The party had for some time been walking near the creek, so close to it that it was within sound, although they seldom got a glimpse of water, save where the ti-tree scrub on the bank grew thinner or the light wind stirred an opening in its branches. Now, however, the Hermit suddenly turned, and although the others failed to perceive any track or landmark, he led them quickly through the scrub belt to the bank of the creek beyond.
It was indeed an ideal place for fishing. A deep, quiet pool, partly shaded by big trees, lay placid and motionless, except for an occasional ripple, stirred by a light puff of wind. An old wattle tree grew on the bank, its limbs jutting out conveniently, and here Jim and Wally ensconced themselves immediately, and turned their united attention to business. For a time no sound was heard save the dull “plunk” of sinkers as the lines, one by one, were flung into the water.
The Hermit did not fish. He had plenty at his camp, he said, and fishing for fun had lost its excitement, since he fished for a living most days of the week. So he contented himself with advising the others where to throw in, and finally sat down on the grass near Norah.
A few minutes passed. Then Jim jerked his line hurriedly and began to pull in with a feverish expression. It lasted until a big black fish made its appearance, dangling from the hook, and then it was suddenly succeeded by a look of intense disgust, as a final wriggle released the prisoner, which fell back with a splash into the water.
“Well, I’m blessed!” said Jim wrathfully.
“Hard luck!” said Harry.
“Try again, Jimmy, and stick to him this time,” counselled Wally, in a fatherly tone.
“Oh, you shut up,” Jim answered, re-baiting his hook. “I didn’t catch an old boot, anyhow!”—which pertinent reflection had the effect of silencing Wally, amidst mild mirth on the part of the other members of the expedition.
Scarcely a minute more, and Norah pulled sharply at her line and began to haul in rapidly.
“Got a whale?” inquired Jim.
“Something like it!” Norah pulled wildly.
“Hang on!”
“Stick to him!”
“Mind your eye!”
“Don’t get your line tangled!”
“Want any help, Miss Norah?”
“No thanks.” Norah was almost breathless. A red spot flamed in each cheek.
Slowly the line came in. Presently it gave a sudden jerk, and was tugged back quickly, as the fish made another run for liberty. Norah uttered an exclamation, quickly suppressed, and caught it sharply, pulling strongly.
Ah—he was out! A big, handsome perch, struggling and dancing in the air at the end of the line. Shouts broke from the boys as Norah landed her prize safely on the bank.
“Well done, Miss Norah,” said the Hermit warmly.
“That’s a beauty—as fine a perch as I’ve seen in this creek.”
“Oh, isn’t he a splendid fellow!” Norah cried, surveying the prey with dancing eyes. “I’ll have him for Dad, anyhow, even if I don’t catch another.”
“Yes, Dad’s breakfast’s all right,” laughed the Hermit. “But don’t worry, you’ll catch more yet. See, there goes Harry.”
There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod, hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.
“Not bad for a beginning!” he said, grinning. “But not a patch on yours, Norah!”
“Oh, I had luck,” Norah said. “He really is a beauty, isn’t he? I think he must be the grandfather of all the perches.”
“If that’s so,” said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of “do or die” earnestness, “I reckon I’ve got the grandmother on now!”
A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.
“Hurry up, Jim!”
“Go slow!”
“There—he’s getting off again!”
“So are you!” said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing hard.
“Only a boot, Jim—don’t worry!”
“Gammon!—it’s a shark!—look at his worried expression!”
“I’ll ‘shark’ you, young Harry!” grunted Jim. “Mind your eye—there he comes!” And expressions of admiration broke from the scoffers as a second splendid perch dangled in the air and was landed high and dry—or comparatively so—in the branches of the wattle tree.
“Is he as big as yours, Norah?” queried Jim a minute later, tossing his fish down on the grass close to his sister and the Hermit.
Norah laid the two fishes alongside.
“Not quite,” she announced; “mine’s about an inch longer, and a bit fatter.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Jim said. “I said it was the grandmother I had—yours is certainly the grandfather! I’m glad you got the biggest, old girl.” They exchanged a friendly smile.
