"H'm," said Norah. "Well, I'm not Matilda, anyway! However, I opened the gate of the yard. And then I stood there and just gaped at what I saw."
"Dogs?"
"Our dogs are decently trained," Norah said, much offended. "No, it wasn't dogs—it was pigs!"
"Whew-w!" whistled Wally.
"Pigs. They had burrowed in right under the fence; there was a great big hole there. And they'd eaten every chicken, and every egg in the yard. My lovely boxes were all knocked over, and the nests torn to bits, and there wasn't so much as an eggshell left. The poor old hens were just demented—they were going round and round the yard, clucking and calling, and altogether like mad things. And in the middle of it all, fat and happy and snoring—three pigs!"
"What did you do?" Wally felt that this case was beyond the reach of ordinary words of sympathy.
"Couldn't do anything. I chased the beasts out of the yard, and threw everything I could find at them—but you can't hurt a pig. And Dad was horrid—advised me to have them killed, so that at least we could have eggs and bacon!" Norah laughed, in spite of her woebegone tone.
"And he calls himself a father!" said Wally, solemnly.
"Oh, he wasn't really horrid," Norah answered. "He wrote off to town and bought me a very swagger pair of Plymouth Rocks—just beauties. They cost three guineas!"
"Three guineas!" said the awestruck youth. "What awful waste! Where are they, Norah? Show me them at once!"
"Can't," Norah responded, sadly.
"You don't mean—?"
"Oh, I've had a terrible year with fowls," said the dejected poultry keeper. "Those Plymouth Rocks came just before the Cunjee show, and Dad entered them for me, 'cause the dealer had told him they would beat anything there. And I think they would have—only just after he sold Dad mine, a Cunjee man bought a pair for five guineas. He showed his, too!" Norah sighed.
"Oh!" said Wally.
"So I got second. However, they were very lovely, and so tame. I was truly fond of Peter."
"Why Peter?"
"Oh, Peter means a Rock," said Norah. "I heard it in a sermon. He was a beautiful bird. I think he was too beautiful to live, 'cause he became ill—I don't know what it was, but he pined away. I used to nurse him ever so; for the last two days of his poor young life I fed him every hour with brandy and strong soup out of the spout of the invalid feeder. Brownie was quite annoyed when she found I'd used it for him," said Norah, reflectively.
"But he was an invalid, wasn't he?" asked Wally.
"Of course he was—and it's an invalid feeder. I don't see what it's for, if not for the sick. But it didn't do him any good. I went out about ten o'clock one night and wrapped him in hot flannel, and he was rattling inside his poor chest; and in the morning I went out at five and he was dead!"
"Poor old Nor.!"
"So I tied a bit of black stuff on the gate and went back to bed," said Norah, pensively.
Wally grinned. "And what became of Mrs. Peter?"
"Oh, Mrs. Peter was a lovely hen," Norah said, "and very healthy. She never seemed to feel any of Peter's delicacy. He was a very refined bird. There was another show coming on at Mulgoa, and I found among the other fowls another Mr. Peter, and it struck me I would have a try for the prize. Mrs. Peter was so good that I felt I'd get it unless the five-guinea Plymouth Rock man came up. So I fed up the new Peter and had them looking very well the day before the show. And then—"
"Yes?" said Wally, as she paused.
"Then a new dog of Burton's killed Mrs. Peter," said Norah, "so I gave up showing poultry!"
"I should think you did," said the sympathetic auditor. "What did your father say?"
"He was very nice; and very angry with the dog; but he didn't buy me any more valuable fowls—and I expect that was just as well," said Norah, laughing. "I don't seem to have luck when it comes to keeping poultry. Jim says it's management, but then Jim never kept any himself. And it does make a difference to your views if you keep them yourself."
"It does," Wally agreed. "I used to lose ever so many in Queensland, but then things are really rough on fowls up there—climate and snakes and lots of odd things, including crocodiles! When I came down to school I left a lot of hens, and twelve eggs under one old lady hen, who should have hatched 'em out a few days after I left. And the whole lot went wandering and found some poison my brother had put out for a cat!" Wally wiped his eyes elaborately.
"And died?"
"It was suicide, I think," said Wally, nodding. "But I always had comfort about that lot, because I still have hopes that those twelve eggs hadn't hatched."
"I don't see what that has to do with it," Norah said, plainly puzzled.
"Why, don't you understand? If they hatched I must have lost them along with the others; but if they didn't hatch, I didn't lose so many, for, not having them to lose, I couldn't very well lose them, could I? Q.E.D.!" finished Wally, triumphantly. "That's Philosophy!"
"You're a credit to your teachers, old man," said a new voice; and Jim made his appearance behind the fence, over which he proceeded to climb laboriously.
"Yes, I'm a nice boy," said modest Mr. Meadows. "Sometimes I think you don't appreciate me—"
"Perish the thought!" said Jim, solemnly.
"But I always feel that honest worth will tell in the end," finished Wally. "Jim, you great, uncivilized rogue, unhand me!" There was a strenuous interlude, during which the Leghorn chicks fled shrieking to the farthest corner of their domain. Finally Jim stepped unwittingly, in the joy of battle, into the kerosene tin, which was fortunately empty, and a truce was made while he scraped from a once immaculate brown leather legging the remains of the Leghorns' breakfast.
