CHAPTER III.
“DO you know where Mr. Jim is, Murty?”
David Linton had just ridden into the stable-yard. It was midday, and though the night had been frosty, the sun was so warm that the master of Billabong was in his shirt-sleeves, his coat laid across the saddle before him. He swung himself to the ground as the head stockman came across to take his horse.
“At the stockyard, he is,” said Murty O’Toole. “Miss Norah and Mr. Wally too, sir; they’re handling the new chestnut colt, and it’s the fun of the world he’s been giving them. Mr. Jim had to lasso him before he could so much as lay a hand on him, but he’s goin’ nice and aisy now. Still in all, Mr. Jim’ll have his own troubles when he comes to ride that one; sure, he’d kick the eye out of a mosquito.”
“Has he saddled him yet?”
“Oh, yes; he’s been under the saddle these three hours,” Murty answered. “Mr. Jim hasn’t been on him, of course; he believes in walkin’ a young one round quiet and pleasant, to let him get used to the feel of the leather. ’Twas as good as a circus to see him when they girthed him up; he went to market good and plenty, and did his level best to buck himself clean out of the saddle. He’s the cheerfullest colt ever I seen.” Mr. O’Toole grinned at the recollection. “But he’s got his aiqual in Mr. Jim.”
“I’ll go down and have a look at them,” the squatter said. “Put Monarch in a loose-box and give him a feed, Murty; I may want him again.” He slipped on his coat and strode out of the yard as the stockman led the great black horse into the cool dimness of the stables.
The stockyards of an Australian station form a very important part of its working establishment. A big “run” may have several sets of yards to save the trouble of driving stock far on any direction; but the main yards are always near the homestead—sometimes, indeed, a great deal too near. The yards at Billabong, however, did not err in this respect, being planned in a secluded corner whence they opened upon two paddocks. A belt of dwarfed gum-trees surrounded and shaded them; and beyond this shelter a little lucerne-field led to the kitchen-garden and orchard, so that the house itself was screened completely, and no dust could drift to it, even when, on a big mustering day, the bullocks had trodden every inch of the earth of the yards into fine powder.
To an unaccustomed eye they presented a somewhat bewildering array of fencing. They were completely surrounded by a very high fence of red-gum slabs, laid horizontally and very close together, and finished at the top by a heavy, rounded cap of wood, bolted to the top of the massive posts, and forming an unbroken ring. This fence was calculated to withstand the rush of the maddest bullock, infuriated by the indignities of mustering; and at the same time, being easily climbed, formed a refuge in case of an animal charging a man on foot. The cap, broad and smooth, formed a pleasant place from which to watch the exciting manœuvres below; Norah had spent many a cheerful hour perched upon it.
Within the great ring-fence the space was divided into many enclosures, large and small; from the big general yard, capable of holding a mob of bullocks, to small calf-yards, where newly-branded babies were wont to bleat distressfully for their anxious mothers—little dreaming that within a very few days they would have forgotten all about them, in the joy of a wide run, new grass and youthful light-heartedness. A long race, just wide enough for a single bullock, led from the main enclosure to the drafting-yards. A gate at its further end worked on a pivot; Norah loved to watch her father stand at it as the big-horned cattle came down the narrow lane in single file, turning the gate with a movement of his supple wrist so that some bullocks were ushered into one yard and some into another, according to their class. A man needed a quick eye and hand, and keen judgment, to be able to work the drafting-gate when the bullocks were stringing quickly down the race, the nose of one beast almost touching the tail of the one in front of him. Sometimes two or three of a kind came down in succession, all bound for the same yard, and then the task seemed easy; but often they alternated, and the gate had to go backwards and forwards so quickly that either the tail of the yarded bullock or the nose of his successor was apt to suffer. Branding was done through the rails fencing the race; a brick oven was built beside it, for heating the irons. But this was one of the details at which Norah did not preside. On branding days she preferred to mount her special pony, Bosun, and go for long solitary rides along the bends of the river, or across plains where an occasional hare gave excuse for a gallop.
Altogether, the Billabong yards were the pride of its stockmen, and the cause of deep envy in men from neighbouring stations. Too often, yards are make-shift erections, hastily run up out of any timber that may be handiest, and generally awaiting a day of re-planning and re-building that never comes. But David Linton believed in perfecting the working details of his run; and his yards were well and solidly built, planned on a generous scale that gave accommodation for every class of cattle, and equipped with gates which, despite their massive strength, were so excellently hung that a touch closed them, and only another touch was needed to send home a solid catch. Once the owner of Billabong had seen a man killed, through a gate too stiff to shut quickly before a maddened bullock’s charge; and as he helped to rescue the poor, broken body he had vowed that no man of his own should ever run a needless risk through neglect on his part.
Black Billy was cutting lucerne for fodder as the squatter passed through the little paddock. He turned on him a dusky face full of ludicrous unhappiness. The black fellow of Australia takes kindly to no work that does not include horses; it was gall and wormwood to Billy to be chained to an uncongenial task almost within a stone’s throw of the breaking-yard, through the high fence of which he could catch glimpses of a chestnut coat and hear voices raised in quick interest. He hewed viciously at the tough lucerne stems.
“That pfeller him buck plenty, mine thinkit,” he vouchsafed to his employer.
“Master Jim bin ride him, Billy?”
“Baal—not yet. Lucerne plenty enough cut, eh, boss?”
David Linton laughed outright at the wistful face.
“If I say it’s enough, what’s the next job, Billy.”
“Mine thinkit Master Jim him pretty likely want a hand with that pfeller chestnut,” said Billy eagerly.
“Oh, do you?—I thought so,” said his master. “All right, Billy—cut along; but don’t get in Master Jim’s way. He’ll call you if he wants you.”
“Plenty!” said Billy, thankfully, and fled towards the yards like a black comet. He was already perched on the cap, a grinning vision of joy, when Mr. Linton arrived on the scene, and swung himself up beside Norah.
The big mustering yard was empty save for Jim and his pupil—a beautiful chestnut colt, rather dark in colour, and with no mark save a white star. He was fully saddled and bridled, with the stirrups removed from the saddle and the reins tied loosely back, while in addition to the bit, bore a pair of long driving reins by which Jim was guiding him round and round the yard. It was evident that the colt was not happy. His rough coat was streaked with dark sweat and flecked with foam, and, though he went quietly enough his eye was wild, and showed more than a glimpse of white.
“Hallo, Dad!” sang out Jim cheerfully. The colt executed a nervous bound and broke jerkily into a canter.
“Steady there, you old stupid,” said Jim, affectionately, bringing his pupil back to a walk with a gentle strain on the bit. “He has a curious dislike to the human voice if it’s raised, Dad; and as we can’t expect everyone to whisper for his benefit, the sooner he gets over it, the better. What do you think of him?”
“He’ll make a good horse,” said his father, surveying the colt critically. “A bit leggy now, but he’ll mend of that. How is he going, Jim?”
“Oh, he’s quiet enough; a bit nervous, but I don’t think there’s any vice in him,” Jim answered. “At present he is exactly like a frightened kid, but he’s calming down. I drove him, without a saddle on, most of yesterday, and he graduated to the saddle this morning—and at first I think he thought it was the end of the world. He’ll make a topping good hack, Dad.”
“Better than Garryowen?” came from Norah.