A yell from Wally intimated that he had something on his hook, and with immense pride he flourished in the air a diminutive blackfish—so small that the Hermit proposed to use it for bait, a suggestion promptly declined by the captor, who hid his catch securely in the fork of two branches, before re-baiting his hook. Then Harry pulled out a fine perch, and immediately afterwards Norah caught a blackfish; and after that the fun waxed fast and furious, the fish biting splendidly, and all hands being kept busy. An hour later Harry shook the last worm out of the bait tin and dropped it into the water on his hook, where it immediately was seized by a perch of very tender years.
“Get back and grow till next year,” advised Harry, detaching the little prisoner carefully, the hook having caught lightly in the side of its mouth. “I’ll come for you next holidays!” and he tossed the tiny fellow back into the water. “That’s our last scrap of bait, you chaps,” he said, beginning to wind up his line.
“I’ve been fishing with an empty hook for I don’t know how long,” said Jim, hauling up also. “These beggars have nibbled my bait off and carefully dodged the hook.”
“Well, we’ve plenty, haven’t we?” Norah said. “Just look what a splendid pile of fish!”
“They take a bit of beating, don’t they?” said Jim. “That’s right, Wal, pull him up!” as Wally hauled in another fine fish. “We couldn’t carry more if we had ’em.”
“Then it’s a good thing my bait’s gone, too!” laughed Norah, winding up. “Haven’t we had a most lovely time!”
Jim produced a roll of canvas which turned out to be two sugar bags, and in these carefully bestowed the fish, sousing the whole thoroughly in the water. The boys gathered up the lines and tackle and “planted” the rods conveniently behind a log, “to be ready for next time,” they said.
“Well, we’ve had splendid sport, thanks to you, sir,” Jim said, turning to the Hermit, who stood looking on at the preparations, a benevolent person, “something between Father Christmas and Robinson Crusoe,” as Norah whispered to Harry. “We certainly wouldn’t have got on half as well if we’d stayed where we were.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Hermit answered. “Yours is a good place—I’ve often caught plenty of fish there—only not to be relied on as this pool is. I’ve really never known this particular spot fail—the fish seem to live in it all the year round. However, I’m glad you’ve had decent luck—it’s not a bit jolly to go home empty-handed, I know. And now, what’s the next thing to be done? The afternoon’s getting on—don’t you think it’s time you came to pay me a visit at the camp?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Norah cried.
Jim hesitated.
“We’d like awfully to see your camp, if—if it’s not any bother to you,” he said.
“Not the least in the world,” the Hermit said. “Only I can’t offer you any refreshment. I’ve nothing but cold ’possum and tea, and the ’possum’s an acquired taste, I’m afraid. I’ve no milk for the tea, and no damper, either!”
“By George!” said Jim remorsefully. “Why, we ate all your damper at lunch!”
“I can easily manufacture another,” the Hermit said, laughing. “I’m used to the process. Only I don’t suppose I could get it done soon enough for afternoon tea.”
“We’ve loads of tucker,” Jim said. “Far more than we’re likely to eat. Milk, too. We meant to boil the billy again before we start for home.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Norah said, struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s coo-ee for Billy, and when he comes send him back for our things. Then if—if Mr. Hermit likes, we could have tea at his camp.”
“Why, that’s a splendid notion,” the Hermit cried. “I’m delighted that you thought of it, Miss Norah, although I’m sorry my guests have to supply their own meal! It doesn’t seem quite the thing—but in the bush, polite customs have to fall into disuse. I only keep up my own good manners by practising on old Turpentine, my snake! However, if you’re so kind as to overlook my deficiencies, and make them up yourselves, by all means let us come along and coo-ee for sweet William!”
He shouldered one of the bags of fish as he spoke, disregarding a protest from the boys. Jim took the second, and they set out for the camp.
Their way led for some time along the track by which they had come, if “track” it might be called. Certainly, the Hermit trod it confidently enough, but the others could only follow in his wake, and wonder by what process he found his way so quickly through the thick bush.
About half a mile along the creek the Hermit suddenly turned off almost at right angles, and struck into the scrub. The children followed him closely, keeping as nearly at his heels as the nature of the path would permit.
