"I see," said Mr. Warner, inwardly wondering why the mare seemed to have failed to interest his daughter. "Well, shall we have a look round now?"
They left the horses to O'Mara, and went down the hill to the creek, where an hydraulic ram conserved the flow of the water and ensured an ample supply for the household. There was a great storage dam—a miniature lake, indeed, whereon swam many strange waterfowl. A dinghy was moored to a tiny landing stage, and there was a bathing box, with a good spring-board projecting over the deepest part. The lake was fringed with trees. Beyond them was the vegetable garden, where a stolid Chinaman gave them a friendly greeting, as he worked among his well-tended beds; and then came a high green hedge, through a gateway in which they passed to the wide lawns and gay flower beds surrounding the house itself. Everywhere there were great trees, and the whole impression was of space and shade and beauty. A tennis court, where the twinses and Bobby were playing a tennis of their own, with forgotten balls, lay to the east; the players uttered loud shrieks of joy at the sight of the new-comers, and fled to meet them, pursued by their protesting black nurse. Thereafter the tour continued, with Bobby clinging to Dick's hand, and with Mr. Warner and Mr. Lester each in undisputed possession of a twin, while nanna followed disconsolately in the rear.
"It's a rambling old place," Mr. Warner said. "We began with two rooms, and every drop of water had to be carried up from the creek in buckets. The windmills do it all now, and I've an oil engine that pumps our supply if the wind fails us."
"You added a good bit to your two rooms," said Mr. Lester, laughing.
"Well—rather. Of course, there's no architecture about it; we just planted rooms wherever we needed them. That big shed is for the black girls; the men have a camp on the other side of the creek. That"—he pointed with his pipe stem—"is Macleay's cottage; the store is close by. The building connecting with the house by that covered gallery is the children's special preserve—school-room, play-room and den. They can make as much noise there as they like—and they generally do! That's the barracks—the bachelors' quarters—beyond the tennis court. I've generally two or three jackeroos on the place, and there are beds there for any stray man who happens along. The stock yards are on the far side of the stables; I'm a bit proud of my yards. The forge and blacksmith's store are near them. The new-looking building is, of course, the garage; the car is a recent toy."
"Do you like it better than horses, Mr. Warner?" queried Dick.
"No," said his host, explosively. "I wouldn't give my old Conqueror for a dozen cars! Still, it makes a tremendous difference; we really were pretty well cut off from civilisation before we had it. As it is we seldom get a mail more than once a fortnight, and our stores come up twice a year, by bullock wagons or donkey teams. But we can get down to the railway fairly easily now, if we want to, and we can get a doctor in eight or ten hours. That feeling makes life much easier to a woman."
Mr. Lester pulled at his pipe.
"Do you reflect, Dick," he said, "that we've been accustomed to think ourselves quite in the country at Kurrajong?"
"My word, yes!" said Dick. "Three miles out—and we reckon we're bush whackers! Makes you feel small, doesn't it, father?"
"It makes me feel suburban," said his father, laughing. "And that's a thing I never expected to feel."
Mr. Warner gave his big, comfortable laugh.
"Come and see old Macleay's domain," he said.
They found the storekeeper busy supplying the wants of the two stockmen; men camped in huts five miles from the homestead. A red blanket—"burned the best one, goin' to sleep with the pipe alight," explained one—shirts, boots, a dog-collar, tobacco, tinned fish and fruit, cartridges, boiled sweets, writing-paper, for the younger—"Engaged, 'e is!" was the explanation from his mate—a comb, a jack-knife, a box of pills, and some hair-oil. The pile on the counter grew, and the brown, silent men gazed at it with the satisfaction of children; finally wandering round the store and selecting various articles that they did not want at all, for the mere pleasure of buying. Finally they sauntered off, asking Mr. Macleay to send out their purchases by the ration-cart.
"First time those laddies have been in for three months," said the storekeeper, after greeting the new-comers. "They canna get whisky, and they must knock down their cheque somehow. 'Tis a harrmless enough dissipation—bullseyes and hair-oil! But these mouth-organs were their greatest finds. There'll be great serenading of the dingoes and 'possums wi' those!"
"There'll be a split in the camp, I should think," said Mr. Warner, laughing. "One will want to play 'Swanee River,' and the other 'Camptown Races,' and it will end in a fight!"
"Aweel, there's country enough where they are for them to get out o' hearin' of each ither," Macleay said. "Happen they'll agree to play duets. What do you think of our store, Maister Lester?"
"I think it's ripping," said Dick, with enthusiasm.
"I had no idea you had such a stock as this," Mr. Lester remarked, looking round the big building.
"Oh, it's necessary," Mr. Warner said. "We're a kind of outpost of civilisation—even for the station wants, and for the blacks we need to stock a lot of goods, and the men are far more contented if they can get the oddments they need—and some that they don't need! There are lots of things here that ordinarily we wouldn't dream of keeping, but that some of the men ask for them—mouth organs, for example. They get the things almost at cost price, and they can pick up some dainties that aren't included in the station rations."
"Why, you've a regular chemist's shop in this corner," said Mr. Lester.
"That's the maist popular corner of the store," said Macleay. "Pills—ye've no idea how the bushman loves pills; any new brand tempts them. I think they eat them for dessert! Patent medicines of every kind—hair oil—soap; 'tis as much as my life is worth not to have everything on hand. There's a few likes books—I keep a lot of cheap novels; and they're fair terrors for a Bulletin, or any ither weekly paper. Sweets are low at the moment, but the stores wagons will be up soon and then there'll be a rush in from the out stations! If you're here then, Maister Lester, I'll tak' ye on as junior clerk and salesman!"
"If it's sweets, I'd like that!" grinned Dick.
"Do you let the blacks in here?" asked Mr. Lester.
"No; they have their own store for baccy, cheap cloth and a few other things. You see, they don't deal in money at all; they get goods as wages. And it's no good dangling temptation before their thieving eyes. Also, even with an honest and quiet tribe like this, there's risk of information leaking to tribes that are not so quiet."
"Do you ever have any trouble?"
"Hardly ever. Sometimes a raiding party comes down to the out station from the north, and we get a few cattle speared. But they've a wholesome fear of us; every stockman is armed in that part of the run, and cartridges are part of the regular ration issue. I don't let any man work alone in a lonely place, and indeed I like three to camp together if possible. But it's two years since we had any bother," finished Mr. Warner, "and I think the blacks have come to regard us as too far south to be good hunting ground."
A bell rang loudly from the house—so suddenly that Dick jumped.
"Did you think that was a raiding party?" queried his host. "Well, it used to be the signal for that; only then you wouldn't forget hearing its ring. It can make a very tolerable din in the hands of an active person. Now it's reduced to a polite tinkle, and it means lunch. Come along, or we shall have Mrs. Warner sending a search party for us; so long, Macleay!" He hurried them hospitably towards the house.
"Coming down to see the blacks' camp, mother?" Dick put a head in at the open window of the room where his mother sat talking to Mrs. Warner.
"Do," said the latter, putting down her sewing. "Are the others going, Dick?"
"Mr. Warner and father are waiting. They sent me in."
"Well, we'll all go, if you are not too tired, Mrs. Lester," Mrs. Warner said. "It isn't a long walk."
"I should like it of all things," said Mrs. Lester. "Run for my hat, Dick, please. May we take that nice fat Bobby?—and Merle?"