“Better than your grandmother!” retorted Jim, to whom his own steed represented all that was perfection in horseflesh. “Better than your old crock, Bosun, if you like!” Which insult, Norah, who knew his private opinion of her pony, received with a tilted nose and otherwise unruffled calm.
“When do you think of riding him?” asked Mr. Linton.
“Oh, I’ll get on him this afternoon,” Jim answered. “It’s getting near lunch-time; and it won’t do him any harm to have another hour or so getting used to the feel of the leather, and the creak thereof—which is the part he dislikes. I’m not anxious to scare him by mounting him too soon. At present he is gradually realising that I’m a friendly beast; for a good while he was certain I meant to kill him.”
Mr. Linton nodded.
“Quite right—I don’t believe in hurrying a nervous young horse,” he said. “Scare him at first and he is apt to remain scared. I’m glad you’re taking him quietly. He will be up to my weight when he fills out, Jim, don’t you think?”
“Oh, easily,” Jim answered. “When we get back from England you’ll find him just about right; we’ll get Murty to keep him for his own use while we’re away. I don’t want him hacked about by any man who chooses; he is quite the best of this year’s lot.” He shook the reins very gently, and addressed the colt in friendly fashion. “Get on, old man.”
The chestnut broke into an uneasy jog, which his driver had some little difficulty in reducing to a sober walk. He went with sidling steps, hugging the fence as much as possible, as if longing for the space and freedom of the paddocks outside. The corners of the yard had been rounded off, so that he could not indulge his evident inclination to put himself as far as possible into one and dream of his lost youth. It was just a little hard on him—last week all he had known of life was the wild bush paddocks on the outer fringe of Billabong run, where there was good galloping ground for him and his mates on the rough plains, and deep belts of timber to shelter them from the hot noonday sun or the frosty nights of winter. Then had come a time of mad excitement. Men and dogs had invaded their peaceful solitudes, and the hills had echoed all day to shouts and barking and the clear cracks of stockwhips, that ran round the hills like a fusillade of rifle shots. It was all very alarming and disturbing. At first the young horses had been inclined to treat it as a joke, but they soon found that for them it had a more serious meaning, that gradually they were being surrounded and edged out of the timber to the open plain, that they had not even time to eat, and that the deepest recesses of the hills and creeks formed no secure hiding-place from their pursuers.
Then they grew afraid for the first time. They galloped hither and thither wildly, to the great annoyance of the men, who had no wish to see valuable young horses hurt or blemished by running into a tree or under a low-growing limb, in these wild rushes through the scrub. They tried to drive them as quietly as possible; but the horses thought they knew far too much for that, and before they were finally mustered there had been racing and chasing that had brought much secret and unlawful joy to Jim and Norah and Wally, but no little anxiety to the owner of the run. No great damage, however, had been done; gradually all the wild youngsters had been driven out of the timbered country, hustled through the gate that effectually barred them from such shelter in the future, and brought to the homestead through a succession of peaceful paddocks, peopled with sleek cattle almost too lazy to move aside for the drove of uneasy horses. The home paddock had received them at last; and then every day saw them driven up to the yards, where they were left for a few hours so that they might grow accustomed to being close to civilisation, and to the sound of the human voice. One by one they dropped out; a youngster would be edged away from his mates into a little yard, presently to find himself alone when the main mob was let out to go galloping down the hill to freedom. Then real education began; education that meant bit and bridle and saddle, and the knowledge that the strange new creature called Man was master and meant to remain so.
Jim had kept the chestnut colt for his own tuition. Mick Shanahan, chief horsebreaker of Billabong for many a year, had gone to the war; and though every man on the station had a settled conviction of his own ability to break horses, Jim and his father did not, in every instance, share the belief. The chestnut was too good to be given to any chance-comer to handle. Most of the youngsters were destined for use as stock-horses, and might as well be handed over to the men who were to ride them in their work; but not this well-bred baby “with the spirit of fire and of dew,” and with all his nerves jangling from the indignity of being made a prisoner. Jim had been carefully trained in Mick Shanahan’s methods; besides which, he had a natural comprehension of horses, and a rooted dislike of rough-and-ready ways of breaking-in. There was something in the strong gentleness of the big fellow that soothed a young horse unconsciously.
He pulled up the chestnut after a few turns round the yard, and proceeded, as he said, to talk to him, speaking in a low voice while he handled him quietly, stroking him all over. The colt, nervous for a moment, soon settled down under the gentle voice and hand; and so found the bit which he had champed indignantly all the morning, slipped out of his mouth, and an easy-fitting halter on his head. Then came Norah, at whom he was inclined to start back, until he remembered that he had met her twice before, that she also was a person who moved quietly and had an understanding touch, and that she always carried a milk-thistle—an article delicious at all times, but especially soothing to a tired mouth, hot and sore after even the broad, easy bit Jim always used. Norah said pleasant things to him and stroked his nose while he munched the cool, juicy thistle; and then he was led to a bucket, in itself a very alarming object, until he found that it held water which tasted just as good as creek water. After that he was tied up to the fence and left to his own reflections, while the humans who were causing him so much uneasiness of mind went away, apparently that they might seek milk-thistles on their own account.
It was nearly a week since the momentous decision to go to England; and while the life of the station had apparently pursued its ordinary course, in reality preparations had gone forward swiftly. To Brownie the news had been broken gently, with the result that for twenty-four hours the poor old woman had been thrown into a condition of stupefied dismay; then, rallying herself, with caustic remarks directed inwardly on “women who hadn’t no more sense than a black-beetle,” she set herself to overhaul the various wardrobes of the family with a view to the exigencies of foreign travel. Brownie’s ideas as to what was necessary for a long voyage were remarkably vast, and included detailed preparations for every phase of climate, from Antarctic to Equatorial. Mr. Linton had finally interfered at a stage when it appeared probable that it would be needful to charter a whole ship to convey the family baggage, and had referred the question of Norah’s outfit to an aunt in Melbourne who was well skilled in providing for damsels of fifteen.
Wally had written slightly delirious letters to his guardian and his brothers in far-off Queensland, and was impatiently awaiting replies, in much agony of mind lest these should not come in time to prevent his going back to school. The end of the holidays was fast approaching; unless within a very few days permission came for him to accompany Mr. Linton’s party to England he must pack up and return meekly to class-room and playground—a hard prospect for a boy whose head fairly seethed with war, while his pockets bulged with drill-books. His ordinary sunny temperament had almost vanished as he wavered from day to day between hope and despair. To go back would be bad enough in any case; but to go back when his one chum was about to gain their hearts’ desire, taking away with him all that meant real home to the orphan lad, was a sentence worse than banishment. Jim and Norah, themselves torn with anxiety as to his fate, endeavoured to cheer him by every means in their power; but Wally watched for the mails anxiously, and refused comfort.
The question of a suitable ship was causing Mr. Linton no small perplexity. He disliked the heat of the Suez Canal route, and wished to go by South Africa; but although it was possible to decide upon a ship, and even to engage cabins, embarking was quite another matter, since any vessel was liable to Government seizure as a transport for troops. No firm of agents could guarantee the sailing of a ship. The Government was hard-pressed to find transports for the thousands of men and horses that Australia was hastily preparing to despatch to the mother-country’s aid; and many a big “floating hotel” was commandeered within a very short time of her sailing and transformed by a horde of carpenters into a troopship—losing her name and identity and becoming a mere number. No one grumbled; it was war, and war meant business. But undoubtedly it increased the difficulty of going to England, and daily Mr. Linton knitted his brows over worried letters from shipping agents extremely anxious to have the conveyance of so large a party to England, but quite unable to offer a sailing date.