Norah found it not very pleasant. The Hermit went at a good rate, swinging over the rough ground with the sure-footed case of one accustomed to the scrub and familiar with the path. The boys unhampered by skirts and long hair, found no great difficulty in keeping up with him, but the small maiden of the party, handicapped by her clothes, to say nothing of being youngest of them all, plodded along in the rear, catching on sarsaparilla vines and raspberry tangles, plunging head first through masses of dogwood, and getting decidedly the worst of the journey.
Harry was the first to notice that Norah was falling “into the distance,” as he put it, and he ran back to her immediately.
“Poor old kid!” he said shamefacedly. “I’d no idea you were having such a beast of a time. Sorry, Norah!” His polite regrets were cut short by Norah’s catching her foot in a creeper and falling bodily upon him.
“Thank you,” said Harry, catching her deftly. “Delighted, I’m sure, ma’am! It’s a privilege to catch any one like you. Come on, old girl, and I’ll clear the track for you.”
A little farther on the Hermit had halted, looking a trifle guilty.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Norah,” he said, as Norah and Harry made their way up to the waiting group. “I didn’t realise I was going at such a pace. We’ll make haste more slowly.”
He led the way, pausing now and again to make it easier for the little girl, holding the bushes aside and lifting her bodily over several big logs and sharp watercourses. Finally he stopped.
“I think if you give Billy a call now, Jim,” he said, “he won’t have much difficulty in finding us.”
To the children it seemed an utter impossibility that Billy should ever find them, though they said nothing, and Jim obediently lifted up his voice and coo-ee’d in answer to the Hermit’s words. For himself, Jim was free to confess he had quite lost his bearings, and the other boys were as much at sea as if they had suddenly been dropped down at the North Pole. Norah alone had an idea that they were not far from their original camping-place; an idea which was confirmed when a long “Ai-i-i!” came in response to Jim’s shout, sounding startlingly near at hand.
“Master Billy has been making his way along the creek,” commented the Hermit. “He’s no distance off. Give him another call.”
“Here!” Jim shouted. Billy answered again, and after a few more exchanges, the bushes parted and revealed the sable retainer, somewhat out of breath.
“Scoot back to camp, Billy,” Jim ordered. “Take these fish and soak ’em in the creek, and bring back all our tucker—milk and all. Bring it—Where’ll he bring it, sir?” to the Hermit.
“See that tall tree, broken with the bough dangling?” the Hermit asked, pointing some distance ahead. Billy nodded. “Come back to that and cooee, and we’ll answer you.”
“Plenty!” said Billy, shouldering the bags of fish, and departing at a run. Billy had learnt early the futility of wasting words.
“Come along,” said the Hermit, laughing.
He turned off into the scrub, and led the way again, taking, it seemed to Norah, rather a roundabout path. At length he stopped short, near a dense clump of dogwood.
“My back door,” he said politely.
They stared about them. There was no sign of any door at all, nor even of any footprints or marks of traffic. The scrub was all about them; everything was very still and quiet in the afternoon hush.
“Well, you’ve got us beaten and no mistake!” Jim laughed, after they had peered fruitlessly about. “Unless you camp in the air, I don’t see—”
“Look here,” said the Hermit.
He drew aside a clump of dogwood, and revealed the end of an old log—a huge tree-trunk that had long ago been a forest monarch, but having fallen, now stretched its mighty length more than a hundred feet along the ground. It was very broad and the uppermost side was flat, and here and there bore traces of caked, dry mud that showed where a boot had rested. The dogwood walled it closely on each side.
“That’s my track home,” the Hermit said. “Let me help you up, Miss Norah.”
He sprang up on the log as he spoke, and extended a hand to Norah, who followed him lightly. Then the Hermit led the way along the log, which was quite broad enough to admit of a wheelbarrow being drawn down its length. He stopped where the butt of the old tree, rising above the level of the trunk, barred the view, and pulling aside the dogwood, showed rough steps, cut in the side of the log.
“Down here, Miss Norah.”
In a moment they were all on the ground beside him—Wally, disdaining the steps, having sprung down, and unexpectedly measured his length on the earth, to the accompaniment of much chaff. He picked himself up, laughing more than any of them, just as Norah popped her head through the scrub that surrounded them, and exclaimed delightedly—.