"Bobby, certainly—he adores the camp. But Merle had better stay—she's in an unfortunate kind of mood," said her mother, with a little sigh. "I tried to get her to go out for a ride with Dick, but she wouldn't. She's very difficult at times."
"Oh, she will grow out of it," Mrs. Lester said, comfortably. "Some children don't like strangers—and I honestly think that a good deal of Merle's trouble is shyness. Don't worry about her, Mrs. Warner."
"I try not to, but she's rather a problem"; and Mrs. Warner's kind face was clouded. "Dick is so nice with her that it is a shame for her to treat him badly."
"Oh, Dick is all right——" Mrs. Lester broke off as her son came running back with her hat, and with Bobby in close attendance. He swung the little fellow upon his back and galloped off with him, Bobby drumming his heels delightedly on his sides, and the two mothers following.
The well-worn footpath they took led them away from the homestead, on the far side from the lake. It snaked through the grass of the home paddock—no black fellow ever makes a straight track—and then turned down a hill towards a bend of the creek, where, half a mile below the house, the camp was situated. The place looked sleepy enough as the visitors came down to it in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the men were away hunting, and a good many of the lubras were in the scrub looking for yams and berries, or gathering lily pods in the lagoon, a wide swamp with stretches of deeper water, that gleamed a mile down the creek. The miserable-looking dogs that always hang about a blacks' camp woke the echoes with sharp barking as the visitors approached; and from the tumble-down wurleys of bark and interlaced boughs came the blacks, men and women, while children of every age suddenly swarmed into view.
"There's old Tarwan—he's the Chief," remarked Mr. Warner.
A tall old fellow came to meet them, giving them a courteous enough greeting in his own language, which the Warners spoke as well as they did their own. They shook hands with him, and the Lesters followed suit.
"He says you are welcome," translated Mr. Warner.
Mr. Lester smiled and said, "Thank you," and produced a large parcel of coarse tobacco which he had brought from the store. It made a great impression upon the tribe, who uttered guttural ejaculations of pleasure, and expressed the opinion that he was a great chief. From his pockets came a few handfuls of sweets for a scramble for the children—but it was a scramble in which the entire camp joined, even old Tarwan finding it impossible to refrain from diving for a brandy-ball that rolled to his very feet; while the other men pursued the sweets as whole-heartedly as any picaninny. When the hunt was over the camp was on very good terms with the new-comers.
The wurleys were pitched here and there, with no attempt at order, Tarwan's standing a little apart from the others. There was no attempt at architecture either—most of them were lean-tos, affording scarcely any protection and looking as though a gust of wind would blow them away. Here and there smouldered the embers of a fire, over which crouched a few very old men and women. Mr. Warner had brought a little tobacco for them, and their bleared old eyes lit with something like delight as they grasped at the gifts. Some concealed the tobacco hurriedly in their bags. A few brought out short black pipes and prepared happily to smoke.
"You can't do much for an old black fellow," Mr. Warner said. "They have only three wants—warmth, food and baccy. The Government grant of blankets supplies most of the warmth, and this tribe lives well enough not to let its old folk be hungry. Baccy is the one real luxury, and there's no doubt it eases old age enormously. I generally carry a few bits for the old folk."
"Money is no good to them, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Lester.
"No, thank goodness, so you don't get the perpetual whine of 'Gib it tickpen,' that is always on the lips of more civilised blacks. If they get an occasional coin it's only valued as an ornament," and he pointed to a young lubra who proudly wore a penny as a locket.
"And do they stay here always?"
"Oh, no. They go off, perhaps in the summer, or if game gets scarce. You don't get any warning. One day they'll be here as usual, the next the camp will be deserted and the tribe 'gone bush.' But they always come back, especially when it's near 'blanket time.' Then the women go fairly far afield for the rushes and grasses they want for their weaving. These women are quite industrious—we can get you anything you'd like in the way of woven mats or baskets or bags."
"They won't do much of that work in the eastern states," said Mr. Lester. "It is becoming a lost art."
"Yes—a pity; for much of it is beautiful work. But the civilisation of cities kills every decent impulse in them. To like the aboriginal you want him as we have him here—neither civilised nor wild. Once he gets to know the meaning of either money or drink he's done for."
There was a cluster of picaninnies round Bobby, staring at him with great, wondering eyes. The little fellow, rosy cheeked and fair haired, in his white linen suit, was a curious contrast to the black babies, most of them innocent of a rag of clothing. Bobby was enjoying himself hugely—making occasional dashes at them, at which they would scatter in every direction, shrieking with laughter.
"The twins were a particular source of interest to them," Mrs. Warner said. "They used to come to the house in flocks, begging to be allowed to see the 'two-pfeller picaninny'—and so many wanted to touch them that we had to make an absolute rule against it for fear the poor babies would be poked to death. Even now I hardly dare to bring them near the camp—not that they will touch them without leave, but they make a ring round them, everyone trying to see them, and blackfellow in the mass is rather overpowering."
"That's so," said Mr. Warner, with feeling. "'Possum fat is one of the chief toilet articles of the camp."
"Ugh," said Mrs. Lester, and shuddered.
"What do the men do?" asked Dick.
"Mighty little. They hunt, of course, whenever necessary, but they're lazy even over hunting. If a gin will keep one supplied with any other food he won't go hunting until he actually craves for meat. They make their weapons—spears, throwing sticks and boomerangs—but they are by no means as skilful with them as they used to be. They like to get a job on the station, but only a few manage to keep their jobs. They can't stand the regular employment. Still, even if they go back to the tribe, they don't forget all their teaching, and we can always count on them for odd help in a time of stress—a big muster, a bush fire, or any other emergency."
"I have one as a stockman," said Mr. Lester. "Very good boy, too."
"Yes. When you get a good boy with stock he's a treasure. It's the work they like best, and they are born riders—but apt to be cruel with horses. We have to keep a sharp eye on them in that respect." He turned to the old chief, and spoke to him in his own language. "Can any of your young men show us how they throw their weapons, Tarwan?"
Tarwan hesitated.
"Nearly all my young men are away," he answered. "But there's one who can throw the boomerang."
"All right; let's see him."
There was a little delay before a tall young fellow appeared from one of the wurleys, with three or four boomerangs in his hand. He walked to the edge of the camp, where the green of the creek bank gave place to tussocky plain, and then, poising himself suddenly, flung one of his weapons, apparently with little effort. The boomerang seemed to move slowly at first—then it appeared to gather way in mid air, whirling round and round until it turned and came back with a low, dropping flight, falling almost at its thrower's feet. Before it had returned he flung the remaining weapons, one after another, so that they seemed to be leaping and pursuing each other in the air, making amazing circles and dives. Two came back to the black fellow so truly that he caught them in his hand. A crow flew slowly across to a tree; he watched it for a moment, and then flung a boomerang that caught it just as it alighted, and brought it like a stone to the ground. A chorus of delight arose from the camp, and half a dozen small boys dashed to pick up the bird. The visitors applauded energetically, and complimented Tarwan.
"Well, I've seen a lot of boomerang throwing, but it always beats me," said Mr. Warner. "Some of these fellows seem to be able to make the blessed thing do anything they like after it leaves the hand. Kind of wireless, I believe! Well, Mrs. Lester, have you seen enough of the gentle aborigine for to-day?"