"Serve you right," said Wally, adjusting his tie, which had mysteriously appeared under his right ear. "Norah and I were talking beautifully, and you hadn't any business to come poke your nose in, if you couldn't behave, had he Nor.?" Whereat Norah and Jim grinned cheerfully at each other, and Wally collapsed, remarking with indignation that you couldn't hope to get justice for either of the Linton twins when it came to dealing with the other.
"We're not twins!" said Norah.
"No," said her guest, "I think you're worse!" Withdrawing, he sat in melancholy isolation on a hen coop, and gave himself up, very appropriately, to brooding.
"Well, I'm sorry if I broke up the party," Jim said, relinquishing the task of polishing his leggings with marshmallow leaves and looking at its streaked surface disconsolately. Jim might—and did—scorn coats and waistcoats in the summer, and revel in soft shirts and felt hats; but his riding equipment was a different matter, and from Garryowen's bit and irons to his own boots, all had to be in apple pie order. "Norah, may I have your hanky to rub this up? No? You haven't one! Well, I'm surprised at you!" He rubbed it, quite ineffectually, with the crown of his hat, and still looked pained. "Never mind, I'll get hold of some tan stuff when I go in. What I came to say when you attacked me, young Wally—"
"When I attacked you! I like that!" spluttered the justly indignant Wally.
"Didn't you? I thought you did," grinned Jim. "My mistake, I suppose. Well, anyhow, when you attacked Norah—quiet, Wally, bother you; how can a fellow get a word out?—what I came to mention was that Dad wants us."
"Oh!" said Norah, gathering herself up. "Why didn't you say so before?"
"Too busy, and you and Wal. do prattle so. Anyhow, he's not in a tearing hurry, 'cause he said he was going to have an hour at his income-tax—and you know what that means."
"Solitude is always best for Dad when he's income-taxing," said Norah. "It has the most horrible effect on his usual serenity. My dear old Hermit used to help him, of course; but now—well, no wonder he's starting early! How's Derrimut, Jimmy?"
"Going on splendidly; Dad and I are quite proud of ourselves as vets.," said her brother. "We made quite a good job of the old chap; I believe he'll hardly have a blemish. By George, you should have seen Cecil at that operation! He had one rope to hold and he was scared to death."
"So was I," said Wally, grinning. "I was always as timid as a rabbit."
"You!" said Jim, laughing. "Well, you held three ropes, anyway, and I didn't notice that you looked pale."
"My face won't let me," said his chum. "But I FELT pale!"
"Well Cecil looked and felt it," Jim said. "Of course, you don't exactly blame a town chap for not taking to that sort of thing like a duck to water. Still, there's a limit—and I'll swear Norah would have made a fuss. As far as that goes, Dad says he's known our grandmother, in the early days, have to help at a much worse job for a beast than fixing up old Derry's leg. Lots of women had to. They wouldn't like it, of course, but they certainly wouldn't have made it harder for the man they were helping by putting on frills!"
"Well, you'd hate to have to get a woman to do a job like that."
"Of course you would. You'd never do it unless it came to a question of saving a beast or easing its pain. But if it did come to the point, a decent woman with backbone would lend a hand, just as she'd help if it was the man himself that was hurt. At least, most Australian women would, or most of those in the country, at any rate. I'd disown Norah if she didn't."
"I should hope so!" said Norah, quietly.
"At the same time, I've not the remotest intention of employing you as a vet., old woman," said Jim, untying her hair ribbons in a brotherly fashion. "Quite enough for you to act in that capacity for that rum beggar, Lal Chunder—who's departed, by the way, leaving you his blessing and a jolly little brass tray. The blessing was rather unintelligible, but there's no doubt about the tray."
"Bother!" said Norah, vexedly. "Silly man! I don't want him to give me presents—and that wound of his ought certainly to have been looked after for a few days."
"He said he was going to travel with Ram Das—and old Ram'll see that he ties it up, I expect," said Jim, with unconcern. "I wouldn't bother, old first-aid; it looked tip-top when you dressed it before breakfast."
"I'd have given him rag for it, anyway," said Norah, still troubled.
"He can always tear half a yard or so off that turban of his," Jim said. "Don't go out of your way to meet worry, my girl—it'll always come quickly enough to meet you. Which is philosophy quite equal to Wally's!" He sighed. "Here's trouble coming to meet us now, that's certain!"
I see as I stand at the slip-rails, dreaming,Merry riders that mount and meet;Sun on the saddles, gleaming, gleaming,Red dust wrapping the horses' feet.W. H. OGILVIE
They had turned the corner of the house leading to the verandah off which Mr. Linton's office opened, and where that gentleman was presumably to be found, wrestling with the intricacies of his income-tax schedule—the squatter's yearly bugbear. Along this verandah came, slowly, Cecil, beautiful to behold in a loose brown suit, with buff coloured shirt and flowing orange tie. Wally cast a swift glance at his ankles, and chuckled.
"He's got new socks on!" he said, in a sepulchral whisper.
"Shut up, you duffer—he'll hear you!" Jim said. He raised his voice. "Looking for us, Cecil?"
"Yes," Cecil drawled. "Uncle David asked me to find you. Fed the—ah—poultry, Norah?"
"Yes, thank you," said that damsel.
"Awfully uninteresting things, fowls," said Cecil, turning and walking back with them. "Noisy and dirty—I can't imagine you bothering your head over them."
"They're not dirty when they're kept properly," Norah said, a little warmly. "And I don't think any animal's uninteresting if you look after it yourself. Of course, if you do nothing more than eat them—"
"I assure you that's all I care to do!" said Cecil. At this point, they arrived at the door of the office, which was perhaps as well, and found Mr. Linton half submerged in a sea of stock returns, books, and bill-files.