Jim, meanwhile, was preparing methodically for a long absence. Under Murty O’Toole the work of the station could be trusted to go steadily forward, agents being entrusted with the buying and selling of stock. But there were a hundred threads that Jim kept ordinarily in his own hands and which, it was necessary to adjust carefully before he gave up his work. It had been the boy’s ambition to be indispensable to his father. From the day he had left school he had worked for that end, succeeding so far that David Linton, understanding and appreciating his efforts, had gradually put more and more responsibility into his hands, discussing the management of the run with him, and treating him in all ways more as a man of his own age than as a boy newly released from school. Jim was not new to the work, and he loved it; instinctively he fell into step with his father, profiting by his experience, and learning every day. “Mr. Jim’s put his mark on Billabong,” Murty said, ruefully to Mrs. Brown. “ ’Twill not be an aisy matter to rub out that same.”
For Norah the days went by like a dream. The even current of her life, that had known no break but school, was suddenly rudely disturbed. A prospect was opening before her, so vast that she was almost afraid of it. To every Australian whose parents are British-born, the old land overseas is always “home.” From childhood the desire grows to see it—to go back over the old tracks our parents trod, to visit the spots they knew, and to enjoy the share that belongs to us, as atoms of Empire, of its beauty and its tradition. It is ours, even though we be born at the other side of the world; “home”—and one day we shall go to see it. But when the day comes, even if we are older than Norah, we are very often a little afraid.
Norah was torn in more than one way. To go to England! that was beautiful, and wonderful, and mysterious; to go with Dad and Jim, and possibly Wally, who was almost as good as Jim, made the prospect in some way an unmixed delight. There would be the voyage, itself a storehouse of marvels to the little girl from the Bush; strange ports, queer people such as she had never seen, famous sights of which she had heard all her life, scarcely realising that she would ever see them. A voyage, too, with a spice of danger; there were German cruisers in the way, only too anxious to sink a fat Australian liner. It was easier to realise the excitement than the risk, at all events for people under twenty; and Norah and Jim were not quite certain that the appearance of a hostile warship might not add the last pleasing touch of exhilaration.
There was, however, another side to the picture. There was War, grim and terrible, and scarcely to be comprehended; it threatened to grip Jim and take him away, to unknown and dreadful dangers. But War was very far off, and that Jim should not come through it safely was simply not a thing to be imagined; besides which, many people thought it would be all over in a very few months—an idea which caused Jim and Wally acute uneasiness. They had no desire for “the show” to be finished before they arrived to take a hand.
Then there was Billabong; and at the thought of leaving that dearest place in the world, Norah’s heart used to sink within her. Each time she caught sight of Brownie’s face unawares a fresh pang smote her. Brownie was playing the game manfully, and wore in public an air of laboured cheerfulness that would not have deceived a baby; but when she fancied no eye was upon her, the mask slipped off, and her old face grew haggard with the knowledge of all that the coming parting meant to her. Norah had never known her mother. Brownie had taken her, a helpless mite, from the arms that were too weak to hold her any more; and since that day she had striven that the baby the little mistress had left to her care should never realise all she had lost.
Norah did not realise it at all. Her life had not led her much among girls with mothers, though she knew instinctively that they were lucky girls, it was beyond her power to think herself unlucky. For she had always had Billabong, and Jim, and Dad: Dad, who was splendid above all people, being father, and mother, and mate in one. She did not miss anything, because she did not fully understand. Brownie had been always at hand to supply a kind of mothering that had seemed to Norah very effective; and Norah paid her back with a wealth of hearty young affection that made the old woman’s chief joy on earth. Now her nursling was going out of her life, so far that her imagination could not follow her, and unknown dangers would be in her path. They were hard days for Brownie; and Norah, knowing just how hard they were, was heavy-hearted herself at the sight of the brave old face.
Nor was it easy to leave Billabong itself, seeing that no place could possibly be so good in Norah’s eyes. Home had always spelt perfection to her; and its simple, free life—the outdoor life of the Bush, with dogs and horses a part of one’s daily existence, the work of the station better than any game ever invented, and always the sense that one was helping—surely there could be nothing better. If there were, it was beyond the imagination of the daughter of the Bush. So, notwithstanding the fascination of their future plans, Norah clung to each day that was left to her of Billabong, and tried to act as though England were as dim and misty a prospect as it had always been.
Wally ate his lunch with a sober air that sat queerly on his usually merry face. The mail, to which he had been eagerly looking forward, had not arrived; but there was a telephone message from the newspaper office in Cunjee, the nearest township, giving more particulars of the fierce fighting of the early days of the war, and of Great Britain’s insistent call for recruits. The first Australian contingent of twenty thousand men was reported ready to go; there were rumours more or less vague, of warships, British, Japanese, and French, waiting at various ports in each state, to convoy the troopships; but these were only rumours, for the newspapers were not allowed to publish any information that might possibly be utilised by German spies—one of whom was said to have been caught at his pretty seaside home, near Port Phillip Heads, with an excellently equipped wireless in action. Every one was on the watch, and suspicious characters found themselves of unpleasant interest to the police. Small boys in the cities constituted themselves detectives and “shadowed” unfortunate and inoffensive people whose names chanced to sound “foreign,” on the principle that anything foreign might be German, and anything German was to be severely dealt with. Altogether, there was much excitement; and the station book-keeper, who had taken the telephone message, declared his intention of enlisting.
“Another item to be replaced before I can go,” said Mr. Linton, a trifle ruefully. “And Green knows his work, which is more than one can say for most book-keepers. Still, I’m glad he’s going. He’s young and strong, and has no ties; and no man with those qualifications has any right to be rounding his shoulders over station ledgers nowadays.”
“He can’t ride for nuts,” said Wally, despondently, “and as for shooting—well, did you ever see him try? It’s awfully risky for anyone who goes out with him, but very safe for the game.”
“Oh, he’ll learn,” Mr. Linton said. “He needn’t ride—and shooting can be taught. Why this sudden outburst against poor Green, Wally?”
Wally looked abashed.
“I didn’t mean to run Green down,” he explained. “He’ll be all right, sir, of course. I only meant it was hard luck to think they’ll take him, and they won’t take me—and I’m partly trained, at any rate. Silly asses! I’ve been wondering if I got a false moustache—a very little one, of course—would I pass for twenty, do you think?”
The Linton family shouted with joy.
“Oh, do, Wally!” Norah begged. “It would drop off in the riding tests, and everyone would be so interested.”
“Great idea,” Jim said. “But why a little one, old man? You might as well have one with a good curl—and a pair of side whiskers of the drooping variety. They’d lend a heap of dignity to your expression.”
“Get out!” said the victim, sheepishly. “All very well for you to jibe—you’re certain of going just because you’re older. And goodness knows you haven’t half as much sense!”—modestly. “Wait till you get into a regiment at home and they give you a platoon to handle, and see you tie it into knots!”
“Well, you’ll be somewhere handy to take some of the colonel’s wrath,” said Jim, comfortably.