They bade good-bye to old Tarwan, whose extremely hideous face relaxed into a toothless smile as they shook hands with him. An escort of small boys accompanied them half-way up the hill, until sent back by Mr. Warner, who evidently was a great and terrible being in their eyes, for they scuttled like rabbits when he spoke to them.
Tea awaited them on the wide verandah, with Mrs. Macleay anxiously watching for their arrival, lest her hot cakes should be toughened by waiting. Presently three jackeroos drifted in, tall and brown and silent—two of them young Englishmen gaining colonial experience, and the third a Perth boy, not long emancipated from school. They had been camping at an out station, helping to muster some young stock.
"The black boys out there are keeping pretty close to camp," drawled one of the English lads. "They won't talk, but old Bill Summers says he believes some of the Northern blacks aren't far off."
"Is he taking any extra precautions?" Mr. Warner asked. Summers was an old hand, and could be trusted to deal with any emergency.
"Well, he can't hear anything definite, so he isn't really bothering. But you can be sure he's keeping a wary eye on the cattle."
"Yes. I'm very sure Bill is," said Mr. Warner laughing. "Bill's jumpiness is a family joke where anything black is concerned; the men have a story that he found a black beetle once among some stores and fired his gun at it before they could stop him! These rumours of blacks are always cropping up, but, as I told you, it's two years since we had any trouble."
"All the same, it's a good thing to have a man constantly on the jump," commented Mr. Lester.
"Oh, the best thing possible. Bill's so jumpy that I never have to be jumpy at all!" Mr. Warner answered. "He saves me any amount of worry. How are the cattle looking, Downes?"
"First rate, Bill says. I thought you'd rather have his evidence than mine!" answered the jackeroo, who had a lively sense of his own limitations. "He's awfully pleased with them. The feed out there is better than usual; even the men's horses are in great form. We had some good shooting, too; Bill was anxious that we should fire as many cartridges as possible, as a warning to possible trespassers."
"Very sound," commented his employer. "No," he added hastily. "I don't mean that for a pun! You needn't look as though you suspected me, Dick. Have some more cake?"
"No, thank you," said Dick, laughing.
"When I was a boy I wanted more cake all the time," Mr. Warner said. "Well, if you won't, how about some tennis? You three boys ought to be ready for a game after a week in the wilds."
The jackeroos were very ready, and said so as one man. They trooped off to the court, taking Dick with them.
"You're not really worried about the blacks, Robert?" his wife asked.
"My dear, no! Old Bill will send a boy in to me long before there's any need to worry. Of course I'll keep in touch with him, but my own impression is that the northern tribes have long ago given us up as too hot to handle." He rose, stretching his great form; like many very big men he was constitutionally restless. "Come on, Lester, and we'll go and see if these youngsters have learned as much tennis as you and I have forgotten!"
The horses were mustered in the homestead yard—twenty or thirty, ranging from Conqueror, towering over the mob, to the children's ponies—Merle's fiery little black, Bobby's quieter bay, and a diminutive Sheltie of ten hands, whose mission in life at present was to draw a tiny carriage sacred to the twinses. It was not yet seven o'clock, and the sun was slowly mounting into a sky of cloudless blue. Mr. Warner stood by the rail, looking over the restless horses. He glanced round, hearing a step.
"Hullo, my daughter!" he said cheerfully. "Coming out with the crowd?"
"Oh, yes, I s'pose so," Merle answered. "Where are we going, Daddy?"
"Oh, just for a ride round, to show the Lesters something of the place," he said. "We might send the cart out to meet us at Gaffney's Lagoon, and have lunch there—it's as good a place as any, isn't it?"
"Yes, I think so," Merle answered. "Will you ride Conqueror, daddy?"
"No, I'll give Bayard a turn. He's pretty fresh, and needs riding. So does Agility, by the way. I think I'll let young Downes go to give the horse exercise; he bucked with one of the black boys on Monday, but Downes can handle him. You'll ride Olaf, of course, and we'll put Mr. Lester on the horse he had yesterday—he liked him; and Mrs. Lester on Delight. What shall we give Dick?"
Merle hesitated.
"Well, he said yesterday he couldn't ride much," she said.
Mr. Warner looked surprised.
"Really?" he said. "I should have thought he'd be pretty useful on a horse—he must have had plenty of riding. Are you sure?"
"Well, I asked him, and he said, 'A little,' and afterwards he was saying he didn't feel anxious if he was on anything old and quiet." Merle's eyes did not meet her father's. She affected to be very interested in a black mare near her.
"Oh, if that's the case, he'd better have something of that kind," said her father, looking disappointed. "I wouldn't have thought he was like that. Let's see—he'd better have old Sergeant; he won't play any tricks with him, unless indeed he goes to sleep." He whistled to a man in the stable yard, who came across to them, and gave him the orders for O'Mara. "Nine o'clock sharp, mind," the squatter finished. "Come on, Merle. I want to go round the new Ayrshires before breakfast."
Merle trotted off beside her father, completely happy for the first time since they had left the station on their eastern trip. This was like old times, when he had always wanted her for his mate; before other places and other people—especially Dick Lester—had come between him and his well-worn routine. He talked away to her cheerily, pointing out the various beauties of the new Ayrshire heifers, and discussing station matters generally, just as he had been always wont to do. Merle's face lost its scowl, and became almost merry. As they turned back to breakfast she felt even charitable to Dick. After all, he would soon be gone back to Victoria, and then she and her father would settle down to the good old ways again.
It did not worry her at all that she had arranged a dull ride for Dick. Sergeant did not shine as a hack, she knew; he had been "general utility" horse so long, ridden by all sorts and conditions of people, black and white, that his paces had become curiously jumbled, and his one ardent desire was to pause and sleep. In her own heart Merle knew quite well that Dick could ride; he had talked to her of Tinker, his own beloved pony, and no one who had seen him handling the maddened bay mare the day before could have imagined that his preference was really for "something old and quiet." Partly she meant to "pay him out" for openly preferring O'Mara's company to hers; partly she wanted to keep him from mounting any further in her father's regard. "Daddy's quite silly enough about him as it is," was her mental comment. "He won't think half as much about him if he thinks he can't ride." Therefore she went cheerfully to breakfast, certain that Dick was not likely to shine on a horse on which Merle herself would have remarked that she would not be seen dead at a pig fair.
O'Mara meanwhile was puzzled. Certain questions put to Dick the day before had satisfied him that the boy could ride! He whistled in astonishment when the message came to him that Dick's mount was to be the ancient Sergeant. He rubbed the horse down himself, and saddled him, still pondering the matter. There was something he did not understand.
The horses stood ready saddled, tied to a fence in the shade of a row of grevillea trees, when Dick came out after breakfast. He was aching to be in the saddle; the milkman's pony had been his one means of a ride during the long winter term at school, and he longed to feel the creak of the leather and the movement of a good horse under him again. Meeting a stable-boy, he stopped him.
"Do you know which I'm to ride?"
The boy jerked his head towards the horses.
"Bay 'orse there, under the tree," he said casually; and added with a grin, "Look out 'e don't sling yer orf, mind."
"Right-oh," said Dick, grinning. He walked towards the horses; and it never occurred to him that the "bay 'orse under the tree" meant old Sergeant. That ornament to his species, with drooping head and slumbrous eye, was probably waiting to go on a station errand; he looked like it. But the boy's description equally applied to Agility, and Dick went over to him without hesitation.