"Oh, here you are," he said, smoothing the furrows out of his brow to smile at Norah. "I had an idea I sent you for the others some time ago, Jim."
Jim looked somewhat sheepish.
"Yes." He admitted, laughing. "Fact is, I—I got into a kerosene tin!" He glanced at his left leg expressively.
"I see," said his father, with a smile. "Well, I don't know that it matters—only a note has just come out from Anderson, and his chauffeur is waiting for an answer. It seems Cunjee is playing Mulgoa in a great cricket match on Thursday, and they're short of men. They want to know if they can recruit from Billabong."
"Good business!" said Jim, joyfully, while Wally hurrahed below his breath. "But will they let us play, Dad—Wal. and me?"
"Oh, they've fixed that up with the Mulgoa fellows," said his father. "It's all right. They're kind enough to ask me to play, but it's out of the question—even if I weren't approaching senile decay"—he smiled—"I wouldn't be able to go. Mr. Darrell has a buyer coming to look at his young stock on Friday, and he writes me that if I want any of them—he knows I did want some—I can have the first pick if I am over at Killybeg on Thursday. So that means I'll be away from Wednesday morning—and I think this match will be as efficacious as anything else in keeping you out of mischief during my absence!"
"I'm glad we'll have something!" Jim said, his grin belying his meek voice. "Well, we'll have to see who can play."
"You two boys, of course," said his father. "And Cecil—do you play?"
"Not for worlds, thank you," said Cecil, hastily. "It's not in my line."
"Oh," said his uncle. "Then you can be Norah's escort—if she wants to go, that is!"
"Want to go! Well, Daddy!" said Norah in expostulation—whereat everybody laughed.
"Murty can slog, I believe, and of course, Boone is a cricketer," the squatter said. "They only want four, so if those two fellows are willing—of which I'm not very doubtful!—that will be just right. You might go out and see if they're anywhere about, Jim."
Jim and Wally dashed off, to return presently with the tidings that Murty would play "wid all the pleasure in loife." Boone was away at work, but his acquiescence could be taken for granted.
"Then I'll send a line to the doctor," Mr. Linton said. "He and Mrs. Anderson want you all to go there for lunch on the day of the match—a very good arrangement, seeing that you'll have Norah with you. You'd better get away from here quite early; it's pretty certain to be hot, and the day will be a fairly long one, in any case. It will be far better to get the ride over before the sun is very formidable. And if you'll take my advice, boys, you'll make those fellows have some practice before Thursday. You two should be in good form, but they scarcely ever touch a bat."
Jim and Wally approved of his advice, and each evening before the day of the match saw the Billabong contingent of the Cunjee eleven hard at work on a level stretch of ground close to the homestead; while Norah was generally to be found making herself useful in the outfield. Her sex did not hinder the daughter of the house from being able to return balls with force and directness, and when, as a reward for her aid, she was given a few minutes with the bat, to carefully regulated bowling from Wally, Norah's cup of joy was full. She was even heard to say that school might be bearable if they let you play cricket most of the time!—which was a great admission for Norah, who had kept her word rigidly about not mentioning the dreaded prospect before her. That she thought of it continually, Jim knew well and he and his chum were wont, by all means in their power, to paint school life for girls in attractive colours without appearing to be directly "preaching" to Norah; which kindly thought she saw through very well, and was silently grateful, though it was doubtful if her sentence lost any of its terrors.
It was always more or less before her. Her own circle had been too limited to give Norah much experience of the outer world, and she shrank instinctively from anything that lay beyond Billabong and its surroundings. No one, meeting her in her home, would have dreamed that she might be shy; but the truth was that a very passion of shyness came over her when she thought of confronting a number of girls, all up to date and smart, and at ease in their environment, and all, if Cecil were to be believed, ready to look down upon the recruit from the Bush.
For Cecil lost no opportunity to point out to Norah her drawbacks, and to hint at her inferiority to ordinary girls of her own age; "properly trained girls" was his phrase. When he talked to her—which was prudently when no one else was about—Norah felt a complete rustic, and was well assured that the girls at Melbourne would very soon put her in her place, even if they did not openly resent the presence among them of a girl reared in the country, and in so unusual a fashion. She even wondered miserably sometimes if Dad and Jim were rather ashamed of her, and did not like to say so; it was quite possible, since the city boy evidently held her in such low esteem. But then would come a summons from her father, or Jim would appear and bear her off imperiously on some expedition with him, and she would forget her fears—until the next time Cecil persevered in his plan of educating her to a knowledge of her own deficiencies. It is not hard for a boy, on the verge of manhood, to instil ideas into an unsuspecting child; and Cecil's tuition gave poor Norah many a dark hour of which her father and the other boys never dreamed. It would have gone hard with Cecil had they done so.
Between cricket-practice, occasional rides and exploring expeditions, boating on the lagoon, and fishing in the river, to say nothing of much cheerful intercourse, the days passed quickly—at least to most of the inhabitants of the homestead, and when Wednesday came Norah rode across the run with her father to see him on his way to Killybeg. The Darrells' station was some thirty-five miles away by the usual roads; but a short cut over the ranges reduced the journey by fifteen miles, although it was a rough trip, and an impossible one for vehicles. Mounted on Monarch, however, Mr. Linton thought nothing of it; and Norah laughed at his self-accusation of old age as she rode beside him, the lean, erect figure in the saddle giving easily to the black horse's irresponsible bounds—for Monarch had been "spelled" for the trip, and was full of spirits and suppressed energy.