“Wish I were sure of it,” Wally answered, his face falling. “I can’t make out why they don’t write; Edward may be up country, but there’s been quite time to get an answer from that blessed old slowcoach, Mr. Dimsdale. He said he was sorry I couldn’t get into the contingent, but he’s quite likely to change his mind now that I’ve really a chance. Guardians are like that!” And Wally, whose chief experience of his guardian had been occasional glimpses of a benevolent old gentleman who paid his bills promptly and tipped him twice a year, sighed as though his youth had been one long persecution.
“Oh, he’ll be quite meek, you’ll see,” said Jim. “Give them time—Queensland is a long way from Billabong. We’re not going without you, if we have to kidnap you, old man.” He rose from the table. “I must get back to my patient; I expect he thinks he’s had enough post-and-rails by now.”
The chestnut colt was looking sleepy, as though a post-and-rail diet had a sedative effect. He backed and snorted as Jim came up to him, and Jim stopped and talked to him soothingly until he was quiet enough not to resent a caressing hand on his neck, and presently the bridle slipped on so gently that he scarcely noticed it.
“Good lad,” said Jim. “Come and hold his head, Wally, while I tighten up the girths.”
Wally came, and the broad, soft leather girth was adjusted deftly, the colt making no further protest than to walk round several times. Jim ran his eye over him.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Take care, old man, in case he goes to market.”
Suddenly, quickly, but quietly, he was in the saddle, and his feet home in the stirrups. The colt stood stock-still, apparently petrified with astonishment. Wally took himself unobtrusively out of the way, joining Mr. Linton and Norah on the cap of the fence.
Jim leaned forward, patting the colt.
“Go on, stupid.” He touched the chestnut neck gently with the rein, and the colt took a few uncertain steps forward, coming to a standstill in bewilderment. The watchers on the fence were very quiet. Behind Jim two new faces appeared, as Murty O’Toole and Black Billy climbed to good positions.
“Baal that pfeller him goin’ to buck, mine thinkit,” said Billy, in low tones of disappointment. “Him get walk about too much.”
“You let Mr. Jim alone, you black image of a haythen,” said Mr. O’Toole, affably. “Think you can teach him how to break in a horse?”
“Not much,” said Billy, accepting the epithet and the criticism cheerfully. “But mine like ’em buck—plenty! Wish Master Jim him wear spurs.”
“Spurs—on that chestnut baby!” ejaculated Murty, in subdued accents of horror. “Is it to butcher him ye’d like, then? Sure ye think every horse needs as much encouragement as y’r old Bung-Eye. Sorra the horse I’d give you to break, barring it was a camel; I’m told them needs persuasion.”
“That pfeller mare Bung-Eye no good,” said Billy, scornfully—the ancient piebald mare on which many of his duties were carried out, was the chief bitterness of his life. “Mine thinkit she bin fall down—die, plenty soon.”
“Not she!” chuckled Murty. “Don’t you hope it, me lad. Boss bin tell me ’tis Bung-Eye for you until you learn to ride a bit—if you ever do, an’ that’s no certainty, I’m thinking.” Then, as the outraged aborigine turned his eyes upon him in speechless wrath, Murty grinned in friendly fashion. “Never mind—there’s a quiet old pony mare running down in the Far Plain, and we’ll see if you can’t have a thrifle of a turn on her, if you’re good.”
Billy spluttered.
“Boss him bin say I could ride one of the young ones,” he protested. Whatever Billy could or could not do, he could sit any horse that had ever been handled. He had a wild, primeval desire to smite the broad, good-humoured face grinning at him.
“The Boss said that, do ye say? Me poor lad, ye’ve misunderstood him—‘twas to lead one about he meant!” Murty’s tone changed suddenly and his smile faded. “Yerra now—look at that one!” he uttered.
The chestnut colt had made several unquiet attempts at progressing round the yard. The weight on his back troubled him; there was a feeling pervading him that he was being mastered, although he could no longer see his conqueror. When he tried to break into a jog-trot there came on his mouth a steady strain, gentle but quite determined, bringing him instantly to a puzzled standstill. Then came a hint that more movement was required of him—that he was expected to walk. But his mind was far too excited for him to think of walking; he wanted to jog, to trot—to break into a wild gallop that would rid him for ever of this strange, perplexing Presence on his back. He came to a halt again, snorting.
“Go on, old chap!” Jim’s unspurred heel touched his side gently.
A sudden wild impulse came upon the colt. He flung himself forward, plunging violently—snatched at the restraining bit, felt the strain on his mouth and the pressure on his sides as Jim stiffened a little in his seat; and then, quivering with one mad desire to be free, his head went down and he bucked furiously. To the onlookers he seemed like a ball—his head and tail tucked between his legs, his back humped until the rider seemed perched upon the very apex. To and fro he went in one paroxysm after another; writhing, twisting, pounding across yard until brought up by the fence; coming to a standstill with a jerk after a wild fit of bucking and then flinging himself into another yet more wild. Jim sat him easily, his supple body giving a little to each furious bound, but never shifting in the saddle. The five on the fence-cap watched him breathlessly; however secure the rider may be there is a never-failing excitement in watching a determined buck-jumper. And the chestnut was bucking with a determination worthy of his good breeding.
He stopped suddenly, all four feet planted wide apart, panting heavily, with nostrils dilated. For a moment it seemed as though he had enough. Then his head went down again, he sprang into the air, bounding forward with a sudden twist—the hardest buck of all to sit. It was too much for the chestnut himself. As he landed he crossed his fore-feet, tripped, and went headlong to the ground. A little cry broke from Norah, and Wally drew in his breath sharply.
David Linton was off the fence almost before his son touched the earth. Jim kicked his feet out of the stirrups as the colt tripped, and was flung clear, not relinquishing his hold on the bridle. He landed easily, and was up again as quickly as he had gone down, dusty but uninjured. The chestnut lay on his side, panting, for a moment; then, with a scramble, he came awkwardly to his feet. As he rose, Jim slipped into the saddle. The whole incident was over so speedily that it seemed like a trick of the imagination. David Linton gave an inaudible sigh of relief, climbing back to his place on the cap of the rail.
The chestnut was beaten. He had done his worst, culminating in a display that had shaken and alarmed him a good deal and had made his shoulder ache badly; and the Presence on his back had not seemed disturbed at all. It was evident that nothing could be done to annoy him; at the end of a period which had been exceedingly trying for the colt himself, the Presence was quite unruffled; not angry, not in any way moved, but saying soothing things in his quiet voice, and patting his neck in the same friendly way. The colt gave it up. Evidently it was prudent and simpler to do as the Presence desired since in the long run it came to the same thing, after much personal inconvenience if he resisted. The fire died out of his wild eye, and the stiffness of his muscles relaxed. In a moment he answered the rein meekly, and walked round the yard; and when he found that he was expected to increase the pace to a trot, did so awkwardly enough, but without any resistance.
Jim trotted him for a few minutes, pulled him up, and slipped to the ground, talking to him, and patting the wet neck. Then he grinned up at the trio on the fence.
“He’ll do now, I think,” he said. “That last outburst took all the inquiring spirit out of him. You know, he hasn’t one little bit of vice; he only wanted to know who was boss.”
“Did he hurt you, Jimmy?” Norah asked.