The stirrups were too long, and he shortened them while Agility tried to walk round himself in a way that made it sufficiently clear that he was very fresh. He was a light bay, half thorough-bred; not more than fifteen hands in height and very compact. At the moment he was like a restless mass of steel springs enclosed in a satin skin. Dick slipped off his halter and talked to him for a moment, patting his neck. Then he put the reins gently over his head and was in the saddle with a movement so quick that the horse had not time to realise it.
It was just at that moment that Mr. Warner and Mr. Lester, with Merle beside them, came strolling across from the house. The big man was in the midst of a sentence when his eye fell on the line of horses, and he broke off with a startled exclamation.
"Good God—is O'Mara mad! That horse will throw the boy!"
"Where?—throw Dick?" Mr. Lester gave a little laugh. "Oh, I don't think so."
Mr. Warner did not hear him. He broke into a run, calling agitatedly:
"Steady, Dick—hold him! Let me get to his head!"
The words were lost on Dick. Agility, feeling the light weight on his back, was dancing sideways, giving playful little kicks and trying to get his head down. Dick's hands gave to the strain on the bit to a certain point; then they were steel, and the horse knew it. He reared suddenly, striking out with his forefeet, so nearly upright that even Mr. Lester, who had no nerves where his son's horsemanship was concerned, caught his breath. Agility came down, with all his hoofs firmly planted; stood motionless for a moment, and then began to buck.
Dick sat him lightly, giving to the furious plunges just enough to save himself from jar. He knew quite well how the horse felt—he felt rather like it himself, on this beautiful spring morning, when the very air was like a draught of wine. It was not the first time he had sat on a buck; it would not be the last, if Dick knew anything about it. So he sat quietly, his hands well down and his shoulders back. Mr. Warner broke into a sudden shout of laughter.
"Oh, Merle, you duffer! So you thought he couldn't ride!"
"Who? Dick?" asked Mr. Lester, in a voice of utter amazement.
Merle said nothing. She stood with her black brows drawn together, watching the slight, erect figure on the plunging bay. Agility had nearly bucked himself out; it was evident to him that Dick did not mean to leave the saddle, so he came gradually to a standstill, while the boy patted his neck and spoke to him soothingly. Dick glanced over and caught Mr. Warner's eye.
"May I take him round the paddock? He's just spoiling for a gallop!"
"Anywhere you like," said Mr. Warner, resignedly, still laughing.
Dick gave Agility his head, and the horse went off with a flying bound. The gentle slope of the hill ended in a long stretch of flat—good galloping ground, firm and sound, with the spring grass like a carpet underfoot. They swept round it at a hard gallop, keeping near the fence. Then a fallen tree tempted Dick, and he put the bay at it. Agility asked for nothing better. His ears pricked daintily; he shortened his stride, and flew the log like a bird. O'Mara, watching from the stable yard, gave a hoarse cackle of laughter.
"His ears pricked daintily; he shortened his stride, and flew the log like a bird.""His ears pricked daintily; he shortened his stride,and flew the log like a bird."
"Is it that one you'd be putting on old Sergeant, now?" he demanded. "Yerra, ye might do worse than take him on as horsebreaker!"
"I might, indeed," laughed Mr. Warner. "Oh, Merle, aren't you easily taken in!"
But Merle had disappeared. Endurance, for her, ended when Dick put Agility at the big log; she turned and scurried indoors, her heart hot with shame and disgust. She had been made to look and feel a fool—and it was Dick Lester's fault! Dick, who was always in her way. She hid her burning face in her room, and did not reappear until all the party had mounted, and her father was shouting for her with angry impatience. It was the final touch that she passed old Sergeant, hastily let go, and slumberously cropping the grass; while Mr. Downes, on a fresh horse, capered airily in the distance beside Agility, to whose back Dick was still glued.
Nobody bothered about Merle. Bobby was as close as he could get to Dick, while Mr. Warner and Mr. Lester were riding beside Mrs. Lester. There was nothing for Merle to do but fall in behind them, where she had the doubtful pleasure of hearing her father tell the story of the morning, and of his careful plans for Dick. It was Mrs. Lester who looked round after a time and took pity on the unhappy face, checking her mare that she might ride beside her. The charm of her voice chased away some of Merle's ill-humour; but the sting of the morning remained.
They passed a number of young blacks from the tribe, coming in after a night's hunting, laden with game—wallaby, 'possum, bandicoot and gerboa, all speared or killed with the throwing stick. One man had got three or four bright-coloured parrots with his boomerang, as well as a beautiful black cockatoo. Mr. Warner stopped to talk to them, complimenting them on their good luck, and one opened a skin bag and showed him other prizes in the shape of a fat, stumpy-tailed lizard, a young iguana, and—greatest delicacy of all—half a dozen of the big tree grubs that the black will go far out of his way to secure.
"People say they're quite good—but I don't feel like experimenting on them," remarked Mrs. Lester, wrinkling her pretty nose as she looked at the plump insects.
"I've been very glad to eat them when I ran short of tucker in the bush," Mr. Warner said. "They're really good, too—if you grill them they're very like chicken. But I'll admit that their appearance is against them."
The blacks were in a hurry to get back to camp; it was long since they had brought with them such promise of solid feasting. They said good-bye, and set off with their long, noiseless stride—ball of the foot down first and then the heel, as is the way of natives nearly all the world over.
"Those fellows could go through the bush, with dead leaves and bark and dry sticks lying all over the place, and you'd never hear them," Mr. Warner said. "I've watched 'em sometimes stalking musk duck in the lagoons. They tie a bundle of rushes over their heads and faces, and wade neck-deep in the water, zig-zagging here and there, perhaps taking half an hour to cover fifty yards. Sometimes they get near enough to grab the ducks under water. Sometimes they have to straighten up in a hurry and get them with the throwing stick. But it's mighty seldom they fail to get them."
"Do they supply you with game?" Mr. Lester asked.
"Yes, to a great extent. We can nearly always depend on them for certain things—fish, wild geese, and duck and teal and quail. Of course there are a good many of their delicacies that we don't touch—and we had some difficulty in persuading them that we really prefer game fresh! Payment is in goods or baccy, and they soon become pretty shrewd at driving a bargain. We've had to adopt a regular tariff for ordinary things."
"They are good-looking fellows, as aborigines go," remarked Mr. Lester.
"Yes, far before the eastern tribes. They're taller and stronger, and their standard of intelligence is higher. Many of the piccaninnies are quite pretty little chaps—you saw them yesterday. Of course they all become abominably ugly as they grow old. Their features spread and thicken until they are positively repulsive. I don't believe there's any human being less attractive than an ancient Australian black gin!"
Ahead, Dick and young Downes were galloping, picking out a natural steeplechase course over fallen tree trunks, while Bobby followed as best he could on his pony, delighted when he could make him hop over smaller obstacles. Merle looked at them enviously. She knew her pony, Olaf, could jump anything in the paddock, and yet she was out of it, condemned by her own ill-temper to ride sedately with the elders. Her father glanced down at her curiously.
"What's up, Merle? Why don't you join in?"
"Don't want to, thanks," Merle muttered.
"Well, you are turning into an old woman," he said contemptuously.
Merle flushed and said nothing.