"Take care of him, Daddy, won't you?" she said, a little anxiously, as Monarch executed a more than ordinarily uproarious caper. "He's awfully fresh."
"He'll steady down presently," said her father, smiling at the upturned face. "There's some steep country ahead of him."
"Yes, but he's such a mad-headed animal—and those paths on the sides of the gullies are very steep."
"You sound like the nervous young woman in 'Excelsior,'" David Linton said, with a laugh. "Cheer up, my girl—there's no need to worry about Monarch and me. He's only playful; hasn't an atom of vice, and I know him very well by now. I never put my leg over a better horse."
"Oh, of course," said Norah, cheered, but not altogether convinced. "Every one knows he's a beauty—but just look out that he doesn't try to be too playful on the sidings, Daddy. It would be so easy to slip down."
"Not for anything with four good legs and a fair allowance of sense," said her father. "Do you think you could make Bobs slip down?"
Norah laughed.
"Oh, Bobs is like a mountain goat when it comes to sure-footedness," she said. "You've said yourself, Daddy that it would hardly be possible to THROW him down! But then, Bobs is Bobs, and he's seven years old, and ever so sensible—not like that big four-year-old baby. So promise me you'll be careful, Daddy."
"I will, little daughter." They were at the boundary fence now, and it was time for Norah to turn back. "Hurry home—I don't quite like you being so far afield by yourself."
"Oh, Bobs will look after me." Norah hugged her father so far as Monarch would permit—Mr. Linton had got off to wrestle with a stiff padlock on the seldom-used gate, and the black horse was pulling away, impatient of the delay.
"I expect he will," said the father. "That pony is almost as great a comfort to me as he is to you, I believe! Make haste home, all the same." He stood still a moment to watch the little white-coated figure and the handsome pony swinging across the plain at Bobs' long canter; his face tender as few people ever saw it. Then he mounted the eager Monarch, and rode off into the rough country that led to the ranges.
It was comparatively early, but already very hot. Norah was not sorry when she left the long stretch they called the "Far Plain" behind her, and came into the welcome shade of a belt of timber. She walked Bobs through it slowly. Then came the clear stretch to the homestead, and they cantered steadily across it.
Near the stockyard a cloud of dust hovered, through which might be seen dimly the forms of Jim, Wally and O'Toole—all engaged in the engrossing pursuit of inducing three poddy calves to enter the yard. They had but one dog, which, being young and "whip shy," had vanished into the distant landscape at the sound of Murty's stockwhip, leaving them but their own energies to persuade the calves; and when a poddy calf becomes obstinate there are few animals less easy to persuade. Each was possessed of a very respectable turn of speed and a rooted determination to remain in the paddock. When, as frequently happened, they made separate rushes away in the direction of freedom it was all but impossible for those on foot to head them off and keep them in the corner by the yards. They raced hither and thither like mad things, cutting wild capers as they fled; backed and twisted and dodged, and occasionally bellowed as they bolted, much as a naughty child might bellow. To an onlooker there was something distinctly funny in the spectacle.
Murty and the boys, however, might be excused for failing to see the finer points of the joke. They were hot beyond expression; they were also extremely dirty, and were verging on becoming extremely cross. To and fro they darted wildly, striving to head off the cheerful culprits: lifted up their voices in fruitless shouting, and wasted much necessary breath in uttering wild threats of what might be expected to happen when—if ever—they succeeded in yarding the enemy. Not one had a hat; they had long ago been used as missiles in checking a rush, and now lay in the dust, trampled under the racing feet of the poddies. Moreover, it was distressingly evident that they were becoming tired, whilst the calves remained fresh and in most excellent spirits. The chances, as Norah arrived, were distinctly in favour of the calves.
From a comfortable seat on a rail Cecil watch the battle, for once ceasing to look bored. In his opinion it was funnier than a circus. Once or twice he shouted words of encouragement to the combatants, and frequently he laughed outright. As an entertainment this quite outshone anything that had been offered him on Billabong—and Cecil was not the man to withhold applause where he thought it due. Finally his attitude attracted the notice of the perspiring Mr. O'Toole.
"Yerra, come down out o' that an' len' a hand!" he shouted, panting. "It is laughin' ye'd be, wid these loonattic images gittin' away on us—!" Further eloquence on Murty's part was checked by a determined rush on the part of a red and white calf, which would certainly have ended in freedom but for a well-aimed clod, which, hurled by the Irishman, took the poddy squarely between the eyes and induced him to pull up and meditate. Unfortunately Murty tripped in the act of delivery, and went headlong, picking himself up just in time to stop a second rush by the calf, which, on seeing his enemy on the ground, promptly ceased to meditate. Cecil rocked with laughter.
"Oh, get off that fence and try and block these brutes, Cecil!" sang out Jim, angrily. "Another hand would make all the difference, if you'd exert yourself!"
Cecil's laughter came to a sudden stop. He looked indignantly at his grey suit, and with pain at his patent leather shoes; then, apparently coming to the conclusion that there was no help for it, descended gingerly, and came into the line of defenders. A sturdy little Shorthorn singled him out for attention, and charged in his direction.
"Block him! Block him, I say!"