“Not a scrap, thanks. I’m awfully sorry the poor little chap came down—it scared him. But he had to find out; and now we’ll be first-rate friends—won’t we, old man?” This to the chestnut, who hung his head meekly and looked comically like a naughty little boy released from the corner. “Hope we didn’t give you a fright?”
“You were too quickly down and up for us to have much time for that,” said his father, disguising the fact that in a moment of paternal weakness he had moved with equal rapidity.
“There’s a lot of the tennis-ball in our Jimmy,” said Wally, bringing his long legs over the fence and descending to earth. “Can’t keep him down—what a nasty bit he’ll be for a solid, earnest German to tackle! Going to rub him down, Jim?”
“Yes—bring me the things, Billy, and take this saddle,” Jim said, addressing the dusky retainer, who hovered near, armed with cloths and brushes. “No, I’ll do it myself, thanks; I want him to get thoroughly used to me. Got a thistle for him, Norah?” And for the next quarter of an hour the colt’s toilet proceeded with a thoroughness bent on impressing the pupil with the knowledge that the human touch was really a comforting thing and led to a tired chestnut baby ultimately feeling good all over.
“There you are,” said Jim, giving him a final pat as he slipped off the halter and watched him trot off into the freedom of the paddock. “When you find out what to do with your legs and arrive at something resembling a mouth, you’ll be worth riding. And now I’m going to give myself a treat by getting on Garryowen and going to see how the fencers are working in the new subdivision; they want a cheque on account, and I want to see if they have earned it, before they get it. Who’s coming?”
“Me,” said Norah, with great and ungrammatical fervour.
“And me,” said Wally.
Jim looked at his father.
“Oh, well, we haven’t much more Billabong time left,” said David Linton, smiling. “Me, too, I suppose.”
“Jim stiffened a little in his seat.”
“Jim stiffened a little in his seat.”
CHAPTER IV.
ONE of the men had found an injured wallaby in an outlying paddock. It had caught in a sagging fence-wire, and broken its leg; the man, engaged in restoring the fence to tautness, had found it lying helpless and starving in a hollow. He was Murty O’Toole, and so he did not knock the soft-eyed little beast on the head, as most stockmen would have done. Murty had an Irishman’s tender heart. Besides, he knew Norah.
“Poor little baste!” he said, picking up the wallaby gently. It made no resistance, but its great eyes were terrified, and he could feel the thumping of its heart. He whistled over it. “Well, well—the treachery of that barbed-wire! Broken, is it then; and me with never a thing to mend ye! Well, Miss Norah ’ll be glad of the chance; she an’ Mr. Jim ’ll make a job of ye, an’ they afther learnin’ first-aid, near as good as doctors. Come along home now, an’ get fixed up.”
Norah had welcomed the invalid with enthusiasm. She had always kept tame wallaby, which make one of the best Bush pets; and this one was a very pretty specimen, the more attractive because of its helplessness and pain. Jim set the broken leg deftly, and Norah took over the care of the patient, which soon grew quite fearless and healed with the clean thoroughness characteristic of wild animals. Before long it could hop about the sheltered enclosure where it lived, never failing to limp to meet her when she came to feed it.
The wallaby’s midday dinner was late to-day, since a job of mustering in an outlying paddock had kept everyone out far beyond the usual luncheon hour. Norah had hurried through the meal, excusing herself before the others had finished, so that she might go to her patient. She was coming back through the sunny garden, swinging her empty milk-tin, when a curious sight met her gaze.
On the first verandah were two revolving figures; one immensely fat, the other so thin that he seemed lost in the capacious embrace of the first. As she came nearer, looking with puzzled eyes, it was evident that they were Mrs. Brown and Wally; and that Mrs. Brown was not, indeed, the embracer, but the most unwillingly embraced. From the open window of the smoking-room came the voice of the gramophone, playing a waltz in time more suited to an Irish jig; to which melody Wally was endeavouring to tune his laggard partner’s footsteps. The unfortunate Brownie, purple of face, did her best; but, for a lady weighing seventeen stone, the task of emulating Wally would not have been easy at any time—and just now Wally appeared to be compounded of quicksilver and electricity. His long legs fairly twinkled; he gambolled and caracoled rather than danced. Glimpses of his countenance, seen over Brownie’s shoulder as he twirled, showed a vision of delirious joy. At the window behind him was Jim’s face, scarcely less joyous. Mr. Linton, grinning broadly, was in a doorway.
“Oh, Wally, aren’t you an ass?” Norah ejaculated, helpless with laughter. “Brownie, dear, don’t let him kill you!”
“If she dies, it will be in a good cause,” Wally returned. “Nevertheless, a substitute will do, and you’re a light-weight, Norah. Thank you, ma’am”—to Mrs. Brown, whom he deposited in a chair, where she subsided gaspingly. “Come along, Norah—let her go, Jim!” He seized his hostess, and they spun up the verandah in a mad waltz, the wallaby’s milk-can, which she had not had time to drop, banging cheerful time.
The gramophone having come to the end of its tether, ended in a scratching howl, and Jim disappeared precipitately from the window. Wally came to a standstill regretfully.
“I could have gone on for quite a while,” he uttered. “Bother you, Jimmy—why couldn’t you keep her wound? Before we begin again, Norah, do you mind laying aside that tin? It’s full of corners.”
“I’m not going to begin again,” said Norah, firmly, “so don’t delude yourself. Now will you tell me why you’ve suddenly gone mad?” Then her eye caught a leather bag lying open on the floor, and her face suddenly flushed with delight. “Oh, Wally, it’s the mail—and you can go!”
“Of course it is,” Wally said, almost indignantly. “Do you think any other cause could have induced me to waltz with Brownie at this hour of day, no matter how much she wanted it?” There came a protesting gurgle from Brownie, to which no one lent hearing.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” Norah caught Wally’s hand, and they pumped each other enthusiastically. “I knew it must be all right, all the time, of course—but it’s lovely to be sure. Were they nice, Wally?”
“Sweet as old pie,” said Wally, happily. “Mr. Dimsdale had waited to communicate with Edward—and Edward was infesting a sugar mill somewhere in the cane districts, and appeared to have taken special precautions to dodge letters. However, he telegraphed to Mr. Dimsdale as soon as he did hear—and he’s sent me an awfully jolly letter, and one to your father. And old Dimmy’s written in his best style, giving me his blessing. And they’ve sent word to school—won’t the Head kick! And they’ve fixed up money. And everything’s glorious. Have another waltz, Brownie?”
“No, indeed, thank you kindly,” said Brownie, hastily, grasping the arms of her chair in the manner affected by those about to have a tooth pulled. “Me figure’s against it, Mr. Wally, my dear, and it isn’t hardly fair. If the day ever comes when you’re seventeen stone, you’ll know—not as it seems likely, but you can’t be sure, and I was thin once meself. Came on me like a blush—and me that active! Ah, well, I’ll be thin enough with worry by the time you’re all safe home again.”
“Rubbish, Brownie,” said Jim, and smiled at her affectionately. “You and Murty will be so busy managing the place that you won’t have time to think of worry.”
“And there’ll be letters every week,” Norah added. “We’ll have such heaps to tell you. And you’ll have to write to us.”