"I believe I'm not too old to jump," said Mrs. Lester. "Those logs are very tempting. Can Delight manage them, Mr. Warner?"
"She'll jump whatever you ask her to," he said. "If you'd really like a few jumps, Mrs. Lester, we'll give you a lead."
"Then come on, Merle, and we'll show them we're not the inferior sex," laughed Mrs. Lester. "I can't let Dick get superior!"
The two big horses thundered off ahead, and close behind them came Olaf and Delight, each capering with joy at the sudden gallop. In and out they went among the trees, finding natural jumps everywhere and an occasional clear space where they could put on speed. The noise of the hoofs came to Dick and the other boys as they circled round the great paddock, so wide that the fences were out of sight. Dick shouted with joy, and bore across until he was riding abreast of his mother, yelling encouragement at each big log. He was more than ever sure that nobody had ever had a mother like her!
Merle shot ahead of them suddenly, and set to work to overhaul her father and Mr. Lester. Her pony was a beautiful black, full of fire and breeding; he jumped like a deer, and took his logs almost at racing pace. Merle sat him as though she were part of him—leaning forward a little at each leap, and lifting him at the log with little inarticulate words of encouragement. Gradually he lessened the distance between him and the great horses in front, making up by quickness in jumping more than the handicap of his shorter stride. He forged ahead at last, so stealthily that they did not realise they were being left behind, and then Merle sat down to ride him in earnest, and soon was far in the lead.
Agility put an end to the steeplechase by bolting. His feelings became too much for him altogether, and he suddenly swerved from a log, and dashed through the timber at such a pace that Dick was only saved from overhanging boughs by lying flat on his neck—in which position he could do little to check him. The others pulled up, in some anxiety, to watch him. He emerged from the trees safely, and shot across the tussocky plain beyond, where Dick at length got him in hand, and he returned more sedately, except for an occasional irrepressible caper. On the way they overtook Merle, walking Olaf back to the other horses.
"My word, that pony's a beauty!" said Dick, looking at Olaf with open respect. "And I say, you can ride!"
The black dog that had sat so long on Merle's shoulders was gone for the moment—routed by the joy of the gallop. She gave the boy something like a smile.
"He's a darling, isn't he?" she said, patting Olaf's arching neck. "He can beat any horse on the place at jumping—you ask dad if he can't."
"Well, I guess I've seen for myself this morning," Dick answered. "This chap's not too bad, either, is he? He can't beat your pony, though." He grinned. "Didn't we have a ripping go! I'm jolly glad I wasn't on old Sergeant."
The brightness suddenly faded from Merle's face. Her eyes dropped before Dick's merry ones. To her own amazement, a lump came in her throat.
"I say, what's up?" blurted Dick.
She managed to meet his eyes with a great effort.
"It was my fault," she said, speaking very low. "I mean, I worked to get you put on Sergeant. I told dad you couldn't ride."
"Well, I'm blessed!" said Dick, in utter astonishment—too amazed to be indignant. "But why?"
"I don't know." She flushed hotly. "Oh, because I'm a pig, I suppose. I'm sorry."
It would have taken more than Dick's easy-going nature could assume to be stern.
"Well, it doesn't matter, anyhow," he said. "You only made a mistake."
"No. I didn't make a mistake," Merle said shrilly. "I knew you could ride all right. I—I told you I was a pig!" A large tear rolled down her cheek, to her intense shame. She felt for a handkerchief, and, finding none, rubbed her cheek on Olaf's mane.
Dick pondered the situation gravely.
"I guess, if you're a pig, it hurts yourself more than anyone else," he said at length. "I say, why don't you knock off being one and be pals? I'll help."
At the moment he forgot altogether that he had no real desire to be "pals" with her at all. But no boy could help being rather sorry for this small, incomprehensible person, with the miserable face. And there was no doubt she could ride!
Merle swallowed twice before she could command her voice. Then she merely managed to mumble "All right"—and immediately found her hand shaken in a manly fashion.
"Well, I guess we'd better canter," said Dick, thankfully putting an end to the situation. "Those other people are getting too far ahead." They cemented their bargain in the way most acceptable to both of them, by a quick sprint across the plain, to join the main body of the expedition.
The paddocks immediately surrounding the homestead were comparatively clear, except for belts of timber left standing for shelter for the cattle. The soil was good, and long ago, when the ground had been cleared and burnt off, English grasses had been sown, making a firm sward. But as the riders went further, the country gradually assumed more and more of a bush aspect, and the good soil changed. They passed over stony ridges, with red rock outcropping from the short, sparse grass and ironstone rubble that necessitated careful riding. The trees grew smaller in character; there were patches of mulga, tall whip-trees with slender tops curving beneath their load of little green flowers like berries; banksias covered with honey-laden blossoms and all a-flutter with the wings of honey-eaters, whose long, curved beaks plunged deep into the sticky flowers. Everywhere there were flowers. They passed swampy patches, full of the fragrance of wild boronia, and murmurous with the hum of innumerable wild bees; near at hand, ti-tree, with flowers of many colours—some scarlet, some pink, and some of tender green and white. There were curious plants with leaves apparently made of flannel, and others bearing blossoms like balls of red and blue down. Later, Mr. Warner said, the plains would blaze with a dozen kinds of everlastings, the crimson seeds of the native hop would vie with the trailing black and scarlet of Sturt's desert pea, and the cottonwool berries, with their white eye would be everywhere. Rose-coloured mesembryanthemums would trail a gorgeous blanket over the loose granite on the stony ridges—"beastly stuff it is to slip on when you're galloping after kangaroo," added the squatter, with a callous disregard of beauty.
There were birds in every belt of timber; parrakeets, their brilliant colours flashing in the sun as they went screaming overhead; parrots, more brilliant still; cockatoos, black and white, and a host of tiny feathered people, twittering among the blossoms that garlanded the bare earth. Now and then a curlew stepped daintily away, out of sight like a grey shadow, but sure to be ceaselessly watching the intruders from its hiding place. Wild turkeys passed overhead, in swift flight, or black swans, spread fan-like in the sky, the leader ahead, winging their way to some distant lagoon. They saw a group of emu out on a plain—the great birds made off at their approach, their heavy feet sounding almost like a horse's hoofs on the hard ground.
It was after midday when they came in sight of Gaffney's Lagoon, a broad stretch of water named after a stockman who had been attacked by blacks while camping near the shore.
"A good man, Gaffney," said Mr. Warner; "one of the best hands I ever had. He was looking for some lost cattle, and the blacks got round him quietly one night. Poor old Gaffney—he must have put up a good fight, for they didn't get him until he had used up all his ammunition. He had been in Canada, in the North-West Mounted Police, and he could shoot quicker than any man I ever saw."
"They killed him?" asked Dick, wide-eyed.
"Oh, yes, poor old chap. There were nearly twenty spears in him. But there were dead blacks all round him—he had a good escort to the next world. I don't think he'd missed a single shot."
"A pity to lose a man like that," said Mr. Lester.
"Yes, it was bad luck, though it was the sort of finish he had always hoped to get. I used to have great yarns with Gaffney, and the one end he didn't want was to die in his bed. That fellow Stevenson would have appealed to him, with his 'Under the wide and starry sky.' And he did good, even in his death, for his last fight gave the blacks such a wholesome dread of the white man's capabilities that they sheered off for a long time. That was fifteen years ago, and I don't think they ever came so close in again." Mr. Warner pointed ahead with his whip. "Do you see our camp fire, Mr. Lester?"