Jim's voice rang out. Cecil uttered a feeble yelp as the calf came racing past, waved his arms, and executed a few mild steps towards him—attentions which but served to accelerate the Shorthorn's flight. He went by the city lad like a meteor, rendering useless a wild run by Wally, who was just too late to head him. Murty O'Toole uttered a shout of wrath.
"Howly Ann! He's lost him! The blitherin'—yerra, glory be, there's Miss Norah!"
The change from indignation to relief was comical. Norah and Bobs came like a bolt from the blue upon the vision of the astonished Shorthorn, which made one last gallant effort for freedom, dodging and twisting, while Bobs made every movement, propping and swinging to cut him off in a manner that would have disturbed any rider not used to the intricate ways of a stock horse. Finally the calf gave it up abruptly, and raced back towards the yard, the pony at his heels. He bolted in at the open gate, promptly followed by his companions, and Murty cut off their exit with a grunt of relief.
"Wisha, it's hot!" he said, mopping his brow. "Sure, Miss Norah, y' kem in the nick av time—'twas run clane off our legs, we was."
"They CAN run, can't they?" said Norah, who was laughing. "Did you hurt yourself, Murty?"
"Only me timper," said the Irishman, grinning. "But 'twas enough to make a man angry to see that little omadhaun dancin' an' flapping his arrums f'r all the world loike a monkey on a stick—an' pardon to ye, Miss Norah, but I do be forgettin' he's y'r cousin."
"Oh, he's not used to stock; you mustn't be hard on him, Murty," Norah laughed. "Are you very hot, you poor boys?"—as Wally and Jim came up, panting. Cecil had withdrawn towards the house, in offended dignity.
"Hot!" said Wally, casting himself on the ground—
"'Far better in the sod to lie,With pasturing pig above,Than broil beneath a copper sky,In sight of all I love!'
That's me!"
"Don't know how you've energy to spout Dr. Watts at that rate," said Jim, following his example.
"I don't think it is Dr. Watts; I fancy it's Kendall," said Wally, uncertainly. "Not that it matters, anyhow; I'm not likely to meet either of them! Did you ever see anything like the way those little beggars ran?"
"Hope I never will again—with the thermometer at this height," Jim answered. "Norah, no words can say how glad I was to see you return, my dear!"
"I can imagine how much of your gladness concerned me, and how much was due to that Shorthorn calf!" said Norah, laughing.
"Well, he'd have been fleeing yet into the offing if it hadn't been for you," said Wally. "Will any one take my hand and lead me for a drink?"
"We'll go up to the house—it's cool there," Jim said. "I want a lemon squash three feet long. There'll be one for you, Murty, if you come up."
"I will that same," said Mr. O'Toole, promptly. "There's no vegetable loike the limon on a day loike this!" So they let Bobs go, and all trooped inside, where Cecil was found, well brushed, and wearing a martyred expression—which, however, was not proof against refreshments. He even went so far as to express mild regret for his slowness to render assistance, remarking that it was against his doctor's advice for him to run; which remarks were received with fitting demeanour by his hearers, though, as Wally remarked later, it was difficult to see how any one who knew Cecil at all could ever have contemplated the possibility of his running!
"Well, I must go back and help Murty brand those youngsters," Jim said, at length, bringing his long form in stages off the sofa. "Coming, Wal.? And, Norah, just you take things quietly. It's uncommon hot, and you'll have a long day to-morrow."
Norah assented with surprising meekness, and the day passed calmly, enlivened by an enthusiastic cricket practice in the evening; after which she was called into requisition at the piano, and played to an audience stretched on basket chairs and lounges on the verandah outside. Finally the performer protested, coming out through one of the long windows for a breath of cooler air.
"Well, then, it's bed," said Jim, yawning prodigiously. "Norah, the men are going to drive in, with our playing togs, to-morrow; would you rather go in the buggy?"
"I'd rather drive, thanks, Jim."
"Thought so. Then hurry off to bed, for we're going to make an early start." Jim paused, looking up at the star-filled sky. "And I give you all warning, it's going to be a caution for heat!"
I rememberWhat it was to be young, and glad, and strong,By a creek that rippled the whole day long.M. FORREST.
There was no doubt whatever that the heat was, as Jim had prophesied, "a caution." Pretty little Mrs. Anderson, walking down to the cricket ground at Cunjee, between Jim and Cecil, inwardly wondered what had made her come out of her cool, shaded house to encounter so scorching a sun—with nothing ahead but a bush cricket match. However, Cunjee was no more lively than other townships of its class, and even a match was something. Besides, her husband was playing, and the Billabong contingent, who did not seem to mind the heat at all, had arrived full of most infectious high spirits, filling her house with a cheerful atmosphere of youth and jollity. Norah had at once succumbed to the charms of the baby, and as the baby seemed similarly impressed with Norah, it had been hard to remove him from her arms even for purposes of nourishment for either. She had quite seriously proposed to take him to the match, and had been a little grieved when his mother hastily vetoed the proposition. As mother of three babies, Mrs. Anderson knew precisely their worth at an entertainment—particularly on a hot day.
Even Cecil was more than usually inclined to be—if not happy, at least less bored; although he had begun the day badly, and considered himself scarcely on speaking terms with Jim. This attitude was somewhat difficult to sustain, because Jim himself ignored it cheerfully, and addressed to his cousin whatever remarks came into his head—which Cecil privately considered a demeanour showing the worst of taste.
