In the gathering of night-gloom o'erhead inThe still, silent change.GORDON.
"Well, old girl?"
Norah laughed up at the big fellow delightedly.
"Oh, wasn't it lovely, Jimmy?" she said. "I was so excited—and you were grand! And wasn't Wally's catch a beauty? It's been a lovely match, hasn't it, Jim?"
"H'm—in spots," said Jim, a little doubtfully, but laughing back at her. "Rather like the fellow who said his egg was 'excellent—in parts,' don't you think? Anyhow, we won, and that's the main thing—and I never DID see a catch to beat that of Wal's."
"We're all immensely proud of you, Jim," Mrs. Anderson said. "And didn't my old man do well?"
"He did, indeed," Jim agreed heartily. "But I'm not a bit proud of myself—I think I was asleep most of the time, till old Wal., here, woke me up with a few well-chosen words. However, it's over now—and Norah, I want you to get along home."
"Aren't you coming?" Norah asked, a little blankly.
"We'll have to catch you up. I don't quite like the look of the weather; we're in for a storm, that's certain, and you may possibly escape it if you get away now. I can't start just yet; the Mulgoa fellows are insisting on 'shouting' for all hands, and we can't very well refuse; besides"—he dropped his voice—"you know what Boone is—I must see that he and Murty leave Cunjee. Cecil will look after you, won't you, Cecil?"
That gentleman assented without any pleasure. He did not feel impressed with the prospect of acting as escort to a small girl when he might have remained in Cunjee. Norah was quick to notice his manner.
"I needn't bother Cecil, Jim," she said, "I can quite easily ride on by myself."
"Indeed you won't," her brother responded. "Why, it'll be dark before long—let alone the state of the weather. You don't mind, Cecil, do you?"
Thus directly questioned, Cecil could do nothing but express his entire willingness.
"That's all right, then," Jim said. "Hurry on down to the hotel and get the saddles on, there's a good chap. Goodness knows whether you'll find any one there, but I fancy that pretty well the whole township is up at the match. You'll only escape that storm if you're lucky—don't lose a minute." He made his farewells to Mrs. Anderson, and turned to Norah again. "Better look after your own girth," he told her—"run after Cecil and lend him a hand if he wants it."
Cecil had already started; his slim, correctly attired figure was hastening along the dusty lane. He hated rain, and the hint of the coming storm had made him hurry when no other consideration would have done so. There was no one visible about the hotel yard, as he entered, and he called in vain; then, seeing no help for it, he entered the stables, where the Billabong horses occupied the stalls at one end. Bobs whinnied sharply as the door opened, and Cecil looked at the inquiring head; and then, sourly, towards Brown Betty, standing peacefully, half asleep, in her stall.
"Wonder if she'd mind?" Cecil muttered, pondering. "Let her, anyhow!" With which cryptic remarks he moved towards the saddles.
Norah arrived on the scene a few minutes later, coming straight to the stables. For a moment she could not see Cecil, then, peering into Betty's stall, she made him out, busily girthing up. Bobs was already saddled, and Norah went up to him.
"Why, you have been quick, Cecil," she said, cheerfully. "I thought I was going to help you, but there doesn't seem anything for me to do. Thanks very much for saddling Bobs." She led the pony out, and then stopped. "Oh, what a pity," she said. "You've got the wrong saddles on, Cecil."
Cecil came out, leading the brown mare, and a little flushed.
"I did it on—ah—purpose," he said. "You don't mind, I suppose if I ride Bobs home?"
Norah looked at him a moment, and then flushed in her turn. To let her cousin ride Bobs seventeen miles was unthinkable. She had the profoundest regard for her pony's back; and she knew that even Brown Betty's seasoned hide was giving way under the unskilled horsemanship of the city boy. It was very doubtful, moreover, that it would be safe to mount him on Bobs, who was already excited with the coming storm and the prospect of home. She knew every turn, and thought of the high-spirited pony—he went quietly for her, but with a new-chum it might be a different matter.
Moreover, Norah was distinctly annoyed. She was a sweet-tempered maiden, but she did not like being treated lightly; and in assuming that he might coolly appropriate her special property, it seemed to her that Cecil was treating her very lightly indeed. She had a moment's swift wish that Jim were there to take her part. It was not quite easy to oppose any one nearly grown up like Cecil—who in addition was a guest, and had a special claim on courtesy. She flushed deeply as she answered him in a low voice.
"I can't let you ride Bobs, I'm afraid, Cecil."
"Oh, can't you?" said Cecil, staring. "Why not?"