“Why, here’s the camp.”
“I say,” Jim said, following the Hermit into the little clearing, “you’re well planted here!”
The space was not very large—a roughly circular piece of ground, ringed round with scrub, in which big gum trees reared their lofty heads. A wattle tree stood in the centre, from its boughs dangling a rough hammock, made of sacking, while a water bag hung from another convenient branch. The Hermit’s little tent was pitched at one side; across the clearing was the rude fireplace that Norah had seen in the morning. Everything, though tough enough, was very clean and tidy, with a certain attempt at comfort.
The Hermit laughed.
“Yes, I’m pretty well concealed,” he agreed. “You might be quite close to the camp and never dream that it existed. Only bold explorers like Miss Norah would have hit upon it from the side where she appeared to me this morning, and my big log saves me the necessity of having a beaten track home. I try, by getting on it at different points, to avoid a track to the log, although, should a footmark lead anyone to it, the intruder would never take the trouble to walk down an old bushhung tree-trunk, apparently for no reason. So that I feel fairly secure about my home and my belongings when I plan a fishing expedition or an excursion that takes me any distance away.”
“Well, it’s a great idea,” Jim said. “Of course, a beaten track to your camp would be nothing more or less than an invitation to any swaggie or black fellow to follow it up.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Hermit said; “and very awkward it would have been for me, seeing that one can’t very well put a padlock on a tent, and that all my belongings are portable. Not that there’s anything of great value. I have a few papers I wouldn’t care to lose, a watch and a little money—but they’re all safely buried in a cashbox with a good lock. The rest I have to chance, and, as I told you, I’ve so far been pretty lucky in repelling invaders. There’s not much traffic round here, you know!”
Jim and Norah laughed. “Not much,” they said, nodding.
“My tent’s not large,” the Hermit said, leading the way to that erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.
“It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day,” said Wally.
“It would,” said the Hermit, “if I did untie them. They’re only part of my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally.” He slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.
“A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all those,” said the Hermit. “He’d be rather disgusted, on completing the job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And perhaps by that time I might be home!”
The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah, beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore marks of long and honourable use.
The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said, reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp, wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.
“A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser,” Wally said. “I wouldn’t like it myself.”
“Once would be enough for most chaps.” Harry grinned.
“Oh, get out! you know what I mean,” retorted Wally. “You chaps are never satisfied unless you’re pulling my leg—it’s a wonder I don’t limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose.”
“He’s an educated chap, too,” Harry said—“talks like a book when he likes. I wonder what on earth he’s doing it for?”
They had dropped their voices instinctively, and had moved away from the tent.
“He’s certainly not the ordinary swaggie,” Norah said slowly.
“Not by a good bit,” Wally agreed. “Why, he can talk like our English master at school! Perhaps he’s hiding.”
“Might be,” Harry said. “You never can tell—he’s certainly keen enough on getting away from people.”
“He’s chosen a good place, then.”
“Couldn’t be better. I wonder if there’s anything in it—if he really has done anything and doesn’t want to be found?”
“I never heard such bosh!” said Norah indignantly. “One would think he really looked wicked, instead of being such a kind old chap. D’you think he’s gone and committed a murder, or robbed a bank, or something like that? I wonder you’re not afraid to be in his camp!”
The boys stared in amazement.
“Whew-w-w!” whistled Wally.
Harry flushed a little.
“Oh steady, Norah!” he protested—“we really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It was only an idea. I’ll admit be doesn’t look a hardened sinner.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have such ideas,” Norah said stoutly; “he’s a great deal too nice, and look how kind he’s been to us! If he chooses to plant himself in the bush, it’s no one’s business but his own.”
“I suppose not,” Harry began. He pulled up shortly as the Hermit, followed by Jim, emerged from the tent.
The Hermit had a queer smile in his eyes, but Jim looked desperately uncomfortable.
Jim favoured the others with a heavy scowl as he came out of the tent, slipping behind the Hermit in order that he might deliver it unobserved. It was plain enough to fill them with considerable discomfort. They exchanged glances of bewilderment.
“I wonder what’s up now?” Wally whispered.
Jim strolled over to them as the Hermit, without saying anything, crossed to his fireplace, and began to put some sticks together.
