earning my living, it won't be the cow—if I can help it. I'd sooner graze giraffes!”

“Oh, do try!” Norah begged. “I'd love to see you trying to put a bridle on one in a hurry!”

“Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?” pondered Jim.

“You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns,” Wally said. “But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I think they'd be very restful to deal with.”

Every one laughed unsympathetically. Restfulness was the last quality to be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable throughout his life for total inability to keep still.

“It's always the way,” said Wally, in tones of melancholy. “Every fortune teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me.”

“All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them so clever,” said Tommy. “It's so soothing to think one is misunderstood. My stepmother always thought so. Did Bob tell you, Mr. Linton, that we had had letters from home?”

“No—from your people?”

“From Papa. The she-dragon didn't write. I think her words would have been too burning to put on paper. But Papa wrote a pretty decent letter—for him. He didn't speak of our letters from Liverpool—the notes we wrote from the hotel, saying we were leaving for Australia. But he acknowledged Bob's letter from Melbourne, saying we were going up country under your wing, and actually wished us luck! Amazing, from Papa!”

“I think he's jolly glad we got away,” Bob said.

“I think that's highly probable,” said David Linton. “You'll write to him occasionally, won't you?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Bob answered. “Sometimes I'm a bit sorry for him; it must be pretty awful to be always under the heel of a she-dragon. Oh, and there was a really fatherly sort of letter from old Mr. Clinton. He's an old brick; and he's quite pleased about our finding you—or you finding us. He was always a bit worried lest Tommy should feel lonesome in Australia.”

“And not you?” Norah asked laughing.

“No, he didn't worry a bit about me; he merely hoped I'd be working too hard to notice lonesomeness. I think the old chap always was a bit doubtful that any fellow would get down to solid work after flying; he used to say the two things wouldn't agree. But you sent him a decent report of me, didn't you, sir?”

“Oh, yes—I wrote when you asked me, just after you bought this place,” David Linton said. “Told him you were working like a cart-horse, which was no more than the truth, and that Tommy was serving her adopted country as a cook; and that I considered your prospects good. He'll have had that letter before now—and I suppose others from you.”

“We wrote a few weeks ago—sent him a photograph of the house, and of Tommy on a horse, and Tommy told him all about our furniture,” Bob chuckled. “I don't quite know how a staid old London lawyer will regard the furniture; he won't understand its beauty a bit. But he ought to be impressed with our stern regard for economy.”

“He should,” said Mr. Linton with a twinkle. “And I presume you mentioned the sheep?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Tommy confidentially, “his letter was little but mutton. He described all his ewes in detail—”

“Colour of their eyes?” queried Wally.

“And their hair,” nodded Tommy. “I never read anything so poetical. And any enthusiasm he had over went to the pigs and the Kelpie pup!”

“But what about the cows?” laughed Norah. “And the young bullocks?”

“Oh, he mentioned them. But cattle are just four-legged animals to Bob; they don't stir his soul like sheep and pigs. He couldn't write beautiful things about them. But when it comes to sheep, he just naturally turns into a poet!”

The object of these remarks helped himself serenely to cake.

“Go on,” he nodded at his sister cheerfully. “Wait until my wool cheque comes in, and you want a new frock—then you'll speak respectfully of my little merinoes. And if you don't, you won't get the frock!”

“Why, I wouldn't disrespect them for anything,” Tommy said. “I think they're lovely beasts. So graceful and agile. Will any of them come yet when you whistle, Bobby?”

“Are you going to put up with this sort of thing, Bob?” demanded Jim.

Bob smiled sweetly.

“I'm letting her have her head,” he said confidently. “It's badly swelled just now, because she's got a house of her own—but you wait until she wants a new set of shelves, or a horse caught in a hurry so that she can tear over and find out from Norah how to cook something—then she'll come to heel. It's something in your climate, I think, because she was never so cheeky at home—meek was more the word to describe her.”

“Meek!” said his sister indignantly. “Indeed, I never was meek in my life!”

“Indeed you were, and it was very becoming,” Bob assured her. “Now you're more like a suffragette—” He stopped, staring. “Why, that's it! It must be in the air! She knows she'll have the vote pretty soon!” He broke into laughter. “Glory! Fancy little Tommy with a vote!”

Tommy joined in the general mirth.

“I hadn't realized it,” she said, “and I needn't bother for over eighteen months, anyhow. And I don't believe that any of you have ever voted, even if you are twenty-one—except Mr. Linton, of course; and you don't know a bit more about it than I do.”

“Hear, hear!” said Wally. “I certainly don't, and neither does Jim. But when we do vote, it's going to be for the chap who'll let us go and dig our own coal out if there's a strike. That's sense; and it seems to me the only sensible thing I've ever heard of in politics!” A speech which manifested so unusual an amount of reflection in Wally that every one was spellbound, and professed inability to eat any more.

Bob and Tommy stood on the verandah to watch their visitors go; Mr. Linton and Norah in the motor, while Jim and Wally rode. The merry shouts of farewell echoed through the gathering dusk.

“Bless them,” said Tommy—“the dears. I don't believe we'd have a home now but for them, Bob.”

“We certainly wouldn't,” Bob answered. “And sometimes I feel as if they'd spoon-fed us. Look at all they've done for us—these months at Billabong and all they've taught us, and all the things that they've showered on us. We couldn't pay them back in twenty years.”