“Me!” said Brownie, visibly shuddering at the prospect. “Gettin’ letters’ll be all we’ll have to look forward to, Miss Norah, my dear—but when it comes to writing them, it’s another thing. I never was ’andy at the pen, as you know. In my day our mothers thought a sight more of making us ’andy about the house and with a cooking-stove. Girls is very different nowadays. Even Mary and Sarah, though goodness knows I’ve done me best with them.”
“Oh, they’re quite good girls,” said Mr. Linton. “They should be, too, after the years you’ve trained them.”
“And they’ll write and say all you want if you’re tired, Brownie darling,” Norah put in.
“I dunno,” said Brownie, despondently, “I’m stupid enough writing myself, but I’d be stupider yet dealing with a—what is it, Mr. Jim dear, when it’s someone as writes for you? Something about ham.”
“Amanuensis?” hazarded Jim.
“Yes, that’s it. No, I’ll have to do my own letters, an’ they’ll be bad enough. You’ll have to excuse them, dearie.”
“The only thing I wouldn’t excuse would be not getting them,” Norah answered. “I’ve had them whenever I was away at school, and you know I can’t do without them, Brownie. Why, you tell me things no one else even thinks of. And I’ll want home letters more than ever when I’m really away from Australia. It was bad enough when I was at school; but to be as far away from Billabong as England——” Norah stopped expressively.
“You’ll have all I can send you, my precious,” said Brownie tearfully. “I s’pose it’s no good for me to make up a hamper now and then? Me plum-cakes’ll keep a year!”
“I only wish it were,” said Jim. “Your hampers have brightened my life from my youth up, Brownie—not that I ever gave one of your cakes a chance to keep three days! But I expect we’ll have to wait until we come home again. One thing’s quite certain, we’ll all be ready for your cooking when we come back.”
“Bless his heart!” said Brownie. It was plain that comforting visions of a culinary orgie of welcome were already materialising in her mind. “It’ll be a great day for the station when we get you all again—and be sure you bring Mr. Wally too. I’ll have pikelets ready for you, Mr. Wally!”
“I’ll think of them, Brownie,” said Wally, his voice very kindly. “And anyhow, one of the best things about getting back will be to see your old face again. There now, I’ve made a sentimental speech. Take me away Jim, and give me some work.”
“Haven’t any,” Jim answered, lazily. “You forget I’ve been out since daylight, old man—at an hour when I believe you were snoring musically, I was giving the chestnut an early morning lesson. He went jolly well too; easy as a rocking-chair. Now it’s three o’clock and I’m thinking of claiming the eight-hours-day of the honest Australian working-man.”
“Well, it’s not often you limit yourself to it,” his father said.
“Don’t encourage him, sir,” Wally remarked. “Family affection doubtless blinds you to the idleness which has so long grieved me in your son’s character——”
“Losh!” said Jim, in astonishment. He rose, and fell upon the hapless Mr. Meadows, conveying him to the lawn, where they rolled over together like a pair of St. Bernard puppies. Finally Jim, somewhat dishevelled, sat up on the prostrate form of his friend.
“I don’t mind your maligning me at all,” he said. “But when you take to talking like a copy-book, it’s time someone dealt with you, young Wally.” He shifted his position, thereby eliciting a smothered howl from the victim. “You needn’t think that because you’re going to the war you can make orations. Not here, anyhow.”
“Take him off, somebody—Norah!” came from the earth, in a voice much impeded by grass.
“Indeed, I won’t—you have me pained, as Murty says,” replied Norah callously. “He never did anything to you that you should talk in that awful way. You might be your own grandmother!”
“You’re not a nice family!” said Wally, gaspingly. He achieved a violent convulsion, and Jim, taken off his guard, lost his balance and fell over—of which his adversary was not slow to take advantage. The battle that followed was interrupted by the hasty arrival of Billy, his ebony countenance showing unusual signs of excitement. The tangled mass of arms and legs on the lawn resolved itself into its original parts, and Jim endeavoured to appear the manager of Billabong, even with much grass in his hair.
“What is it, Billy?”
“Murty him send me,” Billy explained. “Big pfeller shorthorn bullock him bogged in swamp—baal us get him out. Want rope an’ horses.”
“Where?”
“Far Plain. That pfeller silly-fool bullock—him just walk in boggy place. Big one—nearly fat.”
Jim whistled.
“Nice game getting him out will be. Well, you’ve got your job, Wally, old man, and if you take my advice, you’ll borrow some of my dungarees to tackle it. There’ll be much mud. Billy, you run up old Nugget and put a collar and trace chains on him, and lead him out. Take some bags—we’ll bring ropes. Tell one of the boys to saddle our horses—they’re in the stable.”
“Can I come, Jim?” Norah asked.
“Yes, of course; but you can’t very well help, so your habit will be all right; good thing you hadn’t got out of it,” said Jim casting a glance at his sister’s neat divided skirt and blue serge coat. “You might cut along, if you’re ready, and hurry up the horses; Wally and I must go and change.” The boys clattered into the hall and up the stairs.
Mr. Linton, who had retreated to his office, came out at the noise.
“Anything the matter, Norah?”
Norah explained briefly, securing her felt hat the while.
“H’m,” said her father. “No, I won’t come out, I think Jim and Murty can manage without me; and Green and I are up to our eyes in the books. Take care of yourself, my daughter.” He returned to the society of the warlike Green, while Norah raced across to the stables.
A rather small lad of sixteen, a newcomer whom Murty was endeavouring to train in the place of one of the enlisted stockmen, was trying to saddle Jim’s big bay, Garryowen—an attempt easily defeated by Garryowen by the simple process of walking round and round him. Norah came to his assistance, and the horses were ready by the time Jim and Wally, clad in suits of blue dungaree, ran over from the house.
“Good girl,” said Jim, well understanding that the new boy would not have finished the task unaided. He dashed into the harness-room, returning with two coils of strong rope, which he tied firmly to his saddle. Norah and Wally were already mounted and out of the stable-yard.
There was a keen westerly wind in their faces as they cantered steadily across the paddocks. Billabong was looking its worst; the drought had laid heavy hands upon it, and its beauty had vanished. On every side the plains stretched away, broken here and there by belts of timber or by the long, grey, snake-like lines of fencing. The trees were the only green thing visible, since Australian forest trees do not shed their leaves; but they looked old and faded, and here and there a dead one stood grey and lonely, like a gaunt sentinel. Grey too were the plains; their withered grass merged into the one dull colour. It was sparse and dry; even though the season was winter, a little cloud of dust followed the riders’ track.
They crossed the river by a rough log bridge, built by Mr. Linton and his men from trees felled by the stream. The dry logs clattered under the horses’ feet. Looking up and down stream the water showed only a shrunken remnant of its usual width, with boggy patches of half-dried mud between the thin trickle and the dusty banks, where withered docks reared gaunt brown stems. Even the riverside was dull and lifeless. But the wattle-trees, bravely defying the drought, already showed among their dark-green masses of foliage the buds that hinted at the spring-time shower of gold.
“This time last year,” said Jim, “the river came down in flood, and all but washed this bridge away.”
“It doesn’t look much like a flood now,” Wally remarked, surveying the apology for a river with disfavour.