“You’re bright objects!” he whispered wrathfully. “Why can’t you speak softly if you must go gabbling about other people?”
“You don’t mean to say he heard us?” Harry said, colouring.
“I do, then! We could hear every word you said, and it was jolly awkward for me. I didn’t know which way to look.”
“Was he wild?” whispered Wally.
“Blessed if I know. He just laughed in a queer way, until Norah stuck up for him, and then he looked grave. ‘I’m lucky to have one friend,’ he said, and walked out of the tent. You’re a set of goats!” finished Jim comprehensively.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of what I said, anyhow!” Norah answered indignantly. She elevated her tip-tilted nose, and walked away to where the Hermit was gathering sticks, into which occupation she promptly entered. The boys looked at each other.
“Well, I am—rather,” Harry said. He disappeared into the scrub, returning presently with a log of wood as heavy as he could drag. Wally, seeing his idea, speedily followed suit, and Jim, after a stare, copied their example. They worked so hard that by the time the Hermit and Norah had the fire alight, quite a respectable stack of wood greeted the eye of the master of the camp. He looked genuinely pleased.
“Well, you are kind chaps,” he said. “That will save me wood-carting for many a day, and it is a job that bothers my old back.”
“We’re very glad to get it for you, sir,” Jim blurted, a trifle shamefacedly. A twinkle came into the Hermit’s eyes as he looked at him.
“That’s all square, Jim,” he said quietly, and without any more being said the boys felt relieved. Evidently this Hermit was not a man to bear malice, even if he did overhear talk that wasn’t meant for him.
“Well,” said the Hermit, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, “it’s about time we heard the dusky Billy, isn’t it?”
“Quite time, I reckon,” Jim replied. “Lazy young beggar!”
“Well, the billy’s not boiling yet, although it’s not far off it.”
“There he is,” Norah said quickly, as a long shout sounded near at hand. The Hermit quickly went off in its direction, and presently returned, followed by Billy, whose eyes were round as he glanced about the strange place in which he found himself, although otherwise no sign of surprise appeared on his sable countenance. He carried the bags containing the picnic expedition’s supply of food, which Norah promptly fell to unpacking. An ample supply remained from lunch, and when displayed to advantage on the short grass of the clearing the meal looked very tempting. The Hermit’s eyes glistened as Norah unpacked a bag of apples and oranges as a finishing touch.
“Fruit!” he said. “Oh, you lucky people! I wish there were fruit shops in the scrub. I can dispense with all the others, but one does miss fruit.”
“Well, I’m glad we brought such a bagful, because I’m sure we don’t want it,” Norah said. “You must let us leave it with you, Mr. Hermit.”
“Water’s plenty boilin’,” said Billy
Tea was quickly brewed, and presently they were seated on the ground and making a hearty meal, as if the lunch of a few hours ago had never been.
“If a fellow can’t get hungry in the bush,” said Wally, holding out his hand for his fifth scone, “then he doesn’t deserve ever to get hungry at all!” To which Jim replied, “Don’t worry, old man—that’s a fate that’s never likely to overtake you!” Wally, whose hunger was of a generally prevailing kind, which usually afflicted him most in school hours, subsided meekly into his tea-cup.
They did not hurry over the meal, for everyone was a little lazy after the long day, and there was plenty of time to get home—the long summer evening was before them, and it would merge into the beauty of a moonlit night. So they “loafed” and chatted aimlessly, and drank huge quantities of the billy-tea, that is quite the nicest tea in the world, especially when it is stirred with a stick. And when they were really ashamed to eat any more they lay about on the grass, yarning, telling bush tales many and strange, and listening while the Hermit spun them old-world stories that made the time slip away wonderfully. It was with a sigh that Jim roused himself at last.
“Well,” he said, “it’s awfully nice being here, and I’m not in a bit of a hurry to go—are you, chaps?”
The chaps chorused “No.”
“All the same, it’s getting late,” Jim went on, pulling out his watch—“later than I thought, my word! Come on—we’ll have to hurry. Billy, you slip along and saddle up the ponies one-time quick!”
Billy departed noiselessly.