“And they talk as if the favour were on their side,” his sister said. “There's the buggy they've lent us—Mr. Linton spent quite a long time in pointing out to me how desirable it was for them that we should use it, now that they have the car and don't need it. And the horses that apparently would have gone to rack and ruin from idleness if we hadn't come.”

“And the cows that don't seem to have had any reason for existence except to supply us with milk,” Bob said laughing; “and the farm machinery that never was really appreciated until immigrants came along—at least, you'd think so to hear Jim talk, only its condition belies him. Oh, they're bricks, all right. Only I don't seem as if I were standing squarely on my own feet.”

“I don't think we could expect to, just yet,” said Tommy pondering. “And if they have helped us, Bobby, you can see they have loved doing it. It would be ungracious for us not to take such help—given as it has been.”

“Yes, of course,” Bob answered and squared his shoulders. “Well, I'm going to work like fury. The only thing I can do now is not to disappoint them. I feel an awful new-chum, Tommy, but I've got to make good.”

“Why, of course you're going to,” she said, slipping a hand through his arm. “Jim wouldn't let you make mistakes; and the land is good, and even if we strike a bad season, there's always the creek—we'll never be without water, Jim says. And we're going to have the jolliest home—it's that now, and we're going to make it better.”

“It's certainly that now,” Bob said. “I just can't believe it's ours. Come and prowl round, old girl.”

They prowled round in the dusk; up and down the garden paths by the nodding daffodils, out round the sheds and the pigsties, and so down to where the creek rippled and murmured in the gloom, flowing through paddocks that, on either side, were their own. Memories of war and of gloomy London fell away from them; only the bright present and a future yet more bright filled them; and there was no loneliness, since all the big new country had smiled to them and stretched out hands of friendliness. They came back slowly to their house, arm in arm; two young things, like shadows in the gloom, but certain in their own minds that they could conquer Australia.

Bob lit the hanging lamp in the little sitting-room, and looked round him proudly. A photograph caught his eye; a large group at his Surrey Aerodrome, young officers clustered round a bi-plane that had just landed.

“Poor chaps,” he said, and stared at them. “Most of 'em don't know yet that there's anything better in the world than flying.”

“But they've never met merino sheep,” said Tommy solemnly.





CHAPTER XIV

THE CUNJEE RACES

“Who's going to the races?” demanded Jim.

He had ridden over to the creek alone, and Tommy had come to the garden gate to greet him, since the young horse he was riding firmly declined to be tied up. It was a very hot morning in Christmas week. Tommy was in a blue print overall, and her face was flushed, her hair lying in little damp rings on her forehead. Jim, provokingly cool in riding breeches and white silk shirt, smiled down at her across the gate.

“Races!” said Tommy. “But what frivolity. Why, I'm bottling apricots.”

“No wonder you look warm, you poor little soul,” said Jim. “You oughtn't to choose a scorcher like this for bottling. Anyhow, the races aren't to-day, but New Year's day—Cunjee Picnic meeting. We're all going, so you and Bob have got to come. Orders from Norah.”

“Oh, New Year's day. I'd love to come,” Tommy said. “I've never seen races.”

“Never seen races!” ejaculated young Australia in sheer amazement. “Where were you dragged up?” They laughed at each other.

“Aunt Margaret wasn't what you'd call a racing woman,” Tommy said. “I don't fancy Bob has seen any, either. Bill and Sarah, to say nothing of the baby, are going. I offered to mind the baby, but Sarah didn't seem to think the picnic would be complete without her.”

“People have queer tastes,” Jim said. “I wouldn't choose a long day at races as the ideal thing for a baby; but Sarah seems to think differently. Wonder what Bill thinks? Still, I'm glad she didn't take you at your word, because we'd have had to dispose of the baby somewhere if she had. I suppose we could put it under the seat of the car!”

“Oh, do you?” Tommy regarded him with a glint in her eye. “No; we'd have made you nurse her—she isn't 'it.' She's the nicest baby ever, and I won't have her insulted.”

“Bless you, I wouldn't insult the baby for worlds,” grinned Jim. “I'll look forward to meeting her at the races—especially as you won't be minding her. Then it's settled, is it, Tommy? We thought of riding; will it be too far for you?”

“Not a bit,” Tommy said. “Bob and I rode in and out of Cunjee the other day, and I wasn't tired—and it was dreadfully hot.”

“Then you'll be all right on New Year's day, because the racecourse is two miles this side of the township,” Jim said. “But Norah said I was to tell you some of us could easily go in the car if you'd rather drive.”

“Oh, no, thanks; I know you always ride, and I should love it,” Tommy answered. “Is Mr. Linton going?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed, as far as I can tell, the whole station's going,” Jim said. “All except Brownie, of course; she scorns races. She says she can't imagine why anyone should make anything run fast in the 'eat if they don't want to.”

“Does Brownie ever leave Billabong?”

“Hardly ever,” Jim answered, laughing—“and it's getting more and more difficult to make her. I think in a year or two it will need a charge of dynamite. Oh, but, Tommy, we got her out in the car the other evening—had to do it almost by main force. It was a hot evening, and we took her for a spin along the road. She trembled like a jelly when we started, and all the time she gripped the side with one hand and Norah's knee with the other—quite unconsciously.”