"Well, no one rides him but me," said Norah unhappily. "And he's a queer pony, Cecil. I'm not a bit sure that he'd go nicely with you. You see, I understand him."
"You evidently think no one can ride but yourself," Cecil said disagreeably. "I really think I can manage the famous Bobs."
"If you knew him it might be all right," Norah answered. "But I'd really rather not, Cecil. He's eager and impatient, and quite unaccustomed to strangers. Dad would be awfully annoyed if you had any trouble with him."
"I don't fancy Uncle David would be given any need for annoyance," Cecil replied. "I'm a bit sick of this old mare, and I don't think it would hurt you to lend me Bobs. It's uncommonly selfish of you to want to keep him always."
Norah's flush deepened.
"I'm awfully sorry you think that," she said. "And I'll speak to Dad about your riding him, if you like—another time."
"Another time? Then what's the matter with my riding him now? I suppose," said Cecil with a sneer, "you want to show off in Cunjee."
Norah stared at him blankly for a moment. Rudeness had been always so far from her that she did not for a moment comprehend that this boy was being deliberately rude. Then she walked round Bobs without replying, and unbuckled the girth.
"Please let me have my saddle," she said. Her voice was quite final.
Cecil was pale with anger. He flung round without a word, tugging at the buckle until Betty, who was patient but girth-galled, pulled away in protest. As it yielded Norah laid his saddle on the mare's withers, and slipped her own away. Their eyes met for a moment as she did so—the child's steady and a little scornful, the young man's shifty. Then Norah lifted her saddle across to Bobs, and girthed him up in silence.
The pony was restless and excited, and objected to the second saddling out in the space of the yard, when he was keen to get away. It seemed unreasonable to Bobs, and he ran round and generally behaved in a frivolous manner, while Norah struggled with the girth. When it was done, she took her head, somewhat dishevelled, from under the saddle flap. She laughed a little.
Cecil, every line of his back showing offended dignity, was riding out of the yard. As he came to the gate he dug his heel into Betty, who broke into a canter at once. Norah's escort disappeared round a turn in the street without looking back.
"Well, if he isn't a donkey!" was her comment. "He's awfully unpleasant—I wish he wouldn't make things so uncomfortable." She mounted Bobs, and subdued that excitable steed's impatience while she settled her habit. "Jim will be so angry if he finds out. I must get away before he comes."
She rode into the street. Some distance away a crowd was moving slowly in her direction. Cheers and snatches of triumphant choruses were wafted to her. In the midst she could see some figures in white flannels. Norah rounded the corner of the street, seeing ahead of her a fast-receding speck—Brown Betty and her rider. It was evident that she was not to have the benefit of Cecil's presence on the ride home; and Norah could not help laughing again, although she was annoyed at the whole occurrence. For all his airs, he was such a baby, this cousin of hers.
"I'll tell Dad all about it," she reflected. "The he can say whether he thinks Cecil can ride Bobs. Only I won't tell him he cleared out and left me, 'cause there would be a row straight away." Thus pondering in the Australian manner, she took the road home.
Jim's storm was coming up slowly, and though the sun had not yet set, already it was growing dusk; and still it was very hot. She let Bobs canter slowly, not wishing to appear to be hurrying after Cecil. Norah never bore malice, but she had her pride! Often she glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to see the boys. She knew they would not let the grass grow under their horses' hoofs, once they were able to take the road home. But the track lay bare behind her, and ahead Cecil had quite disappeared. By the time she was five miles out of Cunjee she seemed the only person in the whole landscape, and the only sound that met her ear was the steady beat of the cantering hoofs, mingled with the creak of the saddle leather.
The metalled road ended, and she struck into the bush track. It was very lonely now; trees overhung the path, and the eerie light of the coming storm threw strange shadows, at which Bobs shied constantly. Once or twice there was a distant roll of thunder. There was just light enough left to see the way. The road wound in and out among the trees. By day it was Norah's favourite part of the journey; but now she could not help wishing that it were possible to look further ahead, or to watch the road over which she had passed, to catch the first glimpse of Jim and Wally. There was a pleasant security in feeling that they were coming. Norah was not a nervous girl; but she had rarely been allowed to ride any but short distances alone. If Dad and Jim were not available, it was an understood thing that Billy must act as her escort. Certainly she had never been in the dark alone, and so far from home. She was not afraid—she would have laughed at the very notion. Still, it was a little queer. She knew she would be glad when she was out of the timber.