“He never said ‘Plenty!’” said Wally disappointedly, gathering himself up from the grass.
“It was an oversight,” Jim laughed. “Now then, Norah, come along. What about the miserable remains?”
“The remains aren’t so miserable,” said Norah, who was on her knees gathering up the fragments of the feast. “See, there’s a lot of bread yet, ever so many scones, heaps of cake, and the fruit, to say nothing of butter and jam.” She looked up shyly at the Hermit. “Would you—would you mind having them?”
The Hermit laughed.
“Not a bit!” he said. “I’m not proud, and it is really a treat to see civilized food again. I’ll willingly act as your scavenger, Miss Norah.”
Together they packed up the remnants, and the Hermit deposited them inside his tent. He rummaged for a minute in a bag near his bed, and presently came out with something in his hand.
“I amuse myself in my many odd moments by this sort of thing,” he said. “Will you have it, Miss Norah?”
He put a photograph frame into her hand—a dainty thing, made from the native woods, cunningly jointed together and beautifully carved. Norah accepted it with pleasure.
“It’s not anything,” the Hermit disclaimed—“very rough, I’m afraid. But you can’t do very good work when your pocket-knife is your only tool. I hope you’ll forgive its shortcomings, Miss Norah, and keep it to remember the old Hermit.”
“I think it’s lovely,” Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, “and I’m ever so much obliged. I’ll always keep it.”
“Don’t forget,” the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. “And some day, perhaps, you’ll all come again.”
“We must hurry,” Jim said.
They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun, sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten responsibility.
“It’s every man for his own steed,” he said. “Can you manage your old crock, Norah?”
“Don’t you wish yours was half as good?” queried Norah, as she took the halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.
Jim grinned.
“Knew I’d got her on a soft spot!” he murmured, wrestling with a refractory crupper.
Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy’s balance, and, after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a decisive “Bust!” amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily, the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log, not much the worse, except in temper.
“Damp in there, Billy?” queried Wally, with a grave face.
“Plenty!” growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and a dripping leg.
The Hermit had taken Norah’s saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old man stroked the pony’s glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put his nose into his hand.
“He likes you,” Norah said; “he doesn’t do that to everyone. Do you like horses?”
“Better than men,” said the Hermit. “You’ve a good pony, Miss Norah.”
“Yes, he’s a beauty,” the little girl said. “I’ve had him since he was a foal.”
“He’ll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?”
“About that, I think.”
“And we’ll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where we are,” said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. “We’ll have to say good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, and good-bye,” said the Hermit, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry you’ve all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays—?”
“We’ll come out,” nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. “And if ever you find your way in as far as our place—”
“I’m afraid not,” said the Hermit hastily. “As I was explaining to Miss Norah, I’m a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again.”
The boys said “good-bye” and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Norah looked at him pitifully.
“I won’t say good-bye,” she said. “I’m coming back—some day. So it’s—‘so long!’”
“So long,” the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the saddle and kissed his cheek.
He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and, with slow steps, went back into the scrub.
They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well, and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode almost in silence.
It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great flapping thing flew into Harry’s face, and he uttered a startled yell before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to “Way Down Upon the Swanee River” and more modern songs, which aren’t half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry “obliged” with one of Gordon’s poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.
“Old Harry’s our champion elocutioner at school, you know,” Wally said. “You should have heard him last Speech Day! He got more clapping than all the rest put together.”
“Shut up, young Wally!” growled Harry in tones of affected wrath.
“Same to you,” said Wally cheerfully. “Why, you had all the mammas howling into their hankies in your encore piece!”
After which nothing would satisfy Norah but another recitation, and another after that; and then the timber ended, and there was only the level plain be tween them and home, with the moon just high enough to make it sufficiently light for a gallop. They tore wildly homeward, and landed in a slightly dishevelled bunch at the gate of the paddock.
No one was about the stables.
“Men all gone off somewhere,” said Jim laconically, proceeding to let his pony go. His example was followed by each of the others, the steeds dismissed with a rub and a pat, and the saddles placed on the stands.
“Well, I don’t know about you chaps,” said Jim, “but I’m as hungry as a hunter!”
“Same here,” chorused the chaps.