“Do you think she enjoyed it at all?” Tommy smiled.

“No, I'm jolly well sure she didn't,” Jim responded. “Brownie's much too well mannered to criticize anyone else's property, but when she got out she merely said, 'You have great courage, my dear.' And wild horses wouldn't get her into it again, unless we promised to 'make it walk,' like we did the day we brought her over to help at your working bee. The funny part of it is that Norah believes she was just as frightened that morning, only she had a job on, and so was too busy to think of it. But as for going in a car for mere pleasure—not for Brownie!”

“Brownie's a dear,” said Tommy irrelevantly. “Jim, can't you put that fierce animal in the stable or the horse paddock, or somewhere, and come in for some tea? I simply must get back to my apricots.”

“And I've certainly no business to be keeping you standing here in the heat,” Jim said. “No, I can't stay, thanks, Tommy—I promised dad I'd meet him at the Far Plain gate at eleven o'clock, and it's nearly that now. You run in to your apricots, and don't kill your little self over them; it's no day for cooking if you can avoid it.”

“Oh, but I couldn't,” Tommy answered. “They were just right for bottling; the sun to-day would have made them a bit too soft. And it's better to get them done; to-morrow may be just as hot, or hotter.”

“That's true enough,” Jim said. “Feeling the heat much, little Miss Immigrant?”

“Oh, not enough to grumble at,” she answered, smiling. “And the bathing-hole in the creek is a joy; it's almost worth a hot day to get a swim at the end of it. Bob has built me a bathing-box out of a tree, and it's a huge success; he's very pleased with himself as an architect.”

“That's good business,” approved Jim. “You two never grumble, no matter what comes along.”

“Well, but nothing has come along but good luck,” Tommy said. “What have we had to grumble at, I should like to know?”

“Oh, some people find cause for grousing, no matter how good their luck is,” Jim answered. “I believe you and old Bob would decline to recognize bad luck even if it did come your way.”

“It's not coming,” Tommy said, laughing. “So don't talk about it—I don't believe it exists.” She stood watching him for a moment as he tried to mount; his big young thoroughbred resented the idea of anyone on his back, and Jim had to hop beside him, with one foot in the stirrup, while he danced round in a circle, trying to get away. Jim seized an opportunity, and was in the saddle with a lithe swing; whereupon the horse tried to get his head down to buck, and, being checked in that ambition, progressed down the paddock in a succession of short, staccato bounds.

“I think I should have to recognize bad luck coming if I had to ride him instead of Jim,” remarked Tommy quaintly. She turned and ran in to her neglected apricots.

New Year's day broke clear and hot, like all the week before it. Norah, arriving at the Creek about ten o'clock, looked a little anxiously at her friend.

“We're used to riding in the heat, Tommy, dear,” she said. “But you're not—are you sure you feel up to it?”

“Why, I'm going to love it,” Tommy said. She looked cool and workman-like in a linen habit and white pith helmet—Norah's Christmas present. “I hadn't these nice things to wear when Bob and I brought the sheep out from Cunjee three weeks ago; and it was just as hot, and so dusty. And that didn't kill me. I liked it, only I never got so dirty in my life.”

“Well, we shall only have a hot ride one way,” said Norah philosophically. “There's a concert in Cunjee, and the boys want to stay for it. The concert won't be much, but the ride home in the moonlight will be lovely. You and Bob can stay, of course?”

“Oh, yes. Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so he will milk the cows,” Tommy answered. “He wanted them to stay for the concert, but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense, and said it was no place for a baby. I didn't think she considered any place unfit for a baby, and certainly Bill doesn't.”

“Bush people don't,” said Norah, laughing. “If they did, they would never go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter what happens. And the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry nearly as much as pampered ones that are always in the nursery.”

“Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early,” said Wally's voice from the door. “It leaves them in later life, and they stay gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says—” But at this point Norah and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the horses—finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.

Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.

“They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago,” he said. “Now look at them—why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of moisture out of them.”

“Don't let that worry you, my boy,” David Linton said. “The stock are doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time of the year they won't ask you for green grass.” He gave a low chuckle. “You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the drought years—why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your hand. Now you've grass, as you say yourself, like a crop.” He looked at it critically. “I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an anxiety later on.”

“Grass fires?” queried Bob.

“Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any fool swagman drops a match carelessly. However, you'll just have to keep your eyes open. Luckily, your creek can't burn—you'll always have so much safeguard, because your stock could take to it; and that row of willows along the bank would check any grass fire.”

“My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this year!” said Wally.

“Yes, it would certainly travel,” agreed Mr. Linton. “Well, we've ploughed fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only hope for good luck. You'd better burn a break round your house soon, Bob.”

“Bill was saying so only this morning,” Bob answered. “I nearly chucked the races and stayed at home to do it—only I was afraid it might get away from me single-handed, and I couldn't very well keep Bill at home.”

“Oh, time enough,” the squatter said lightly. “You're not so dry as we are, and we only burned last week.”

“We'll come over and help you to-morrow, if you like,” Jim said. “Wally wants work; he's getting too fat. A little gentle exercise with a racing fire on a hot day would be the very thing for him. We'll come and burn off with you, and then have a bathing party in the creek, and then you and Tommy must come back to tea with us.” Which was a sample of the way much of the work was done on the Creek Farm. It had never occurred to the two Rainhams that life in Australia was lonely.