There came a bend in the track, and Bobs swung round it sharply. Then a dark figure loomed up suddenly in the gloom, and the pony shied violently, and propped. Norah struck her heel into him, her heart giving a great bound. He struggled and plunged. A hand was on his bridle, and a rough voice threatened him savagely. In the gloom Norah could just make out a brutal-looking man, young, but with something in his face that made her shudder. Her heart stood still for a moment, after that first wild leap. Then she realized that he was asking her for money, and she commanded her voice to answer.
"I haven't any."
It was true. When she rode with her father or brother it never occurred to Norah to carry money, and she wore nothing of value at all to tempt any thief. Her hunting-crop was silver mounted; she remembered it suddenly, glad that it was dark and that the man would not be likely to notice the gift that had been Jim's.
"I don't believe y'," he said.
"Well, you can, then," Norah answered. She was beginning to recover herself, a little ashamed of that first moment of unreasoning terror. If she had no money he would surely let her go. She scarcely knew the meaning of fear—how should she, in the free, simple life that had always been guarded, yet had left her only a little child in mind? "I haven't so much as a penny," she went on. "Let go my bridle."
"What are y' doin' here alone?" The slow voice was crafty; something in it brought back that stupid first fear. She pulled herself together.
"My people are coming—you'd better let go. If my brother gets hold of you—"
"Oh, your brother's comin', is he?"
"Yes; let go my bridle."
"Shut up about your bridle!" said the man, and Norah shrank back as if she had been stung. He began to lead Bobs off the track.
"What are you doing?" she asked angrily. She kicked Bobs again, and the pony tried to rear, caught between the sudden blow and that compelling hand on his rein. The man pulled him down savagely, jerking at his bit and flinging threats at him and at Norah.
"Y' might as well stop playin' the fool," he told her. "I want that pony, an' I'm goin' to have it."
TO HAVE BOBS! She tried to speak, but the words died before she could utter them. Bobs! In her bewildered terror she scarcely realized for a moment what he meant; then she raised her whip and cut with all her strength at the hand that held the rein. He gave a sharp yell of pain as the stinging whalebone caught him, but he did not relinquish his grasp, and Norah struck at him again and again, half blindly in the darkness, but always with the strength of desperation. It could not last long—the struggle was too pitifully unequal. It was only a minute before he had wrested the whip from her and held her wrists in one vice-like hand. His voice was thick with rage.
"I'll teach y'," he said, "y' little spitfire! Get off that pony."
He began to drag her off. She clung to the saddle wildly, knowing how hopeless it was, but somehow feeling that she must not leave that one poor haven of safety. Then she felt herself going, and in that sickening moment screamed for help—a child's piteous cry:
"Jim! Jim! Jim!"
There was no Jim to aid her—she knew it, even as she cried. The rough grasp tightened; she could feel his breath as he dragged her from the saddle.
Then from the darkness came a tall, stealthy shadow, and suddenly her wrists were free, as her assailant staggered back in the grip of the newcomer. She made a violent effort and found herself back in the saddle; and Bobs was plunging wildly, his bridle free. The necessity of steadying him in the timber helped her to calm herself. Before her the men were swaying backwards and forwards, blocking the way to the track; her enemy's savage voice mingling with a lower one that was somehow familiar, though she could not tell what he said. Then she saw that the struggle was ending—the tall man had the other pinned against a tree, and turned to her. His dark face was close, and she cried out to him, knowing him for a friend.
"Oh, Lal Chunder, it's you!"
"Him beat," said Lal Chunder, breathlessly. "L'il meesis orright?"
"I'm all right," she said, struggling with—for Norah—an unaccountable desire to cry. "Oh, don't let him go!"
"No," said the Hindu, decidedly. "Him hurt you? Me kill him."
The last remark was uttered conversationally, and the man against the tree cried out in fear. Lal Chunder flung at him a flood of rapid Hindustani, and he collapsed into shivering silence. Probably it was rather awe-inspiring—the great black-bearded Indian, with his keen, enraged face and the voice that seemed to cut. But to Norah he was a very haven of refuge.
"Oh, you mustn't kill him," she said. "The boys will be here—men coming—quick! Can you hold him?"
"Hold him—yes—tight," said Lal Chunder, tightening his grip as he spoke, to the manifest discomfort of the man against the tree. Then came distant voices, and a snatch of a School song, mingled with quick hoofs; and Norah caught her breath in the sharpness of the relief. She rode out on the track, calling to Jim.
The boys pulled up, the horses plunging.
"Norah! What on earth—"
Norah explained rapidly, and Jim flung himself off, tossing Garryowen's rein to Wally, and ran to her.
"Kiddie—you're all right? He didn't hurt you?" The boy's voice was shaking.