“No—it’s hard to imagine that it was over the banks and half across these paddocks. By Jove, we had a busy time!” Jim said, reminiscently. “It came down quite suddenly; it was pretty high to begin with, and then a big storm brought a lot of snow off the mountains, and whish! down came the old river. We had sheep in these paddocks, and saving them wasn’t an easy job. Sheep are such fools.”
“Sheep and turkey-hens,” said Norah, “have between them an extraordinary amount of idiocy.”
“They have,” agreed her brother. “Our blessed old Shrops. decided that they would like to die—so, instead of clearing out on the rises at the far side of the paddocks, they camped on little hills near the river; and, of course, the water came all round them, and there they were, stranded on chilly little islands, surrounded by a healthy brown flood. Some slipped in and were drowned; the rest huddled together, and bleated in an injured way, as if they hadn’t had a thing to do with getting themselves into the fix.”
“Could you get them off?” Wally asked.
“Oh, most of them. Where the flood wasn’t very deep we just drove the big cart in and loaded them into it. It was too deep in a lot of places, and we had to get the old flat-bottomed boat from the lagoon near the house and go paddling over the paddocks. That was all right, but the stupid brutes wouldn’t let themselves be saved, if they could help it; whether it was cart or boat they disliked it equally, and we had to swim after half of them—they simply hurled themselves into the water rather than be rescued. And when it comes to life-saving in pretty turbulent flood-water, you can’t find anything much more unpleasantly awkward than a big woolly Shropshire, very indignant at not being allowed to drown.”
“Jolly sort of job,” commented Wally. “Water cold?”
Jim gave a shiver of remembrance.
“Well, it was chiefly snow-water,” he answered “I don’t want to strike anything much colder. We were in and out of it all day for three days and the wonder was that some of us didn’t die—poor old Murty finished up with a shocking bad cold. My share was earache, and that was bad enough. But we had a job the week after that was nearly as exciting.”
“What was that?”
“Well, the flood-water went back, leaving a line of débris right across the paddock—a solid belt of rubbish about six feet wide, made of reeds, and sticks and leaves, and all the small stuff the water could gather up as it came over the grass. Dry reeds were the basis of it—there must have been tons of them. Then we had a few days of early spring weather—you know those queer little bursts of almost hot days we get sometimes. I was standing still on this layer of rubbish one morning, looking at a bullock across the paddock when I felt something on my leg—looked down, and it was a tiger-snake!”
“Whew-w!” whistled Wally.
“Only a little chap—but any tiger-snake is big enough to be nasty,” Jim said. “It seemed puzzled by my leather gaiter; I kicked it off and picked up a stick to kill it. And I nearly picked up another snake!”
“Some people are never satisfied,” Wally said, severely. “Were you trying to qualify for a snake-charmer?”
“Not much—I can’t stand the brutes,” Jim answered. “I killed those two and then went hunting among the rubbish—and do you know, it was simply alive with snakes! The flood had brought them, I suppose, and the warm sun had encouraged them to come out; anyhow, there they were, and a nice job we had getting rid of them. I killed eight or ten more, and then it struck me that the occupation was likely to last some time, so I went home to lunch, and brought the men out afterwards. We had to turn over every bit of that rubbish with forks—it was too damp to burn—and I forget how many snakes we got altogether, but it was enough to stock a menagerie a good many times over. Beastly game—we all saw snakes for a week after it was finished, and I dreamed of them every night.”
“I should think you did,” Wally said, with sympathy. “Did any one get bitten?”
“No—they were all pretty small and very sleepy. I daresay they thought it was a little rough on them; after all, they hadn’t asked to be brought from their happy homes and dumped out on the plain. But a snake’s a snake,” finished Jim, emphatically. “It doesn’t pay you to show mercy to one because he’s small.”
“It does not; he grows up, and bites you,” said Wally, grimly, referring to a painful episode in his own career.
“Indeed, he doesn’t always wait until he grows up,” Norah put in. “Even a baby tiger-snake can be venomous enough to be unpleasant. I don’t know why snakes exist at all; they say everything has its uses, but I never can see what use there is in the snake tribe.”
“Neither can I—unpleasant brutes!” Wally agreed. “You get used to them, but you never learn to love them—unless you’re a freak. I knew an old swagman in Queensland who made pets of them, though. He had a collection of about a dozen, which he said were poisonous, but I believe, myself, he’d taken out their fangs.”
“If he hadn’t, it’s the sort of thing nobody waits to prove,” Jim said. “You have to investigate a snake pretty closely before you find out if he has fangs or not; and if he has, the enquiry is apt to be unhealthy for you.”
“That’s so,” agreed Wally. “No one ever waited to investigate old Moriarty’s serpents. He made them pay very well; he would run up a good big bill at a hotel, and borrow as much money as he could from men who were there, drinking; and then he would pull out his snakes in a casual way in a crowded bar-room. Well, it used to work like a charm—most men can tackle a snake or two in a room, but when it comes to seeing a dozen squirming in different ways, people are likely to get rattled. Old Moriarty could clear out a room in quicker time than any fire-alarm. The bar-lady, if she didn’t escape with the first rush, would faint, or have a ladylike fit of hysterics; and by the time anyone collected enough presence of mind to return, Moriarty would be far away, generally helping himself to a couple of bottles of whisky as he went.”
“Horrid old pig!” was Norah’s comment.
“He wasn’t a nice man,” Wally agreed. “Still I suppose you might call him a genius in his own particular line. Anyway, he travelled all over Southern Queensland, leaving behind him a trail of memories of serpents and missing cash.”
“What became of him?” Jim asked.
“What I believe becomes of every crank who goes in for snake-catching—he got bitten at last. He lost his snakes one by one; you see, quite often one or two would get killed when he let them loose in a bar, if they happened to wriggle up against a man who was sober and had his stockwhip handy. Then he tried the trick once too often; he came to a place where there was a drover who had seen him play his game in another township, and this fellow warned everyone else, and told them he was sure the snakes were really harmless. So when Moriarty let them go, everyone was ready, and nobody fled—but in about two minutes there wasn’t a live wriggler left of all his stock-in-trade.”
“That was awkward for Moriarty,” Jim remarked “What did he do? Was he wild?”
“I guess he was pretty wild. But from all we could hear, he hadn’t a chance to do anything, because things became so actively unpleasant for him. The drover was one from whom he’d borrowed money previously; and he knew there was no chance of getting it back, so he was annoyed. He told the story of Moriarty’s misdeeds until everyone else felt annoyed too, and they ducked the old sinner in a horse-trough outside, and then escorted him gently but firmly from the township, riding him on a fence-rail. It was summer, so it really didn’t hurt him, but it discouraged him.”
“Still, he went catching snakes again?” Norah asked.
“Oh, yes. I suppose he felt they were his only friends; they must have twin-souls to a certain extent. If a snake wasn’t your natural affinity you couldn’t go about with it in your pocket, could you?”
“I don’t expect you could,” said Jim, laughing. “I can’t imagine doing it under any circumstances whatever; but there’s no accounting for tastes, and your Moriarty seems to have been an unusual gentleman. I suppose he felt lonely without his pets. One would.”
“One certainly would,” Wally assented. “Fancy a dozen of ’em wriggling about you! Anyhow, Moriarty went off into the bush after more, and had pretty good hunting; he turned up on our station with five or six. Of course, he behaved all right there, and didn’t attempt to show them unless he was asked—and, of course, we youngsters were as keen as mustard to see them. We always enjoyed a visit from Moriarty, and he used to be very careful with the snakes, not to run any risks for us. He was really quite a decent old chap, except for whisky; when he couldn’t get any you might have easily mistaken him for a respectable citizen.”