Bobs had been the "unhappy cause of all this discord." The bay pony was always an object of envy to Cecil, and in his heart he was determined to ride him before leaving Billabong. Particularly he coveted him for the ride into Cunjee. It was bad enough, he considered, to be condemned to Brown Betty in the paddocks, but she was certainly not stylish enough to please him when it came to a township expedition. So he had sauntered out when the horses were being saddled, and delicately hinted to Jim that he might ride Bobs.
Jim, wrestling with Garryowen's girth, had found it the easiest way out of the difficulty to avoid hearing the hint—which he considered "like Cecil's cheek," and as nothing short of Norah's own command would have induced him to accede to it, silence seemed the better plan. Cecil had waited a moment until his head came up from under the saddle flap, and repeated his remark.
"Afraid not," said Jim, driven to bay, and speaking shortly to cover his annoyance. "Norah's going to ride him herself." He led Garryowen off to tie him under the shade of the pepper trees, and did not return to saddle Bobs until Cecil had retreated to the house, looking very black.
This little incident—which Jim had not thought is necessary to report to Norah—had slightly marred the harmony of the early morning. But Jim's unfailing good humour make it hard to keep up a grievance, and if Betty were not exactly stylish, her paces were good enough to make her rider enjoy the trip into Cunjee, especially as Wally and Norah were in the best of spirits and kept things going with a will. Then had come lunch at the Andersons', an occasion which called all Cecil's reserve powers into play. Mrs. Anderson was pretty and smart, and he assumed his best society manner in talking to her, monopolized most of the conversation and flattered himself on making a distinct impression on his country hostess. Possibly he would have been pained had he heard Mrs. Anderson's remark to her husband while putting on her hat after lunch.
"Did you ever see such a contrast, Jack?" she asked—"that conceited boy, and those nice Grammar School youngsters—they're so jolly and unaffected!" To which the doctor had responded that if he had his way he'd boil Cecil, and it was time she had that veil fixed—and had led her forth, protesting that "half the pins weren't in!"
Cecil, however, knew nothing of these comments, and was very well satisfied with himself as they walked slowly along the lane leading to the cricket ground. Jim, on the other side of Mrs. Anderson, tall and handsome in his flannels, with his white hat pulled over his eyes, discoursed cheerfully of school matches, and promised them something worth seeing if young Wally got going with the bat—conversation which did not interest Cecil, who turned it as speedily as might be to matters more to his taste, whereat Jim grew silent, listening with a smile hovering on his well-cut mouth to society doing in the city, told with a view to impressing his hearers with a sense of the narrator's own important share therein. Once Mrs. Anderson met Jim's eye in a brief glance, and reflected the smile momentarily. Behind them, Norah, Wally, and the little doctor kept up a flow of chatter which Wally described as "quite idiotic and awfully comfortable!" The party arrived at the cricket ground on very good terms with itself.
The ground boasted no pavilion save a shed used for the preparation of afternoon tea—a building of which the extreme heat made it almost possible to boil the kettle without lighting a fire! Naturally, no one used it for purposes of watching the play, but there was a row of wattle trees along one side of the ground, and seats placed in their shade made an excellent natural grand stand. Here the non-players betook themselves, while the doctor and the two boys went off to the spot where already most of the other players were gathered—a lean-to under a huge gum-tree, used as a dressing-room by most of the combatants, a number of whom arrived on horseback from long distances. The Billabong boys had changed at the hotel, after putting up their horses, and before repairing to the Andersons', so that they had no dressing to do—which was more than fortunate for them, since the lean-to was so thick with men, boys, valises, discarded garments, leggings and boots, that it resembled a hive in a strong state of disorganization.
Finally, the men were ready; a somewhat motley crowd—not more than seven or eight in flannels, while the remainder were in ordinary dress, with occasionally riding breeches and leggings to be seen, and not a few football jerseys. The Mulgoa men, on being mustered, were found to be a man short, while Cunjee had one to the good. So Murty O'Toole, to his intense disgust, was solemnly handed over to Mulgoa. Then Dr. Anderson, who captained Cunjee, won the toss, and Murty took the field along with his new allies, amid heartless jeers from Mr. Boone, smoking comfortably under a tree, who desired to know should he fetch Mr. O'Toole an umbrella?
The story in detail of a cricket match is generally of particular interest to those who have been there; and as, unfortunately, the number of spectators of the famous battle between Cunjee and Mulgoa was limited, little would be served by an exhaustive description of each over bowled on that day of relentless heat. Cunjee shaped badly from the start. Their two most noted batsmen, a young blacksmith and the post-master, fell victims, without getting into double figures, to the crafty bowling of the Mulgoa captain, Dan Billings—who drove a coach in his spare moments, and had as nice an understanding of how to make a ball break on a fast wicket as of flicking the off leader on the ear with the cracker of his four-in-hand whip. Dr. Anderson scored a couple of fours, and then went out "leg before." He remarked, returning to the "pavilion" sorrowfully, that when one was as round and fat as he, it was difficult to keep out of the way of three little sticks! Then Dave Boone and Wally made a stand that roused the perspiring spectators to something like enthusiasm, for Mr. Boone was a mighty "slogger," and Wally had a neat and graceful style that sent the Cunjee supporters into the seventh heaven. Between them the score mounted rapidly, and the men of Mulgoa breathed a sigh of relief when at length Dave skied a ball from Billings, which descended into the ample hands of Murty O'Toole, who was quite undecided whether to treat his catch as a triumph or a calamity. There was no doubt, however, on the part of his colleagues for the day, who thumped him wildly on the back and yelled again with joy. Mr. Boone retired with a score of forty-five and a wide grin.