The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one race day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted along it, light buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the universal two-wheeled jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers and their families. Wives, a little red-faced and anxious, resplendent in their Sunday finery, kept a watchful eye on small boys and girls; the boys in thick suits, the girls with white frocks, their well-crimped hair bearing evidence of intense plaiting overnight. Hampers peeped from under the seats, and in most cases a baby completed the outfit. Now and then a motor whizzed by, leaving a long trail of dust-cloud in its wake, and earning hearty remarks from every slower wayfarer. There were riders everywhere, men and women—most of the latter with riding-skirts slipped on over light dresses that would do duty that night at the concert and the dance that was to follow. Sometimes a motor-cycle chugged along, always with a girl perched on the carrier at the back, clinging affectionately to her escort. As Cunjee drew nearer and the farms closer together the crowd on the road increased, and the dust mounted in a solid cloud.

The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the fence, cantering over the short, dusty grass. It was with a sigh of relief that Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which buggies and horsemen were making their way.

“There's the racecourse,” he said.

“Racecourse!” Tommy ejaculated. “But it just looks like an ordinary paddock.”

“That's all it is,” said Jim, laughing. “You didn't expect a grand-stand and a lawn, did you? Cunjee is very proud of itself for having a turf club at all, and nobody minds anything as long as they get an occasional glimpse of the horses.”

“But where do they run?”

“Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees. There's some talk of clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee. But they won't worry if it doesn't get done—every one will come and have a picnic just the same. You see, there are only two days in the year when a bush place can really let itself go—Show day and Race day. Show day is more serious and business-like, but Race day is a really light-hearted affair, and the horses don't matter to most of the people.”

They turned into a gate where two men were busily collecting shillings and keeping a wary eye lest foot passengers should dodge in through the fence without paying. There were no buildings at all in the bush paddock in which they found themselves. It lay before them, flat, save for a rise towards the southern boundary, where already the crowd was thickening, and sparsely timbered. As they cantered across it they came to a rough track, marked out more or less effectively by pink calico flags nailed to the trees.

“That's the racing track,” Wally said. “Let's ride round it, and we'll have a faint idea of what the horses are doing later on.”

They turned along the track, where the grass had been worn by horses training for the races during the few weeks preceding the great day. The trees had been cleared from it, so that it was good going. In shape it was roughly circular, with an occasional dint or bulge where a big red gum had been too tough a proposition to clear, and the track had had to swing aside to avoid it—a practice which must, as Jim remarked, make interesting moments in riding a race, if the field were larger than usual and the pace at all hot. Presently they emerged from the timber and came into the straight run that marked the finish—running along the foot of the southern rise, so that, whatever happened in the mysterious moments in the earlier parts of a race, the end was within full view of the crowd. The winning-post was a sawed-off sapling, painted half-black and half-white; opposite to it was the judge's box, a huge log which made a natural grand-stand, capable of accommodating the racing committee as well. Behind, a rough wire fence enclosed a small space known as the saddling paddock. The crowd picked out its own accommodation—it was necessary to come early if you wanted a good place on the rise. Already it was dotted with picnic parties, preparing luncheon, and a procession of men and boys, bearing teapots and billies, came and went about a huge copper, steaming over a fire, where the racing club dispensed hot water free of charge, a generosity chiefly intended to prevent the casual lighting of fires by the picnickers. All over the paddock people were hastening through the business of the midday meal; the men anxious to get it over before the real excitement of the day began with the racing, the women equally keen to feed their hungry belongings and then settle down to a comfortable gossip with friends perhaps only seen once or twice in the twelve months. Children tore about wildly, got in the way of buggies and motors, climbed trees and clustered thickly round any horse suspected of taking part in the racing. More than one candidate for a race appeared on the course drawing a jinker; and, being released from the shafts, was being vigorously groomed by his shirt-sleeved owner.

“There's an awful lot to see!” ejaculated Tommy, gazing about her.

“That is if you've eyes,” Jim said. “But most of it can be seen on foot, so I vote Wally and Bob and I take the horses and tie them up while there's still a decent patch of shade left for them to stand in—every tree in the paddock will have horses tied to it before long. Do you know where Evans was to leave the buggy, Dad?”

“Yes—it's under a tree over there,” said his father, nodding towards a bushy clump of wattles. “I told him to pick out a good shady place for lunch. We'll go on and get ready, boys. I'll take the teapot for hot water.”

“Not you!” said Jim. “We'll be back in a few minutes and can easily get it. Just help the girls with the things, Dad, and we'll get lunch over; I'm as hungry as a hawk.”

“I'm not hungry,” said Norah. “But I want, oh! gallons of tea.”

Tea seemed the main requirement of everybody. It was almost too hot to eat, even in the deep shade of the wattles. The boys, taught by the war to feed wherever and whenever possible, did some justice to Brownie's hamper; but Mr. Linton soon drew aside and lit his pipe at a little distance, while Tommy and Norah nibbled tomato and lettuce sandwiches, kept fresh and cool by being packed in huge nasturtium leaves, and drank many cups of tea. Then they lay under the trees until a bell, ringing from the saddling paddock, hinted that the first race was at hand. There was a surge of people towards the rise.