“Is that the kind you keep in Queensland?” enquired Jim, grinning.
“Don’t know,” returned Wally, evenly—“they wouldn’t let me mix in respectable circles since I took to associating with you. However, Moriarty stayed with us a few days, and then went off into the bush again, saying he wanted more snakes. We never saw him again, poor old chap; but one of the boundary-riders came upon his body a few days later.”
“Dead?”
“Oh, yes, quite dead. He had evidently been bitten by a snake. He had a theory that if one did bite him, it wouldn’t hurt him, and he’d always said that he wouldn’t do anything to cure himself—that he was too tough for poison to hurt him. All these snake-charming idiots say that sort of thing. Well, old Moriarty found out his mistake, as they all do—too late.”
“Poor old chap!” said Norah.
“Yes—we were all jolly sorry for old Moriarty. Of course, he was really an absolute reprobate; but he always behaved decently on our station, and he used to be jolly kind to us boys. We were lonely kids, and the place was at the back of beyond—hardly a soul ever came there, and we welcomed Moriarty’s visits tremendously. He was such an unusual animal. Ah, well, rest his sowl, as Murty would say. I don’t suppose he’d have done any good with himself, so perhaps it was as well he went out.”
They had been riding through a belt of sparse growing timber, the track marked by the wheels of the bullock-drays that were sent to bring firewood to the homestead. Now they emerged upon an open plain, where quicker going was possible. Just ahead was Billy, jogging along upon the hated Bung-Eye, whose piebald sides bore many marks of his spurs. He was leading a heavy black horse; one of the generally useful “slaves” to be found on any station, capable of being used as hack or stock-horse, in buggy, cart, or plough, and equally handy in any capacity. It was said of Nugget that in an emergency he was quite agreeable to pulling a load with his tail; and it was known that by means of a halter fastened to that useful appendage he had once “skull-dragged” a jibbing horse home. Nothing came amiss to him. If he had a temper, it was never shown. In good seasons or bad, he throve, and under no circumstances was he sick or sorry. His breeding was extremely doubtful, but in all that matters he was a perfect gentleman.
Billy looked enviously at the unhampered riders as they swept past him. He hated slow progress; to him, as to most natives, a horse was a thing which should be kept at a high speed, and it was the sorrow of his life that the work demanded of him very often meant quiet going. It was bad enough to have to jog over the paddocks on lazy old Bung-Eye, leading Nugget, heavy-footed and with trace-chains clanking dismally, without being forced to watch these cheerful people tear by him on horses that he would have bartered most of his small worldly possessions to ride. He jerked Nugget’s leading-rein angrily, whereof the old black horse took not the slightest notice. Nugget was certainly not a cheerful proposition to lead; he went at his own pace or none, and at any attempt to hustle him he simply leaned heavily on the bit, becoming in Murty’s phrase, “as aisy as a stone wall.” At the moment. Billy was blind to all his undoubted moral excellences.
Half a mile across the paddock was a swampy lagoon. Ordinarily it was fringed with a thick belt of green rushes, which made splendid cover for black duck, and always gave good shooting in the season. Now, however, it was half dried up, and the rushes, withered and yellow, rattled cheerlessly in the keen wind. There was a wide expanse of dried mud near the bank; then another expanse, deep chocolate in colour, not yet quite dry. Beyond was the water, dotted with clumps of rushes, and looking rather like pea-soup. The mud was deeply indented with hoof-marks. A loud croaking of innumerable frogs filled the air.
A dozen yards from the edge stood a big shorthorn bullock, girth deep in water. He was hopelessly bogged. From time to time he made a violent struggle to free his legs from the mud that held them; but each attempt only left him sunk more deeply. It was quite evident that he fully understood the seriousness of his plight. His sides heaved with his panting breath; his great eyes were wild with fear. Now and then he gave a low bellow, full of anxiety.
“I’ll bet he’s cold!” said Jim, with emphasis. “The great stupid ass! Why couldn’t he have the sense to keep out of a bog-hole like that?” He jumped off, and proceeded to tie Garryowen’s bridle to a tree. “Been at him long, Murty?”
“Sure I kem upon him two hours ago, an’ I’ve been doin’ me endeavours to shift him ever since,” replied Mr. O’Toole, picking his way across the hoof-marked mud to meet the riders. His usually cheery countenance wore a doleful expression, and was obscured by many muddy streaks. Mud, in fact, clothed him from head to foot; in addition to which he was extremely wet. He cast a look at his hands, plastered and dripping. “Sorry I can’t take the pony for ye, Miss Norah.”
“It’s all right, thank you, Murty,” Norah answered, securing Bosun. “I wish I had known you’d been at this horrible job so long. I could have brought you out some tea. You must be frozen.”
“Don’t you worry; I’ve something better,” said Jim, producing a flask, at the sight of which Murty’s eyes brightened.
“Well, I’ll not be sorry for a drink,” he said, gratefully. “Cold! It’d freeze a poley bear to be standin’ in that water; and that’s what I’ve been doin’ these two hours, coaxin’ of that onnatural baste. Thanks, Mr. Jim.” His teeth chattered against the silver cup as he drank.
“I knew you’d need it,” Jim said. “This isn’t a winter job. Mud deep, Murty?”
“Och, deep as you like!” said Murty lucidly. He handed back the cup. “ ’Tis good to feel that sendin’ a taste of a glow through a frozen man! The mud’s deeper than the water, Mr. Jim—there’s mighty little of that. Good sticky mud too; it takes a powerful grip of the boot.”
“Have you moved him at all?”
“I have not. He’s precisely where he was when I found him, barrin’ he’s sunk deeper. I tried driving and I tried pulling; Billy an’ I got our stirrup-leathers joined and did our divilmost to haul him out; and I’ve beaten the poor baste most unfeeling. There’s no stirring him. So I sent Billy in f’r ye, and I’ve been employing me time laying down logs an’ slabs all round him, the way he’ll get a howlt for his feet when we do move him—an’ have something f’r ourselves to stand on while we’re getting the tackling on to him. That same is needed.” Mr. O’Toole looked down ruefully at his mud-plastered feet and legs. “Near bogged I was meself, an’ I beltin’ him; a good thing f’r me I got a howlt on his tail, though I expect he thought it was a misfortunit thing for him. But it was him or me.”
“You certainly must have had a cheerful time,” Jim observed. “I’d sooner have lots of jobs than laying down a wood pavement under water in this weather.”
“Well, it passes the time away, an’ that’s about all you can say f’r it,” said Murty, grimly. “Here’s that black image. ’Twas all I wished wan of us had been on old Nugget—we’d have skull-dragged the baste out somehow, before he sank as deep as he is now. But we’ll manage it nice an’ pleasant, with all that tackling.”
“I hope so,” Jim said, surveying the muddy water a little doubtfully. “We’ll have a good try, anyhow. Better stay out of the water now, Murty; you’ve had quite enough. We can rope him.”
“Is it me?” queried Mr. O’Toole, indignantly. “ ’Tis only used to it I am—there’s no need f’r you to wet y’r feet at all. Billy an’ I can fix it.”