Then Jim joined Wally, and kept his end up while his chum put on the runs. Nothing came amiss to Wally that day—slow balls, fast balls, "yorkers," "googlies"—the science of Mulgoa went to earth before the thin brown schoolboy with the merry face. Jim, however, was never at ease, though he managed to remain in a good while; and eventually Dickenson, a wiry little Mulgoa man, found his middle stump with a swift ball—to the intense dismay of Norah, to whom it seemed that the sky had fallen. Cecil smiled serenely.
"I had an idea Jim fancied himself as a bat!" said he.
"Jim never fancies himself at anything!" said Jim's sister, indignantly. "Anyway, he's a bowler far more than a bat."
"Ah, it's possibly not his 'day out.' What a pity!" Cecil murmured.
"Well, we can't always be on our best form, I suppose," said Mrs. Anderson, pacifically. "And, at any rate, Norah, your friend is doing splendidly. Wasn't that a lovely stroke?"
Alas! it soon was apparent that Cunjee was not going to support its ally. One after another the wickets went down, and the batsmen returned from the field "with mournful steps and slow." Wally, seeing his chances diminishing, took liberties with the bowling, and hit wildly, with amazing luck in having catches missed. At last, however, he snicked a ball into cover-point's hands, and retired, amid great applause, having made forty-three. The remaining Cunjee wickets went as chaff before the wind, and the innings closed for 119.
Then there was a rush for the refreshment shed, and monumental quantities of tea were consumed by the teams and their supporters, administered by the admiring maidens of Cunjee. Wally and Jim, prone on the grass in the shade, were cheerful, but by no means enthusiastic regarding their chances. Norah had half expected to find Jim cast down over his batting failure, and was much relieved that he exhibited all his usual serenity. Jim's training had been against showing feeling over games.
"Absolutely fiery out there," said he, accepting a cup gratefully. "Thanks, awfully, Mrs. Anderson; you people are no end good. Didn't we make a beautiful exhibition of ourselves?—all except Dave and this kid, that is."
"Kid yourself," said Wally, who was sucking a lemon slowly and luxuriously. "No tea, thanks, Norah. I'm boiling already, and if I took tea I don't know what might happen, but certainly heat apoplexy would be part of it. Have half my lemon?"
"I don't think so, thanks," said Norah, unmoved by this magnificent offer. "You seem to be getting used to that one, and I'd hate to deprive you of it. Do you boys think we've any chance?"
"It's highly doubtful," Jim answered. "The general opinion is that Mulgoa's good for 150 at the very least—they've got a few rather superior men, I believe, and of course that Billings chap is a terror. And the wicket, such as it is, is all in favour for the bat—which doesn't say much for us And one of our men has gone down with the heat and can't field—fellow from the hotel with red hair, who made five—remember him, Wal.? He's out of training, like most hotel chaps, and as soft as possible, So we're playing a man short."
"I wish they'd give you Murty back!" said Norah, with feminine ignorance.
"Much hope!" returned her brother. "Anyway, Murty's not over good in the field; he's too much in the saddle to be a quick man on his feet. I wouldn't mind you as substitute, Nor."—which remark, though futile, pleased Norah exceedingly.
She was rather more hopeful when the Cunjee team at length took the field, with Boone and the blacksmith bowling against Billings and another noted Mulgoa warrior. But her hopes were rapidly put to flight, and the spirits of the Cunjee "barrackers" went down to zero as it became distressingly apparent that Mr. Billings and his partner were there to stay. Alike they treated the bowling with indifference, hitting the Billabong stockman with especial success—which soon demoralized Dave, who appealed to be taken off, and devoted his energies to short slip fielding. Here he had his revenge presently, for the second Mulgoa man hit a ball almost into his hands, and Dave clung to it as a drowning man to a straw—one wicket for thirty-five.
Then the score mounted with alarming steadiness, and the wickets fell all too slowly for the home team. Dan Billings appeared as comfortable at the wickets as though on the box of his coach, and smote the bowling all round the ground with impartiality. The heat became more and more oppressive, and several of the Cunjee men were tiring, including plump little Dr. Anderson, who stuck to his work as wicket-keeper pluckily—to the unconcealed anxiety of his wife. His reward came when a hot return from the field by Wally gave him a chance of stumping one of the Mulgoa cracks. But the enthusiasm was only momentary; the game was considered, even by the most sanguine small boy of Cunjee, to be "all over bar shouting."
Jim had been bowling for some time from one end with fair results. The batsmen certainly took fewer liberties with him, and he managed to account for three of them for a comparatively low average. He had allowed himself to become anxious, which is a bad thing for a bowler when the score is creeping up and the batsmen are well set. Wally watched his chum with some anxiety—there was none of the fire in his bowling that had so often brought down the ground in a School match.
"Wish he'd wake up," said Wally to himself. "I'd like a chance to talk to him."
The chance came when the field crossed over, disposed anew to harry a left-handed batsman. Jim came over with his long, swinging walk, his head a little bent. He started a little at his friend's voice.
"You'll snore soon!" said Wally, incisively. "What on earth's the matter with you? Play up, School!"
Jim stopped short a moment—and burst out laughing, Wally's indignant face glanced back over his shoulder as he ran off. There was a new spring in the bowler's walk as he went to his crease, and the smile still lingered.