A trail of blue smoke was lazily rising under some trees near the head of the lagoon. Near it was a cart, with a couple of donkeys hobbled close by, and across the rough grass came a light buggy, drawn by a fine pair of browns.
"The missus is just on time," said Mr. Warner. "Let's get there to welcome her."
They put their horses to a canter, and arrived at the camp fire just before the buggy came up, Mrs. Warner driving herself, while the twinses, spotless in white, were with difficulty restrained by nanna, whose smile was like a streak of ivory across an ebony surface, as she clung to each wriggling small body.
"The sight of you has a most demoralising effect on them," said Mrs. Warner to her husband, laughing. "They have been quite good until they saw you, and since then nanna has her hands full. Be quiet, twinses, and sit still!" It was noticeable that nobody ever thought or spoke of the Warner babies either singly or by name; being inseparable both in companionship and wickedness, it was not necessary to allude to them as anything but "the twinses." Dick had an idea that they were boy and girl, but as they were always dressed alike, and resembled each other so closely that he was quite unable to tell one from the other, even that was uncertain.
Mr. Warner lifted his restless infants out of the buggy, holding them tightly until nanna was on the ground, and able to resume at least partial control.
"There—keep away from the horses' heels," he said. "Go over and see what old Harry is cooking." The twinses fled tumultuously.
"Harry's an old soldier," Mr. Warner told Mrs. Lester, "and, like most old soldiers, the handiest man on the place. He has a wooden leg, which was interfering very badly with his career as a swagman, when I found him ten years ago; but it never affects his usefulness now. There's nothing he can't or won't tackle, but his particular accomplishment is camp cooking, so I sent him out to fix up lunch for us to-day."
They gave the old man full credit as a cook presently, when they ate the wild turkey, roasted in the ashes, in a jacket of clay, which he had prepared. There were potatoes, also roasted in their jackets, to be followed by flapjacks of surpassing lightness.
"Do you always have banquets like this when you come out on the run?" demanded Mr. Lester. "I'm accustomed to a packet of sandwiches and creek water!"
"My lunches vary," said Mr. Warner, laughing. "They range from turkey, like to-day—but you'll admit this is a special occasion—-to yams and grubs, and I've been more thankful for the yams than for the turkey! You see, you're exceedingly hungry before you take to black fellows' tucker, and when you're really hungry you're glad to get anything."
After lunch they went to compliment old Harry, a courtesy he received unmoved, standing stiffly to attention, but inwardly very proud. Then they explored the shores of the lagoon, when the twinses created a diversion by falling into a pool, in an effort to catch fish which were not there. Mrs. Lester marvelled at the calmness with which Mrs. Warner received her soaked offsprings from the rescuers.
"You might as well wash the mud off them while they're wet, nanna," she told the black nurse, who was agitatedly proclaiming her opinion that "that two-pfeller Mas' Twinses bad babies."
"But, good gracious! how will you manage?" ejaculated Mrs. Lester. "They'll catch their deaths of cold! You must be five miles from home."
Mrs. Warner had risen leisurely.
"Oh, but we know the twinses," she said, laughing. "Their amazing capacity for getting into trouble developed before they could crawl; we never come out without a complete change of clothing for each. If there is fire, or water, or mud—preferably mud—the twinses will get into it. I'll go over to the buggy and help nanna."
"Let me come, too," said Mrs. Lester, jumping up.
That refitting the twinses was no new thing was amply demonstrated by their mother. A clump of bushes, reinforced by the buggy rug as an additional windbreak, formed a dressing-room; from under the seat of the buggy appeared a flat basket with fresh raiment. Nanna appeared presently with her charges, and they were stripped and rubbed down—creating a diversion by contriving to elude even the vigilance of their mother, and, all unclad, making a dash for liberty. The mothers pursued the gleaming little white bodies and brought them back, wriggling and protesting, to be clothed anew.
"You can't have many dull moments," said Mrs. Lester, hugging a twin.
"I haven't," said Mrs. Warner, dryly. "But then, I never had before they came, so really it doesn't matter much. When you have fifteen or twenty grown-up black babies under you, a couple of small white ones really don't signify!"
The twinses, restored to dry clothes, proved unexpectedly docile, and consented to be taken by nanna to visit an enormous anthill, towering in the distance, a column of dried mud. The elders explored the lagoon and gathered wild flowers, until there seemed some doubt as to whether there would be any room in the buggy for its passengers. Old Harry presently produced tea, with old-time damper, perfectly baked. They gathered near the camp fire again, and back across the paddock, scenting the banquet, came nanna and the twinses.
Merle came up to Dick just as they were preparing to go home.
"I say," she said, speaking with an effort, "you can ride Olaf home if you like."
"Thanks awfully," Dick returned in astonishment. "But I'm all right on Agility—and I know you like Olaf better than anything."
She hesitated, flushing.
"I'd like you to try him." Suddenly it came to Dick that it would hurt her to be refused.
"All right, it's jolly good of you," he said awkwardly. "Come on, and I'll change the saddles."
Merle helped at that, slipping her saddle off her own pony, and bestowing upon him a surreptitious little pat. No one but herself ever rode him; she knew every inch of him, even, she herself believed, to his thoughts. Nothing would have made Merle agree that horses did not think. She wondered, rather miserably now, what his views were on being handed over to a stranger.
"I've got to," she whispered to him, "for being a pig!"
Dick did not understand anything of this; boy-like, he rather fancied that Merle was offering him her pony to show off his perfections. It would have interested him more to ride Agility; but, being as good-natured as he was dense in these fine matters, he got up on Olaf good temperedly, and had to admit that he was a far more finished hack than his previous mount. Merle looked pleased at his praise.
"He is lovely, isn't he?" she asked. "Daddy bought him at the Perth show; he's won lots of prizes. He and I are awful good mates."
"I'm sure you are," Dick said. "Jolly good of you to let me ride him."
Across the grass Mr. Warner had suddenly gaped in astonishment.
"Well, I'm blessed!" he ejaculated to his wife. "I believe Merle is repenting in style; she's actually put Dick on Olaf. That's in amends for the ride he might have had on old Sergeant, I suppose!"
"Making amends isn't much in Merle's line," said Merle's mother.
"No, so I suppose we should be thankful for any sign of grace. At least, they seem happy enough now—look at them!"
Two small figures on galloping horses dipped down into a grassy hollow, flashed up again on the further side, made for a big log ahead, flew it together, and fled on again across the plain at full speed.
"That's all right," said Mrs. Warner, comfortably. "They can't possibly be bad friends now."
"No. But isn't it characteristic of Merle that although even the fact that he'd saved Bobby's life didn't make her treat him decently, she's reduced to penitence and friendliness by nearly giving him a ride on a bad horse!"
A week went by, and the Lesters found themselves dropping so completely into the life of the western station that it might almost have seemed to be their own home. They applied insistently for work, and got it; Dick and his father were constantly out on the run with Mr. Warner and his men, while Mrs. Lester lent a willing hand within the house, plying a busy needle at Mrs. Warner's perennially overflowing mending basket, and, by way of recreation, embroidering linen smocks for the twinses.
"They'd be happier in sugar bags!" said their father, looking at the dainty garments.