"Only my wrists," said Norah, and then began to shudder as the memory of the struggle in the trees came back to her. Jim put his arm about her.
"Thank heaven for that blessed Indian!" said he. "Steady, old girl—you're all right," and Norah recovered herself.
"Yes, I'm all right, Jimmy," she said, a little shakily. "What about Lal Chunder?"
"Here's the buggy," said Wally, and in a moment Murty and Boone were on the scene, when it was the work of a few minutes to tie the prisoner with halters and hoist him into the buggy, where he lay very uncomfortable, with his head close to the splashboard. There was much explanation, and it would probably have gone hard with the prisoner but for Jim, as Murty and Boone wanted to deal out instant justice.
"Not good enough," Jim said. He was rather white, in the glow of the buggy lamps. "He'll be better safe in gaol." He turned to Lal Chunder, who had drawn close to Norah, and was contemplating his right hand, which had been nearly shaken off by the four from Billabong. The Hindu's English was not equal to his sense of friendship, and conversation with him lacked fluency. It was some time before Jim could make him understand that they wanted him to return to the station—and indeed, it was Norah who made it clear at last.
"Me want you," she said, taking the dusky hand in hers. "Come back to my home." She pointed towards the direction of Billabong. Lal Chunder capitulated immediately.
"It is an order," he said, gravely; and forthwith climbed into the buggy, a weird figure between the two stockmen, their faces still flushed with anger as they looked at the man lying between their feet.
"We'll put him away in the lock-up, an' be out agin in no time, Masther Jim," said Murty. "Take care of her me boy." And the stockman, who had known Norah since her babyhood, choked suddenly as he looked at her pale face. Norah was herself again, however, and she smiled at him cheerily.
"I'm right as rain, Murty!" she said, in the Bush idiom. "Don't you worry about me."
"'Tis pluck y' have," said the Irishman. He turned the buggy with some difficulty, for the track was narrow, and they spun off on the return journey to Cunjee, while Norah, between the two boys, was once more on the way to Billabong.
"You're sure you're all right, Nor.?" Jim said, looking at her keenly.
"Yes—truly, Jim." Norah had made up her mind not to say too much. There was nothing to be gained by harrowing them with unnecessary details—and, child-like, the memory of her terror was already fading, now that care and safety had again wrapped her about. "I was a bit scared, but that's all over."
"Then," said Jim, "can you tell me where is Cecil?" His voice was dangerously calm.
"Oh, he—he went on," Norah said. "We had a dispute, and he was a bit put out."
"A dispute? What about?"
"He wanted to ride Bobs."
"DID he?" Jim said. "And because you wouldn't let him, he cleared out and left you?"
"Well, he was offended," Norah replied slowly, "and I dare say he thought I would catch him up—instead of which I hung back, hoping you boys would catch ME up. So it wasn't really his fault."
"He must have known you would be coming through that timber by yourself in the dark."
"Oh, most likely he reckoned I'd have you with me by that time. He doesn't understand very well, does he? He didn't mean any harm, Jim."
"I don't know what he meant," Jim said, angrily. "But I know what he did—and what he'd have been responsible for if Lal Chunder hadn't happened along in the nick of time. Great overgrown calf! Upon my word, when I see him—"
"Oh, don't have a row, Jim," Norah pleaded. "He's a guest."
"Guest be hanged! Do you mean to say that's excuse for behaving like a cad?"
"Ah, he wouldn't mean to. Don't tell him about—about Lal Chunder—and the man."
"Not tell him?" Jim exclaimed.
"Well, not to-night, anyhow. Promise me you won't have a row to-night—and if you tackle him when you get home there will be a row. Wait until Dad comes home." finished Norah, a little wearily.
Behind her, Wally leaned across to his chum. They pulled back a little.
"I say—don't worry her, old man," Wally said. "I guess she's had a bit of a shock—let's try and keep her mind off it. Do what she asks." And Jim nodded.
"All right, old woman," he said, coming alongside again. "I won't slay him to-night—don't bother your little head. We'll let Dad fix him."
Norah's grateful look rewarded him.
"Thanks, Jimmy," she said. "I—I'm feeling like having a little peace. And he'd never understand, no matter what you said."
"I suppose he wouldn't," Jim agreed. "But he's a worm! However—the storm's coming, and if we don't want wet jackets we'd better travel." They tore homewards through the hot night. Presently Wally started a chorus, and both boys were relieved when Norah joined in. They nodded at each other cheerfully behind her back. So, singing very lustily, if not in the most artistic fashion, they reached the Billagong stables just as the first heavy drops were falling.
Within, Cecil met them, a little nervously.