“Come along and see what good old Brownie’s put by for us,” said Norah, disappearing towards the house like a small comet.
The boys raced after her. In the kitchen doorway Mrs. Brown stood, her broad face resplendent with smiles.
“I was just beginning to wonder if any of you had fallen into the creek,” she said. “You must be hungry, poor dears. Supper’s ready.”
“Where’s Dad?” asked Norah.
“Your Pa’s gone to Sydney.”
“Sydney!”
“Yes, my dears. A tallygrum came for him—something about some valuable cattle to be sold, as he wants.”
“Oh,” said Jim, “those shorthorns he was talking about?”
“Very like, Master Jim. Very sorry, your Pa were, he said, to go so suddint, and not to see you again, and the other young gentlemen likewise, seein’ you go away on Monday. He left his love to Miss Norah, and a letter for you; and Miss Norah, you was to try not to be dull, and he would be back by Thursday, so he ’oped.”
“Oh,” said Norah, blankly. “It’s hardly a homecoming without Dad.”
Supper was over at last, and it had been a monumental meal. To behold the onslaughts made by the four upon Mrs. Brown’s extensive preparations one might have supposed that they had previously been starving for time uncounted.
“Heigho!” said Jim. “Our last day to-morrow.”
Groans followed from Harry and Wally.
“What do you want to remind a fellow for?”
“Couldn’t help it—slipped out. What a jolly sell not to see old Dad again!” Jim wrinkled his brown handsome face into a frown.
“You needn’t talk!” said Norah gloomily. “Fancy me on Monday—not a soul to speak to.”
“Poor old Norah—yes, it’s rough on you,” said Jim. “Wish you were coming too. Why can’t you get Dad to let you go to school in Melbourne?”
“Thanks,” said Norah hastily, “I’d rather not. I think I can bear this better. School! What on earth would I do with myself, shut up all day?”
“Oh, all right; I thought you might like it. You get used to it, you know.”
“I couldn’t get used to doing without Dad,” returned Norah.
“Or Dad to doing without you, I reckon,” said Jim. “Oh, I suppose it’s better as it is—only you’ll have to get taught some day, old chap, I suppose.”
“Oh, never mind that now,” Norah said impatiently. “I suppose I’ll have a governess some day, and she won’t let me ride astride, or go after the cattle, or climb trees, or do anything worth doing, and everything will be perfectly hateful. It’s simply beastly to be getting old!”
“Cheer up, old party,” Jim laughed. “She might be quite a decent sort for all you know. As for riding astride, Dad’ll never let you ride any other way, so you can keep your mind easy about that. Well, never mind governesses, anyhow; you haven’t got one yet, and sufficient unto the day is the governess thereof. What are we going to do to-morrow?”
“Can’t do very much,” said Norah, still showing traces of gloom. “It’s Sunday; besides, the horses want a spell, and you boys will have to pack—you leave pretty early on Monday, you know.”
“Oh, botheration!” said Wally, jumping up so suddenly that he upset his chair. “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk of going back until we actually get there; it’s bad enough then. Let’s go and explore somewhere to-morrow.”
“We can do that all right,” said Jim, glad of any turn being given to the melancholy conversation. “We’ve never taken you chaps to the falls, two miles up the creek, and they’re worth seeing.”
“It’s a nice walk, too,” added Norah, putting sorrow to flight by deftly landing a pellet of bread on Harry’s nose. “Think you can struggle so far, Harry?”
“Yes, and carry you back when you knock up,” said that gentleman, returning the missile, without success, Norah having retreated behind a vase of roses. “I think it would be a jolly good plan.”
“Right oh!” said Jim. “That’s settled. We’ll pack up in the morning, get Brownie to give us dinner early, and start in good time. It doesn’t really take long to walk there, you know, only we want to be able to loaf on the way, and when we get to the falls.”
“Rather,” said Harry. “I never see any fun in a walk when you tear somewhere, get there, and tear back again. Life’s too short. Come on, Norah, and play to us.”
So they trooped into the drawing-room, and for an hour the boys lay about on sofas and easy chairs, while Norah played softly. Finally she found that her entire audience was sound asleep, a state of things she very naturally resented by gently pouring water from a vase on their peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah.
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