"But I wouldn't get any fun out of sugar bags," protested Mrs. Lester. "It's mere selfishness!"
The twinses adored her, and constantly impeded her work by climbing over her and piling themselves upon her; at which times the matter would generally end by the disappearance of all three into the garden, where, under a big tree, she would tell them stories of fairies and leprechauns until their big eyes grew round with delight. Merle often formed a third listener. She and Mrs. Lester had become great friends, albeit the friendship on Merle's side was a silent one. Speech was never easy to her; her father was the one person to whom she could talk without constraint; and yet he knew less of her heart than did this woman who had known her but a few weeks.
"I'm really sorry for her," Mrs. Lester said to her husband. "She's just like a chestnut burr; quite sound inside that hard, prickly exterior. It's very bad luck to be born with a shell like that!" So she was unceasing in her efforts to be friends with Merle, and had the satisfaction of seeing the prickles visibly decrease.
As for Dick, nothing troubled him. He bathed at daybreak each morning in the lake with the jackeroos, and added to his learning in the matter of fancy diving, for the Perth boy was a swimmer of note. With them, too, he rode and shot and fished and played tennis, since Mr. Warner gave them a few slack days after their time in camp—"to put on condition," said he. In the long blue days there were expeditions to the out stations, mustering of the cattle, marking and branding clean skins, picnics in the scrub and by the lagoons, and motor runs wherever the roads would allow the big car to go. Dick took lessons in driving from Mr. Warner, and, though his allegiance to horses never wavered, was obliged to admit that there was more in motoring when you happened to be the man at the wheel. There were no dull moments, largely because there were no empty ones; no day was half long enough for all that he wanted to pack into it.
The jackeroos took kindly to the new-comer; he was "only a kid, but a decent kid," Downes said; and he brought a breath of the outer world, with his cheery stories of life at school. He was keen to learn, too, and enjoyed everything so intensely that it was rather fun to have him with them. So they made him one of them, both in the work and play of the long clear days, and in the star-lit nights when they fished in the lagoon, or went 'possum hunting in the belt of scrub that fringed the creek, or came back from a visit to another station, racing through the long grass with all the nameless thrill and leap of the blood that catches alike horses and riders in a night gallop. Afterwards, when galloping days are over, it is the night rides that come back to us most clearly; memories of scented darkness, with only the clear stars overhead; memories of the moonlight, when the ring-barked gums stood ghost-like, throwing long shadows across the track—shadows over which the racing horses plunged, half-shying, too excited to be more than half afraid. They come back to us, and with them come the sounds of the night: the long howl of a dingo in the ranges, a mopoke's weird cry, or a fox's bark; mingled with the tinkle of a bell on a working bullock, grazing fitfully, the creak of saddle leather and the jingle of bit and stirrup-iron; and over all the hot scents of the dew-wet bush. Dick Lester, being a very ordinary boy, did not talk of these things; did not even frame them into thoughts. But a night ride left him glowing, in mind and body; so that his mother, seeing his shining eyes, understood. The child in Dick was fast giving way to the manhood stirring in him; and Mrs. Lester—bring an ordinary mother—found herself looking ahead, proud and yet regretful, clinging to her baby, and yet eager for all that she hoped for him.
Dick came in one night with the jackeroos to find the elders discussing plans.
"We're going to be civilised to-morrow," Mr. Warner told him. "That is, we're going to put on our best clothes and take the car and go calling—the Harrisons at Mernda have asked us all over. Means starting at eleven and not home until dark."
"Oh," said Dick, his face falling involuntarily Calls—in best clothes—did not appeal to him; always they seemed to him waste of time, and here in the free western life, with so many new things to do daily, to go calling was little short of sacrilege. Moreover, the ration cart, escorted by the jackeroos, was to go to the out-stations next day, and he had hoped to accompany it. Good manners came to his aid—but his "That will be jolly!" was like flat sodawater.
Mr. Warner laughed.
"Yes, you look as if you thought so!" he said, at which Dick reddened, grinning. "Well, we meant to give you your choice, old man; there's room for you in the car, if you're hankering after society, but if you have such queer taste as to want to stay and take rations out to old Bill Summers, I've no doubt Downes and Stephens and M'Leod will be glad of your company."
"Oh truly?" Dick brightened visibly. "I'd rather stay, if you don't mind."
"I suspected as much," Mr. Warner said, turning to Mrs. Lester. "No use to offer him flesh-pots; old Agility and a job on the run have them beaten every time! All right, then, Dick; you four can get away early. Send your tucker by the cart, Downes, and you can pick it up in time to lunch at the Ten-Mile."
"I don't fancy we need take any, sir," Downes said, smiling. "Last time we were out with Dick, old Bill made us promise we'd have dinner with him next visit; and Billy Fox was in from his camp three days ago, so we sent him word we'd be there on Thursday."
"Oh, that's all right," said the squatter. "You won't miss the flesh-pots so much after all, Dick, for Bill is safe to have got a wild turkey."
Dick laughed. Damper and corned beef were to him better than any feast which had to be eaten in "best clothes," and inside four walls; it puzzled him to imagine why people should drive south in a cushioned motor-car when they could mount good horses and ride north over the saltbush plains and into the forests of whispering gums. However, it was merciful that no such sacrifice was expected of him. He had been once to the Ten-Mile, and had instantly made friends with old Bill Summers, who, having watched him helping to bring in an unruly bullock, had decided that there was something useful in "the Melbourne kid," and had shown his favour by spinning him long yarns of the bush. It would have troubled Dick to be unable to fulfil his promise to go to see him again.
Later, Mr. Warner talked to the jackeroos in the office.
"Fox reported that the scare had died away; I don't think it ever existed, except in old Bill's imagination," he said. "Still, there's never any harm in being on the safe side, and, though a revolver is a nuisance to carry, it's better to be sorry you have one than sorry you haven't. So you'll each take one; you needn't say anything about it to Dick. Not that he's at all likely to be scared, but he'd probably want to carry one himself, and then the scare would be on my side!"
"I don't think he'd do any harm with it," Macleod said. "We've been teaching him to use one."
"I daresay not—still, he's only a kid, and kids and guns are best apart, especially on a horse that may buck. Tell Bill he can come in with the cart for a couple of days if he likes; a spell at the homestead won't hurt him, and I want to talk to him about his cattle." He went on with other directions, concise and curt, and the lads nodded comprehendingly.
Dawn found them in the lagoon; an alarum clock near Macleod's bed had shrilled its clamorous summons ten minutes before, and he had dragged the others out, awakening them by the simple process of first hauling them, bed clothes and all, to the floor, and then dividing the contents of the water jug impartially between them. He fled, pausing on his way to collect Dick; and the drenched and injured Downes and Stephens pursued them, and took their revenge by ducking Macleod very thoroughly in a muddy corner near the bank, so that it took him some time to get clean. They they dived and swam, and skylarked like four healthy young porpoises, getting back to the homestead with gigantic appetites for the gigantic breakfast which Mrs. Macleay had ready for them. It was quickly disposed of, and they clattered down the verandah and out to the stable yard. As they passed Mrs. Lester's window she called Dick softly.
He went in to her room. She was in a dressing-gown, looking very little and sweet.
"I just wanted to say good morning to you, Dickie," she said. Her eyes dwelt on him restfully—tall and bronzed and eager-eyed, in his soft shirt, breeches and leggings. "Take care of yourself, old man."