"I thought you were lost," he said.
"H'm," said Jim, passing him, and struggling with his promise. "Sorry you and Norah had any difference of opinion."
Cecil flushed.
"Possibly I was—ah—hasty," he said. "I did not consider I asked Norah much of a favour."
"That's a matter of opinion. At any rate, Cecil, I may as well tell you straight out that I don't consider it would be at all wise for you to ride Bobs."
"I'm not likely to hurt him."
"He might very likely hurt you. He's not an easy pony to ride."
Cecil's little laugh was irritating.
"What?" he said. "I don't profess to be a jockey, but—a child's pony?"
Jim very nearly lost his temper.
"You won't be convinced," he said, "and I've no desire to convince you with Bobs. But take my advice and let Norah alone about her pony. You've a very good mare to ride."
"That old crock!" said Cecil, scornfully.
Jim stared.
"Crock!" he said. "Well, you won't find many hacks to beat old Betty, even if in your mighty judgment she is a crock. And, anyhow, Bobs is Norah's, and no one else has any say about him. There's the bell; ready, chaps?"
The meal was scarcely lively. Cecil maintained an offended silence, and Jim was too angry to talk, while Norah was silent and a little pale. However, Cecil retired to his room immediately he had finished; and the boys set themselves to the task of diverting Norah, fearful lest the evening's adventure should have any bad effect on her. They succeeded so well that by bedtime Norah had forgotten all her troubles, and was weak with laughter. When Wally set out "to blither," as he said, he did not do things by halves.
Jim came into Norah's room and switched on her light.
"Sure you're all right, kiddie?"
"Rather!" said Norah. "I've laughed too much to be anything else."
"Then go to sleep laughing," said Jim, practically. "I'm quite close if you want anything."
"Oh, I won't want anything, thanks," Norah answered. "Good-night, Jimmy."
"Good-night, little chap."
Norah tumbled hastily into bed and slept dreamlessly. She did not know that Jim dragged a sofa and some rugs along the corridor, and slept close to her door.
"Kid might dream and wake up scared," he said to Wally, a little apologetically, before mounting guard. It was Jim's way.
With the spirit of fire and of dewTo show the road home to them all.KENDALL.
It was quite early next morning when Cecil awoke. One of his grievances against the country was the way in which the birds acted as alarum clocks every day, rousing him from his well-earned slumbers fully an hour before even the earliest milk cart rattling along the suburban street fulfilled a similar purpose at home. Generally, he managed to turn over and go to sleep again. This morning, however, he was unusually wakeful.
He lay turning in his mind his anger against his cousins. Little causes for annoyance, simple enough in themselves, had been brooded over until they made up a very substantial total; and now, last night's happenings capped everything. In his own heart of hearts he knew that he had small justification for his childish outbursts of anger; only it was not Cecil's nature to admit any such thing, and if justification were not evident, his mind was quite equal to manufacturing it. At the end of half an hour's gloomy pondering he had worked himself up into a fine state of ill usage, and into the firm belief that Norah and the boys had no intention but to insult and humiliate him.
To some natures there is a certain comfort in nursing a grievance, and reasoning themselves into a plaintive state of martyrdom. When Cecil finally rolled angrily out of bed, he was almost cheerful in the contemplation of his own unhappiness. They were determined to sneer at him and lessen his pride, were they? Well, they should see.
Just what they were likely to see, Cecil did not know himself, but the reflection was soothing. Meanwhile, the birds were maddeningly active, and an unusual restlessness was upon him. He dressed slowly, putting on flannels, for the day promised heat, and went downstairs.
Sarah and Mary were busy in the hall, and lifted astonished eyebrows at seeing the boy down before the others; as a rule Cecil strolled into the dining-room barely in time for breakfast, or was late altogether. He took no notice of them, but wandered out to the back, where Brownie was found instructing a new kitchen assistant in the gentle art of cleaning a stove. She, too, showed amazement at the apparition, but recovered sufficiently to offer him tea and scones, to which Cecil did justice.
"Be you all going out early?" Brownie asked.
"Not that I know of." Cecil's tone did not encourage conversation.
"Seein' you so unusual early, I thought there was some plan on," said Brownie. "Master Jim's great on makin' plans, ain't he? (Meriar, elbow grease is one of the necessariest things in gettin' a shine on a stove—don't let me catch you merely strokin' it again!) An' Miss Norah's always ready to back him up—wunnerfull mates them two has alwuz been, an' Master Jim has ever and alwuz looked after her, from the d'rekly-minute he could walk!"
"Ah?" said Cecil.