“Come on,” Jim said, jumping up. “Help me to stow these things in the buggy, Wally—we'll want most of them for afternoon tea later on. Then we might as well go and see the fun. You girls rested?”

They were, they declared; and presently they set off towards the rise. Already the horses were appearing on the track, most of the jockeys wearing silk jackets and caps, although a few were content with doffing coat and waistcoat, and riding in blue and pink shirts—occasionally, but not always, complete with collar and tie. The horses were a mixed lot; some bore traces of birth and breeding, but the majority were just grass-fed horses from the neighbouring farms and stations, groomed and polished in a way that only happened to them once a year. The well-bred performers were handicapped with heavy weights, while the others had been let off lightly, so that all had a chance.

“Billabong has a horse running to-day—did you know?” Jim inquired.

“No!” Tommy looked up, dimpling with interest. “But how exciting, Jim. Is it yours?”

“No.” Jim shook his head. “I won't enter a horse if I can't ride him myself, and of course I'm too heavy. He belongs to the station, but he's always looked upon as Murty's, and black Billy's going to ride him. He's in the Hurdle Race.”

“Do you think he has any chance?”

“Well, he can gallop and jump all right,” Jim said. “But he hasn't had much training, and whether he'll jump in company is open to doubt. But I don't think he'll disgrace us. You've seen Murty riding him—a big chestnut with a white blaze.”

“Oh, yes—he calls him Shannon, doesn't he?” said Tommy. “I saw him jump three fences on him last time we were out mustering with your people. He's a beauty, Jim.”

“Yes, he's pretty good. Murty thinks he's better than Garryowen, but I don't,” Jim observed.

“If the Archangel Gabriel turned into a horse you wouldn't think he was up to Garryowen!” said Wally.

“No, and he probably wouldn't be,” said Jim, laughing. “If you begin life as an archangel, how would you settle down to being a horse after?”

“I suppose it needs practice,” Wally admitted. “Look out—here they come!”

The horses were coming down the straight in their preliminary canter, and the crowd abandoned the business of picnicking and turned its attention to the first race. The riders, mostly local boys, looked desperately serious, and, as they pulled up after their canter, and turning, trotted slowly back past the rise, shouts of warning and encouragement and instruction came to them—from the owners of their mounts—which had the effect of making the boys look yet more unhappy. A bookmaker, the sole representative of his profession, yelled steadily from under a lightwood tree; those who were venturesome enough to do business with him were warned solemnly by more experienced men to keep a sharp look-out that he did not get away with their money before the end of the day.

“That happened in Cunjee some years ago,” said Mr. Linton. “A bookmaker appeared from goodness knows where, and struck a very solid patch of bad luck. All the district seemed to know how to pick winners that day, and he lost solidly on every race. He plunged a bit on the fourth race, hoping to get his money back; but that was worse still, and when he saw the favourite winning, he knew he had no hope of settling up. So he quietly collected his horse, which he had tied up in a convenient place, in case it was wanted in a hurry, and made tracks before the race finished.”

“What happened to him?” asked Bob.

Mr. Linton chuckled.

“Well, he added considerably to the excitement of the day. Some one saw him going, and passed the word round, and every man to whom he owed money—and they were many—ran for his horse and went after him. He had a good start, and no one knew what road he would take, so it was quite a cheery hunt. I think it was Dave Boone who tracked him at last, and he paused at a cross-roads, and coo-eed steadily until he had a number of followers. Then they set sail after the poor bookie, and caught him about seven or eight miles away. They found he had practically no money—not nearly enough to divide up; so they took what he had and presented it to the Cunjee Hospital, and finished up the day happily by tarring and feathering the bookie, and riding him on a fence rail round Cunjee that night!”

“What do your police do in a case like that?” Bob asked.

“Well, there's only one policeman in Cunjee, and, being a wise man, he went to the concert, and probably enjoyed himself very much,” said Mr. Linton, laughing.

“And what happened to the bookie?”

“Just what you might expect—the boys got sorry for him, made a collection for him, bought him some cheap clothes—I believe they didn't err on the side of beauty!—and shipped him off to Melbourne by the first train in the morning. I don't think he'll try his artful dodges on this section of the bush again; and it has made all the boys very watchful about betting, so it wasn't a bad thing, on the whole. They think they know all about the ways of the world now. Look, Tommy—the horses are off! Watch through the trees, and you'll get a glimpse presently.”

The gay jackets flashed into view in a gap in the timber, and then were lost again. Soon they came in sight once more and rounded the last curve into the straight, amid shouts from the crowd. They came up the straight, most of the jockeys flogging desperately, while everyone rushed to get as near the winning-post as possible. Hats were flung in the air and yells rose joyfully, as a Cunjee boy, riding a desperate finish, got his horse's nose in front in the last couple of lengths and won cleverly.

“She's excited!” said Wally, looking down at Tommy's flushed face.

“I should think so,” said Tommy. “Why, it was dreadfully exciting. I'd love to have been riding myself.” At which everyone laughed extremely, and a tall young stockman from a neighbouring station, overhearing, was so impressed that he hovered as near as possible to Tommy for the rest of the day.