"Rather," Dick answered. "You, too, mummie. Have a good day."
"Oh, yes." She kissed him, her hand lingering wistfully on his arm—she could feel the hard muscles under the shirt sleeve. "I'd rather be going with you, Dick."
"Then why ever don't you come?" Dick ejaculated.
"Because it wouldn't be manners," she said, and laughed. "Never mind, I'll hear all about your adventures to-night." She kissed him again suddenly. "Now go on; you mustn't keep the others waiting." From her window she watched him racing across to the stables. Presently they all came out, and went down the paddock helter-skelter, Agility reefing and plunging in the lead. She watched them until the trees swallowed them up.
Early as they were the ration cart had been earlier still. Drawn by two stout mules, and driven by old Harry, it had set out more than an hour before, for it had to visit a number of camps and huts, and the tracks between them were rough and sandy. And, whatever may happen, the ration cart must not fail. To the men in the lonely huts on the out stations it is the one link with civilisation, and the food it brings does not count so much in their longing for its monthly visit as its cargo of mental "tucker"—news, letters, papers, the sound of a fresh voice, the chance of a little new companionship for men who have lived together so long that there is often little between them but silence.
"I don't know how these fellows stick it," said Downes, as they rode along. "Most of 'em come in to the homestead about once in three months; between those times all they see is the ration cart once a month, and an occasional visit from the boss or some of us. You'd want to be awfully keen on your mate to be able to live with another fellow like that."
"Do they ever fight?" queried Dick.
"Oh, sometimes. Not often, though. Of course there are plenty of stories of fellows who have gone off their heads and murdered their mate, but we haven't had them going in for those capers on this station. Now and then a man comes in and asks for his cheque—says he can't stand Bill or Jim, or whoever he is, any more. Then the boss has to hustle to get Bill or Jim another mate."
"Like the old story of two mates who couldn't agree about the bird," said Stephen.
"What's that?" asked Dick.
"Oh, it's a chestnut. They were going back to their hut one night and one man said, 'There's a magpie up in that tree.' The other chap said nothing till a long while after, and then he said, 'That wasn't a magpie—it was a crow.' The first man didn't answer; but next morning his mate saw him rolling up his swag. He said, 'Where y' goin' Bill?' The other fellow slung his swag up on his shoulder. 'Too much bloomin' argument about this camp,' he said—and went."
The boys laughed.
"Well, if you once began to argue, I guess you'd go mad," observed Downes. "Most of 'em know that, and they hold their tongues rather than start any subject that may lead to a quarrel."
"There's one old man at the Three Crows. Well, who prefers to live alone—won't have a mate," Stephens told Dick. "He says it's better to be a hatter than to have the wrong man with him and that he doesn't believe the right one exists. So he goes on being a hatter, and he seems to like it all right."
"He writes poetry in his spare time," said Macleod with a grin. "I camped in his hut one night and he showed me stacks of it. Awful rum stuff. There was one poem that I thought was to his girl. It began:
"Ader, she can't be licked by much,And I have often told her such,She has the neatest little head,From horns to hoofs she is clean bred!"
at which point I recognised that Ada was a cow!"
There was a howl from the boys.
"I believe you made it up yourself," Downes accused him. "It sounds like the drivel you'd write!" Which led to retaliation on the part of the injured Macleod, and they wrestled until their horses ended the matter by going off in opposite directions—the combatants, refusing to separate, being left on the ground still wrestling. The horses were restored by Dick and Stephens, weak with laughter, and they resumed progress.
They crossed a belt of timber fringing a creek that in summer dwindled to a few muddy waterholes, and struck across a sandy plain, where saltbush and spinifex grew among outcrops of ironstone. The grass was harsh and scanty, and the breeze brought with it loose particles of sand.
"Glad we haven't much of this country," Macleod said. "And it gets worse the further you go in this direction—no water, except native wells, and you can't always rely on them; and no grass except dry sticks."
"Can stock live on it at all?" Dick asked.
"They'll eat the salt bush sometimes—in a bad year. But it isn't a white man's country, this sort of stuff, unless you can get gold out of it. I think it must have been intended for that," Macleod said. "Further out in the desert they used to say that at the Creation that part must have been meant for the bottom of the sea, only the sea wouldn't lob there!"
"My father used to prospect in that country," said Stephens, the Perth boy. "He never found any gold worth picking up, and then he struck two dry wells and 'did a perish,' and he wouldn't have got back alive if some other prospectors hadn't found him. He says that where the early miners used to camp for any time they used to cut a spiral ringbark in the big trees, from as high as they could reach to the ground. Then, if it rained—not that it often did—the water running down the tree would get caught in this spiral cut, and flow down the tree to the ground. They nailed a bit of tin there to lead it into a bucket."
"Seems a complicated way of getting a drink," remarked Downes.
"The only other way was to condense—and condensed water wasn't up to much," Stephens answered. "I guess those old prospectors earned all the gold they got."
"Any gold on this place?" asked Dick.
Stephens shook his head.
"They've hunted for it, of course," he said. "Where haven't they hunted for it in Western Australia? This little old State is dotted all over with poppet-heads and mullock-heaps like plums in a pudding. Mr. Warner reckons if you could go down deep enough you'd get gold; but there'll never be the water available for deep mining."
Near the boundary of Narrung they came upon a frowsy camp, where half a dozen Afghans were cutting timber for the mines. They were eating as the boys rode up, and their greeting was not over-cordial; swarthy, hook-nosed fellows in dirty clothes that were a mixture of East and West. Two or three half-starved dogs flew out to yelp at the horses.
"Wouldn't have them on the place, if it was my say," remarked Stephens. "Dirty, lazy brutes, and look at their poor wretches of starved camels. They haven't had a decent feed for a month. I told the boss they'd start a lively fire on the run some day, but he reckons they can't do any harm in this sandy corner. Well, I wouldn't trust 'em." He rode on, muttering, and shaking an anxious young head.
They had reached the eastern boundary line; a fence had to be mended half a mile beyond the Afghan camp, and when it was finished, they turned north, riding fast until they came to more fertile country. They passed the hut where lived Macleod's poetical "hatter," pausing for five minutes' chat with the old man, who was seated on a stump outside his door under a big belar, devouring papers left him by the ration cart; and then on, across a wide, grassy plain, until they came into the belt of timber that extended beyond the out-station, where Bill Summers and his mate spent their lonely existence. The wheels of the ration cart had left a recent mark upon the grass.
"Harry must have hurried a bit," said Downes. "Of course he goes straight from point to point, and we go round all the corners—still, he must have made his mules travel. He's going to have dinner with old Bill, too; it's a great day for Bill. He'll be awfully sick if he hasn't managed to get a turkey and has to give us salt horse."
"Much we care!" said Stephens.
"No, but he does. Bill's what my mother calls 'house-proud,' and he's also jealous of Harry's cooking. He's a great old chap!" said Downes, enthusiastically.
They came into sight of the hut. The cart was standing near it, the mules contentedly cropping the grass; but there was no sign of any of the men.
"Harry's inside advising Bill as to the last stages of the turkey," laughed Stephens.
"Helping him light up his fire, I should think," said Downes, glancing keenly at the hut. "There's no smoke." He looked puzzled. "Wonder if the old chap is out after cattle—let's give him a coo-ee."