"Well may you say so," said Brownie, inspired by her subject. "As loving-kind a pair as could be, have them two been; and as proud of each other—! Well, any one who reads may run! An', Master Jim never mindin' her being on'y a girl; not that that has 'ampered Miss Norah much, I will say, seein' how she rides an' all. I'm sure it's a picture to see her on that there Bobs, an' the dumb beast knows every single word she says to him. They'll fret for each other cruel, Bobs an' her, when she goes to school."
Brownie's enthusiasm was ill-timed, as far as Cecil was concerned; indeed, she could scarcely have hit upon a subject less palatable to him. Still, it was useless to interfere with the old woman; so he gulped down his tea hastily, listening with ill-concealed impatience to her talk of Norah and Bobs, and then escaped abruptly.
"H'm!" said Brownie, looking after him. "Not a word out of me noble—not even a thank you! Too much of a fine gentleman for Billabong, like his ma before him!"
"Young gent don't seem to cotton to Miss Norah," remarked the astute, if new, Maria, who had been listening with all her ears.
"When you're asked for your opinion about your betters, Meriar, it may be time to shove in your oar; but until then let me advise you to keep it in your own head," said Brownie severely. "At present your work is rubbin' that stove, and if it ain't done in remarkable quick time it'll have to be blackleaded all over again, bein' as how it'll have got too dry!" Appalled by which awful possibility, Maria fell to work with wonderful vigour, dismissing all lesser matters from her mind.
Meanwhile, Cecil strolled across the yard, and thence towards the stockyards, where a trampling of feet and a light cloud of dust showed that the men had got in the horses for the day. He selected a clean place on the top rail carefully, and cast his eye over the little mob standing in groups about the enclosure—a dozen stock horses; the big pair of greys that were used in the covered buggy or the express wagon; the brown ponies that Norah drove; his own mount Betty, and Wally's mare Nan; and then the aristocrats, Garryowen and, last of all, Bobs. Norah's pony was standing near an old black horse for which he had a great affection. They were nearly always to be found together in the yards or paddocks. Even unbrushed as he was, the sunlight rippled on his bay coat when he moved, showing the hard masses of muscle in his arched neck.
"Beauty, ain't he?" It was Mick Shanahan, on his way to another paddock to bring in some colts. He pulled up beside Cecil, the youngster he was riding sidling impatiently.
"Yes, he's a nice pony," said Cecil, without enthusiasm.
"Well, I've seen a few, but he beats 'em all," said the horsebreaker. "A ringer from the time he was a foal—and he's only improved since I first handled him, four year ago. Worth a pot of money that pony is!" He laughed. "Not as his particular owner'd sell him, I reckon. Miss Norah acts more by that chap than by anything else she's got!"
"I suppose so," Cecil said, seeing that he waited for a reply.
"Yes, my word! Take 'em all round, they'd be hard to beat as a pair," said Mick, lighting his pipe in apparent ignorance that his horse was indulging in caracoles that appeared likely to end in a bucking demonstration. He threw the match away after carefully extinguishing it, and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Quiet, y' image, can't y'? Who's hurtin' y'? Well, I must be goin'—so long." Cecil nodded casually, and the impatient pupil went off in a series of bounds that struck the city boy as alarming, although Mick did not appear to notice that his mount was not walking demurely.
Several other men came to the stockyard, selected each a horse, and saddled it, and disappeared in various directions. The old black horse, Bob's mate, was taken by Joe Burton, who harnessed him into a dray that stood near, loaded up a number of fence rails, and drove off over the paddock, evidently to a job of repairing some boundary. Cecil watched them crawl across the plain, until they were only a speck on the grass. Then he turned his sullen eyes on Bobs, who, left alone, had come nearer to the fence where he sat, and was sleepily flicking with his tail at an intrusive fly, which insisted on walking round his hip. Cecil stared at him for some minutes before his idea came to him.
Then he flushed a little, his hand clenching on the post beside him. At first the idea was fascinating, but preposterous; he tried to put it from him, but it came back persistently, and his mind held it with a kind of half-fearful excitement. They had said he could not ride him—a child's pony! Would he show them?
Once he entertained the idea at all he could not let it go. It would be such an easy way of "coming out on top"—of showing them that in one thing at least their opinion was worthless. That Jim's words were true, and that he could not master Bobs, he ridiculed loftily. It was impossible for him to believe that what a child of fourteen did so easily he might not be able to do. He had never seen Bobs other than quiet; and though big and well bred and spirited, he was still only a pony—a child's pony. Visions floated before him of increased respect paid him by the men, and even by his uncle, when he should have demonstrated his ability to manage something better than old Brown Betty, flicking at the flies in her corner of the yard, with down-drooped head, and then—he wanted to ride Bobs; and all his life Cecil Linton had done what he wanted.