The next event was the Hurdle Race, and interest for the Linton party centred in the candidate described on the race-card as Mr. M. O'Toole's Shannon. Nothing further could be done for Shannon—he was groomed until the last hair on his tail gleamed; but black Billy, resplendent in a bright green jacket and cap, the latter bearing an embroidered white shamrock, became the object of advice and warning from every man from Billabong, until anyone except Billy would probably have turned in wrath upon the multitude of his counsellors. Billy, however, had one refuge denied to most of his white brothers. He hardly ever spoke; and if some reply was absolutely forced upon him, he merely murmured “Plenty!” in a vague way, which, as Wally said, left you guessing as to his meaning.

“Yerra, lave off badgerin' the boy,” said Murty at last, brushing aside Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan, and the other Billabong enthusiasts. “If he listens to the lot of ye anny longer he won't know whether he's ridin' a horse or an airyplane. There's only wan insthruction to be kapin' in your head, Billy—get to the front an' stay there. Ridin' a waitin' race is all very well on the flat, but whin it comes to jumpin', anything that's in front of ye is apt to turn a somersault an' bring ye down in a heap.”

“Plenty!” agreed Billy; and lit a cigarette.

“Shannon don't like anny other horse in front of him at all,” went on Murty. “He's that full of pride he never tuk kindly to bein' behind, not since he was bruk in. He'll gallop like a machine an' lep like a deer if he gets his head.”

“I don't b'lieve you've much show, anyhow,” Dave Boone said. “There's that horse from the hotel at Mulgoa—Blazer, they call him. He's done no end of racin', and won, too.”

“Well, an' if he has, hasn't he the great weight itself to be carryin'?” demanded Murty.

“Why, he's top weight, of course; but you're carryin' ever so much over weight,” responded Mr. Boone. “If you'd put up a boy instead of Billy, you could be pounds lighter.”

“Ah, git away with your advisin',” replied Murty. “Billy knows the horse—an' where'd a shlip of a boy be if Shannon cleared out with him? I'd rather carry too much weight, an' know I'd put a man up as could hold the horse.” His anxious eye fell on the girls. “Miss Norah and Miss Tommy!—come here an' wish him luck without offerin' me any advice, or I'll lose me life over the ould race! They have desthroyed me with all the things they're afther tellin' me to do.”

“We won't tell you a thing, Murty—except that he's looking splendid,” Norah said, stroking Shannon's nose, to which the horse responded by nuzzling round her pocket in search of an apple. “No, I can't give you one, old man—I wouldn't dare. But you shall have one after the race, whether you win or not, can't he, Murty?”

“He can so,” said Murty. “Wance he's gone round that thrack he can live on the fat of the land—an' Billy, too. It's a dale aisier to get the condition off a horse than off Billy. No man on this earth 'ud make a black fellow see why he shouldn't have a good blow-out whenever it came his way. Only that Providence made him skinny by nature, he'd be fat as a porpoise this day. I've been watchin' over his meals like a mother with a delicate baby these three weeks back; but what hope 'ud I have with Christmas comin' in the way? He got away on me at Christmas dinner, an' what he didn't ate in the way of turkey an puddin' wouldn't be worth mentioning—an' him booked to ride to-day! 'Plenty' always did be his motter, an' he lives up to it. So he's pounds overweight, an' no help for it.”

“Never mind, Murty,” Jim said. “He knows the horse, and Shannon's able to stand a few pounds extra. He'll give us a good run.”

“I believe ye, Masther Jim,” said Murty, beaming. “He'll not disgrace us, an' if he don't win itself, then he'll not be far behind. There you are, Billy—that's the bell for weighin'. Hurry up now, and get over to the scales.”

The black boy's lean figure, saddle and bridle on arm, threaded its way through the crowd round the weighing enclosure—a little space fenced off by barbed wire. Presently they saw him coming back grinning.

“That pfeller sayin' I plenty too much pounds,” he said in an unusual burst of eloquence.

“Ah, don't be rubbin' it in—don't I know it?” quoth Murty, taking the saddle and slipping it deftly on Shannon's back. “I dunno, did he think he was givin' me a pleasant surprise with the information by way of a New Year's gift. Does he think we've never a scales on Billabong, did ye ask him? There now, he's ready. Get on him, Billy, an' shove out into the track for a canter. I'll get nothing but chat from every one as long as you're here. Take him for a look at some of the hurdles, the way he'll know all about them when he comes to jump.” He stood with a frown on his good-humoured face as Shannon and his rider made off.

Norah laid a hand on his arm.

“There's not a horse on the course better turned out, Murty,” she said. “No one can say the Billabong representative doesn't look fit.”

Murty turned on her, beaming again.

“Well, indeed, he'll not be doin' the station any discredit, Miss Norah,” he said happily, “an' if he don't win, well, we can't all be winnin', can we? Only we did win a race last year, whin none of ye were here to be watchin' us an' make it worth while. I'd like to score to-day, now that ye're all here to see—an' Miss Tommy too, that's never seen racin'.” He smiled down at the English girl's pink face.

“I'm going to see you win to-day, Murty—I feel it in my bones,” said Tommy promptly. “I've always loved Shannon, ever since I saw you jump those big fences with him when we put up the hare out mustering.”

“Yerra, that one'd make a steeplechaser if he got the trainin',” declared Murty, all his troubles forgotten. “Come a little higher up, won't ye, Miss Norah; we can see every jump from the top of the rise, barrin' the wan that's in the timber.”