The left-handed man faced him confidently—not many local bowlers could trouble him much, and being a large and well-whiskered gentleman, the tall schoolboy opposite to him sent no thrill of fear through his soul. But Jim had learned a thing or two at school about left-handed bats. He took a short run.
On returning to the pavilion the whiskered one admitted that he knew really nothing about the ball. It seemed to come from nowhere, and curl about his bat as he lifted it to strike. How the bails came off was a mystery to him, though it was unfortunately beyond question that they had not remained on. The left-hander removed his pads, ruminating.
Cunjee, meanwhile, had cheered frantically, and Wally sent a School yell ringing down the field. Jim's eye lit up anew as he heard it.
"I do believe I've been asleep," he muttered.
The new man was waiting for him, and he treated his first two balls with respect. Then he grew bolder; hit him for a single, and snicked him to the fence for four. There was a perceptible droop in the Cunjee spirits at the boundary hit. Then Jim bowled the last ball of the over, and there was a composite yell from Cunjee as the Mulgoa man pushed the ball gently into the air just over Dr. Anderson's head. The little doctor was pitifully hot, but he did not fail. The Mulgoa batsman returned to his friends.
Dan Billings was a little worried. Much, he felt, depended on him, and he had never been more comfortably set; but his men—would they be as reliable? He decided to hit out, and Mulgoa roared as the hundred went up for a beautiful boundary hit. Six wickets were down, and Mulgoa was 107 at the end of the over. It seemed safe enough.
Jim took the ball again, his fingers pressing the red surface almost lovingly. He had quite waked up; his head was buzzing with "theories," and his old power seemed to have come back to his fingers. The first ball came with a beautiful leg-break, and the Mulgoan bat swiped at it wildly, and vainly. Seven for 107.
Cunjee was getting excited as the eighth man came in—a wiry and long youth with a stolid face. He contented himself with blocking Jim's bowling, snatching a single presently so that Billings would have the responsibility—to which that gentleman promptly responded by smiting Jim for three. That brought the stolid youth back to power—an honour he did not wish. He hit the next ball softly back to the bowler. Eight for 111; and Cunjee howling steadily, with all its youth, and some of its beauty, battering with sticks on tins. A dog ran across the ground, and was greeted with a yell that made it scurry away in terror, its tail concealed between its legs. Just then Cunjee had no time for dogs.
But it was Mr. Billings' turn, and Mr. Billings was busy. He made good use of the over—the score mounted, and the Cunjee hopes swung lower. It was still eight—for 115—when a single brought his companion to face little Harry Blake, the other Cunjee bowler, who was plainly feeling the weight of his position. He sent the ball down nervously—it slipped as it left his hand, and the Mulgoan stepped out to meet it, while Harry gasped with horror. Up, up, it soared—a boundary surely! Then there was a roar as Wally Meadows gathered himself together, raced, and sprang for the red disc, spinning over his head just at the fence. It seemed to hover above him—then his hands closed, and, unable to stop himself, Wally somersaulted, rolling over and over in the long grass of the outfield. He sat up, his brown face lit by a wide smile, the ball still clutched, held above his head. Nine for 115!
The tension was on bowlers and batsmen alike now—all save Dan Billings, whose calmness was unimpaired. He greeted the tenth man cheerfully—and the tenth man was Murty O'Toole, very hot and nervous, and certainly the most miserable man on the ground as he faced "Masther Jim's" bowling, and knew that the alien hopes of Mulgoa depended on him. Out in the open a Mulgoa man shrugged his shoulders, remarking, "He won't try!" and was promptly attacked furiously by three small boys of Cunjee, who pelted him with clods and abuse from a safe distance. Murty looked at Jim with a little half-apologetic gesture, and Jim grinned.
"Play up, Murty, old chap!" he said.
It was not in vain that he had schooled the stockman in the paddock at Billabong. He sent down a treacherous ball, and Murty met it and played it boldly for two, amid Mulgoan shrieks. Two to tie and three to win—no, one fewer now, for the Irishman had turned a swift ball to leg, and only quick fielding had prevented a boundary. A hundred and seventeen! Murty heaved a sigh of relief as he leaned on his bat at the bowler's end and glanced across at Jim.
"Praises be, 'twill be Billings to hit it, an' not O'Toole!" he muttered. "I have put me fut in it sufficient f'r wance!"
The ball left Jim's hand with a whizz, and Billings stepped out to meet it. Just what happened no one saw clearly for a moment, it all came to pass so quickly. Then an Irish yell from Murty O'Toole woke the echoes, even as the bowler's hand flashed up above his head—and the big stockman flung up his bat in an ecstasy of delight. Billings bit off a sharp word and left his crease; and Cunjee woke to the fact that the Mulgoan captain was caught and bowled. The match was theirs—by one run!
When Cunjee woke it became very thoroughly awake. They rushed the ground, cheering, shouting and hurling hats and caps into the air, irrespective of their owners' wishes. There was a demonstration to carry Jim in, which that hero promptly quenched by taking to his heels and leaving his too affectionate friends far in the rear. Behind him Cunjee and Mulgoa seethed together, and the air was rent with cheers. Free fights were in active progress in at least five places on the ground. It was clearly Cunjee's day out.
Jim met Wally with a grin that was distinctly sheepish.
"Knew you could!" said the Mentor, patting him happily on the back. "Good old School! But what an ass you were, Jimmy!"
"I was," said Jim, meekly.