He slipped down from the fence and went across to the stables for a saddle and bridle, entering the harness room a little nervously, but relieved on finding no men about. Returning, he caught Bobs—who stood like the gentleman he was—and brought him outside, where his unaccustomed fingers bungled a little with the saddle. The one he had chosen in his haste had a breastplate, but this he could not manage at all; and at last he managed to get the bewildering array of straps off, and hang it over the fence. He buckled on a pair of spurs he had found in the harness room. Then he gathered up the reins and clambered into the saddle. Possibly, had he let Bobs feel the spur, his ride would have ended there and then, and there would have been no further developments in Cecil's excursion; and it is certain that he would have spurred him cheerfully, had not the pony moved off at once. As it was he sat back and felt exceedingly independent and pleased with himself. He turned him down the home paddock.
"Phwat are y' doin' on that pony?"
Murty O'Toole had come out of the men's quarters, and was gazing open-mouthed at the unfamiliar figure on Bobs—"the city feller," for once not apparelled in exaggerated riding clothes, but in loose flannels; already the legs of the trousers had worked up from his low shoes, disclosing a vision of brilliant sock. Cecil took no notice.
"Hallo, there! Shtop a minnit! Who put y' on Bobs?"
"Mind your own business," said Cecil, between his teeth, looking round.
"My business, is it? Sure, 'tis my business, if 'tis anny man's on Billabong! Did Miss Norah say y' could ride her pony?"
"What's that to you?"
"Be gob!" said Murty, "'tis more to me than it is to you, seein' 'tis meself knows Miss Norah's feelin's an' disposition about Bobs! Did she give y' leave? Tell me, or I'll pull y' off, if y' was the Boss' nevvy ten times over!"
"WILL you?" Cecil spat the words at him bitterly. He shook the reins, and Bobs, impatient enough already, broke into a canter that carried him away from the good friend who had intervened on his behalf. They shot across the paddock.
Murty, left helpless, said a few strong things as he looked after the retreating pair.
"It's a guinea to a gooseberry he's taken Frinch lave wid him," he said, "bitther tongued little whipper-snapper that he is! Sure if Bobs gets rid av him it'll serve him sorry, so 'twill. But phwat'll I do about it, at all?" He scratched his head reflectively. "If I go over 'twill only worry Miss Norah to hear—an' it's most likely he'll have enough av it pretty soon, an' the pony'll come home—an I do not care if he comes home widout him! I'll lave it be f'r awhile." He went slowly over to the stockyards.
Cecil, cantering over the grass with Bobs' perfect stride beneath him, was, for the moment, completely satisfied with himself. He had routed the enemy in the first engagement, and, if he had not left him speechless, at least he had had the last word. Murty and he had been at daggers drawn from the very first day, when the grinning Irishman had pulled him out of the wild raspberry clump in the cutting-out paddock; and the cheerful friendliness with which Jim and Norah treated the stockman had always irritated him. He was exceedingly pleased that on this occasion he had scored at his expense.
Where should he go? There were three gates leading out of the home paddock—one to the Cunjee road; another to a similar well-cleared plain to that on which the house stood; and a third into a smaller paddock, which in its turn led into part of the rougher and steeper part of the run. Cecil wanted to get out of sight quickly. In his mind there was a half-formed idea that Murty might saddle a horse and come out in pursuit; and a hand-to-hand encounter with the justly indignant Irishman was just at that moment the last thing that the boy wanted. So he decided upon the bush paddock, and headed in that direction.
Now, a horse that is always ridden by one person is apt to develop ideas of his own—possibly through acquiring habits insensibly from his usual rider. Also, he becomes accustomed to that one rider, and is quite likely to be annoyed by a change—not alone in weight and in style of riding, but in the absence of the sympathy that always exists between a horse so managed and the one who cares for him and understands him. The alien hand on his mouth had irritated Bobs from the first; it was heavy, and jerky, where Norah's touch was as a feather; and the light, firm seat in the saddle was changed for a weight that bumped and shifted continuously. Further, it was not very usual for Norah to ride in this direction—he had headed naturally for the second gate before his tender mouth was suddenly wrenched aside towards the third. Bobs arrived at the gate in something considerably removed from his usual contented state of mind.