They followed him up the little hill until he declared himself satisfied with his position; and he spent the time until the flag fell in pointing out to Tommy the exact places where the hurdles were erected—pausing only for a proud look when Shannon thundered past below them in his preliminary canter, the green jacket bright in the sun, and every muscle in the horse's gleaming body rippling as he moved. He was reefing and plunging in his gallop, trying to get his head; but Billy soon steadied him, and presently brought him up the straight again at a quiet trot. The other horses went out, one by one, until at length a field of eight faced the starter; and presently they were off, and over the first jump in a body. They came down the straight on the first time round, packed closely, a glittering mass of shining horses and bright colours. One dropped at the jump near the judge's box, and as the other horses raced away round the turn the riderless horse followed, while his jockey lay still for a moment, a little scarlet blur upon the turf. Eager helpers ran forward to pick him up, but he was on his feet before they could reach him, and came limping up the hill, a little bruised and infinitely disgusted.

“He's all right,” Murty said. “Yerra, Mr. Jim, did ye see the ould horse jump! He wint ahead at his fences like a deer!”

The horses were in the timber; they peered anxiously at the bright patch of colour that showed from time to time, trying to see the familiar green jacket. Then, as the field came into view Murty uttered an irrepressible yell, for his horse shot ahead at the next jump and came into the straight in the lead. Murty gripped at the nearest object, which happened to be Norah's shoulder, and clenched it tightly, muttering, in his excitement, words in his native Irish. They thundered up the straight, Billy crouching on Shannon's neck, very still. Then behind him the Mulgoa horse drew out from the ruck and came in chase. Nearer and nearer he came, while the shouts from the crowd grew louder. Up, up, till his nose was at Shannon's quarter—at his girth—at his shoulder, and the winning-post was very near. Then suddenly Billy lifted his whip and brought it down once, and Shannon shot forward with a last wild bound. Murty's hat went up in the air—and Wally's with it.

“He's done it!” Murty babbled. “Yerra, what about Billabong now?” He suddenly found himself gripping Norah's shoulder wildly, and would have apologized but that Norah herself was dancing with delight, and looking for his hand to grasp. And the crowd was shouting “Shannon! Shannon! Billabong!”—since all of these Cunjee folk loved Billabong and were steadily jealous of Mulgoa. Jim and Wally were thumping Murty on the back. Bob and Mr. Linton stood beaming at him. Below them Billy came trotting back on his victorious steed, sitting with a grave face, as expressionless as if he had not just accomplished his heart's desire. But his dark, mysterious eyes scanned the crowd as he turned from weighing in, and only grew satisfied when he saw the Billabong party hurrying to greet him. They shook his hand, and smote him on the back, Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan prancing with joy. And Shannon, his glossy coat dark with sweat, nuzzled again at Norah's pocket for an apple—and this time got it.

This glorious event over, interest became focused on a trotting race, which brought out a queer assortment of competitors, ranging from King Lightfoot, a horse well known in Melbourne, to Poddy, an animal apparently more fitted to draw a hearse than to trot in a race—a lean, raw-boned horse of a sad countenance and a long nose, with a shaggy black coat which rather resembled that of a long-haired Irish goat. There were other candidates, all fancied by their owners, but the public support was only for King Lightfoot, who ran in elaborate leather and rubber harness, and was clearly regarded by his rider as of infinite condescension to be taking part in such a very mixed company.

It proved, however, not to be King Lightfoot's lucky day. The horses started at intervals, according to their performances or merit, Poddy being the first to move, the Melbourne horse the last. King Lightfoot, however, obstinately refused to trot, whereas Poddy revealed unexpected powers, flinging his long legs abroad in a whirlwind fashion, and pounding along doggedly, with his long nose outstretched as if hoping to get it past the winning-post as soon as possible. No other horse came near him; his initial lead was never lessened, and he plugged doggedly to victory, while the crowd roared with laughter, and out in the timber King Lightfoot's rider wrestled with his steed in vain. Later, his prejudice against trotting in the bush removed by stern measures, King Lightfoot flashed up the track like a meteor, with his furious rider determined to show something of what his steed could do. By that time Poddy was once more unsaddled, and was standing under a tree with his weary nose drooping earthwards, so that the crowd merely yelled with laughter anew, while the stewards unfeelingly requested the Melbourne man to get off the track.

“Oh, isn't it hot!” Norah fanned herself with a bunch of gum leaves, and cast an anxious look at Tommy.

It was breathlessly hot. Not a hint of air stirred among the trees or moved the long dry grass that covered the paddock—now showing many depressions, where tired people or horses had lain down to rest. The horses stood about, drooping their heads, and swishing their tails ceaselessly at the tormenting flies; men and women sought every available patch of shade, while dogs stretched themselves under the buggies, panting, with lolling tongues. Children alone ran about, as though nothing could mar their enjoyment; but babies fretted wearily in their mothers' arms. Overhead the sun blazed fiercely in a sky of brass. Now and then came a low growl of thunder, giving hope of a change at night; but it was very far distant, although a dull bank of cloud lay to the west. David Linton watched the cloud a little uneasily.

“I don't quite like the look of it,” he muttered to himself. “I'll go and ask Murty what he thinks of it.” But Murty had been swallowed up in a crowd anxious to congratulate him on Shannon's success, and his employer failed to find him at the moment. He came upon Sarah, however—sitting under a tree, with her baby wailing dismally.

“To hot for her, Sarah,” David Linton said kindly.

“That's right, sir—it's too hot for anyone, let alone a little tiny kid,” Sarah said wearily. “I'd get Bill to go home if I could, but I can't get on his tracks—and it's too hot to take baby out in the sun looking for him. If you come across him, sir, you might tell him I want him.”

“All right,” said the squatter. “But you wouldn't take that long drive home yet, Sarah—better wait until the sun goes down.”

“Well, I'd go into Cunjee, to me sister-in-law's,” said Sarah. “She'd let me take baby's things off an' sponge her—an' I'd give a dollar to do it. No more races with kids for me in weather like this!” She crooned to the fretting baby as Mr. Linton went off.

He found Tommy and Norah together under a tree near the track—hot, but interested.

“Where are the boys?”

“They're all holding ponies,” Norah said. “I don't quite know why, but a very hot and worried man collected them to help start the race. What is it for, Dad, do you know?”

“Oh, I see!” David Linton laughed. “It's—a distance handicap—the ponies all start at the same moment, but from different points along the track.”

“Yes, that must be it,” Norah said. “Jim's away over near the timber with a little rat of a pony, and Bob is shepherding another fifty yards behind him, while Wally is quite near here with that big pony of the blacksmith's that has won ever so many races. She'll have a lot of ground to make up. But why must each one be shepherded, Dad?”

“Human nature,” said David Linton, smiling. “These youngsters who are riding would sneak a yard or two if they weren't closely watched, and they would never start fair; the only way is to put each in charge of a responsible man with a good watch, and let him start them. What time is the race? Oh, four o'clock. Well, I never yet saw a pony race that started on time; neither the ponies nor the boys are easy to handle, and I see there are ten of them. Watch them; it's after four, and they must be nearly ready to start.”

The ponies were strung out round the course, each with a “shepherd” standing to attention near its bridle, watch in hand. They could see Jim's great form standing sentinel over a tiny animal, whose diminutive rider was far too afraid of the huge Major to try to snatch even a yard of ground; nearer, Wally kept a wary eye on the experienced jockey on the blacksmith's racing mare, who was afraid of nothing, but nevertheless had a certain wholesome respect for the tall fellow who lounged easily against a tree near him, but never for an instant shifted his gaze. The shepherds were waiting for a signal from the official starter.

It came presently, a long shrill whistle, and simultaneously each guardian stepped back, and the released ponies went off like a flash—all save Bob's charge, who insisted on swinging round and bolting in the wrong direction, while his jockey sawed at his mouth in vain. Yawing across the track the rebel encountered the blacksmith's pony, who swerved violently in her swift course to avoid him, and lost so much ground that any chance she had in the race was hopelessly lost, whereat the blacksmith, who was standing on the hill, raved and tore his hair unavailingly. A smart little bay pony fought out the finish with Jim's tiny charge, and was beaten by a short head, just as Wally, walking quickly, came back to his party.

“That was a great race,” said Norah. “Wally, you shouldn't walk so fast on such a day. It makes one warm only to look at you.”

Wally answered with an absent air that was unlike his usual alertness. The girls, watching the ponies come in, noticed nothing, and presently he drew Mr. Linton aside.

“Did you notice that cloud, sir?” he asked, in a low voice. “I didn't until I was down on the track with the pony, looking in that direction. But it's twice the size it was when I went down.”

“I've been looking at it, and I don't like it,” said Mr. Linton. “It's smoke, I'm positive, and too near Billabong and the Creek to be comfortable. I think we'll make tracks for home, Wally. Have you seen Murty anywhere?”

As if in answer, Mr. O'Toole came running down the hill.

“I've been huntin' ye's everywhere,” he panted. “There's a man just kem out from Cunjee lookin' for ye, sir—some one's tallyphoned in that there's a big grass fire comin' down on the Creek, an' 'twill be a miracle if it misses Billabong! I've told the men—they're off to get the horses.”

Norah and Tommy had turned, with dismayed eyes.

“Will it be at our place, Murty?” Tommy asked.

“I dunno will it, Miss Tommy,” the Irishman answered. “But as like as not 'twill miss it—or anyhow, we'll get there first, an' stop it doing much damage. Don't you worry your little head, now.”

She looked up at him gratefully. Norah's hand was thrust through her arm.

“It may not be near the Creek at all, Tommy dear,” she said.

“Oh, I hope it isn't—my poor old Bob!” Tommy said, under her breath. “Can we hurry, Norah?”

“They're bringing the horses,” Norah answered. “We'll be off in a minute—see, dad has gone to meet Bob.”

Wally had turned to Murty.

“Murty, do you mind if I ride Shannon and take him across country? I'm on Marshal to-day, you know, and he can't jump for nuts. But Shannon can take every fence between here and the Creek, and I can cut the distance in half if I go across. I'm about the lightest of us, I think.”

“So ye are—an' the horse'll take ye like a bird,” said Murty. “Don't shpare him, Mr. Wally, if ye think ye can do any good. He's over there under the big wattle.”

“Right-o!” said Wally. “Tell Mr. Jim, will you, Murty?” He turned and ran down the hill with long strides.

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