The gate was awkward, and Cecil clumsy at shutting it; he hauled the pony's mouth roughly in his efforts to bring him into position where he could send home the catch. The same performance was repeated at the next gate—the one leading into the bush paddock; and when at length they turned from it Bobs' mouth was feeling the bit in a manner that was quite new to him, and as unpleasant as new. He sidled off in a rough, jerky walk, betraying irritation in every movement, had Cecil been wise enough to know it.
Cecil, however, was still perfectly content. He was out of sight of the house, which was comforting in itself; while as for the idea that he was not completely master of his mount, he would have been highly amused at it. It was pleasant to be out, in the morning freshness; and there was no need to hurry home, since the scones and tea in the kitchen had made him independent of breakfast. The paddock he was in looked interesting, too; the plain ended in a line of rough, scrub-grown hills which it occurred to him would be a good place to explore. He headed towards them.
Bobs walked on, inwardly seething; jerking his head impatiently at the unceasing pressure on his bit, and now and then giving a little half kick that at length attracted Cecil's attention, making him wonder vaguely what was wrong. Possibly something in the saddle; it had occurred to him when cantering that his girth was loose. So he dismounted and tightened it, bringing it up with a jerk that pinched the pony suddenly, and made him back away. This time Cecil did not find it so easy to mount. He was a little nervous as he rode on—and there is nothing that more quickly communicates itself to a horse than nervousness in the rider. Bobs began to dance as he went, and Cecil, hauling at his mouth, broke out into a mild perspiration. He decided that he was not altogether an easy pony to ride.
A hare jumped up abruptly in the grass just ahead. Bobs shied and plunged—and missing the hand that always understood and steadied such mistaken energy, gave a couple of rough "pig-jumps." It was more than enough for Cecil; mild as they were, he shot on to the pony's neck, only regaining the saddle by a great effort. The reins flopped, and the indignant Bobs plunged forward, while his rider clawed for support, his feet and hands alike flying. As he dropped back into the saddle, the spurs went home; and Bobs bolted.
He had never in his life felt the spur; light and free in every pace, Norah's boot heel was the utmost correction that ever came to him. This sudden cruel stab on either side was more than painful—it was a sudden shock of amazement that was sharper than pain. Coming on top of all his grievances, it was too much for Bobs. Possibly, a mad race would rid him of this creature on his back, who was so unlike his mistress. His heels went up with a little squeal as he bounded forward before settling into his stride.
Cecil gave himself up for lost from the first. He tugged frantically at the rein, realizing soon that the pony was in full command, and that his soft muscles might as well pull at the side of a house as try to stop him. He lost one stirrup, and clung desperately to the pommel while he felt for it, and by great good luck managed to get his foot in again—a piece of good fortune which his own efforts would never have secured. The pommel was too comforting to be released; he still clung to it while he tried to steady himself and to see where he was going.
The plain ended abruptly just before him, and the rough hills sloped away to the south. Perhaps, if he put Bobs at the steepest it might calm him a little, and he might be able to pull him up. So he wrenched the pony's mouth round, and presently they were racing up the face of the hill, which apparently made no difference whatever to Bobs. Cecil had not the slightest idea that his heels were spurring the pony at every stride. He wondered angrily in his fear why he seemed to become momentarily more maddened, and sawed at the bleeding mouth in vain. They were at the top of the hill now. The crest was sharp and immediately over it a sharp drop went down to a gully at the bottom. It was steep, rough-going, boulder-strewn and undermined with wombat holes. Perhaps in his calmer moments Bobs might have hesitated, but just now he knew nothing but a frantic desire to escape from that cruel agony in his sides. He flung down the side of the hill blindly, making great bounds over the sparse bracken fern that hid the ground. Cecil was nearly on his shoulder now—a moment more would set him free.
Then he put his foot on a loose boulder that gave with him and went down the slope in a flurry of shifting stones. He made a gallant effort to recover himself, stumbling to his knees as Cecil left the saddle and landed in the ferns—but just as he struck out for firmer footing his forefoot sank into a wombat hole, and he turned a complete somersault, rolling over and over. He brought up against a big boulder, struggled to rise and then lay still.
Presently Cecil came limping to him, white and angry.
"Get up, you brute!" he said, kicking him. When there was no response, he took the bridle, jerking it. Bobs' head gave a little at every jerk, but that was all.
Between rage and fear, Cecil lost his head. He kicked the pony savagely; and finding that useless, sought a stick and thrashed him as he lay. Once Bobs struggled, but only his head and shoulders came up, and presently they fell back again. Cecil gave it up at last, and left him alone, limping down to the gully and out of sight. He sat down on a log for a long while, until the sun grew hot. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and set off towards home.
Bobs did not know he had gone. He lay quite still.