CHAPTER XVI

The little feet have left the house,The little voice is still;Without, the wan, wind-weary boughs;Within, the willTo go and hear the wee feet treadWithin the garden of the dead.

The little feet have left the house,

The little voice is still;

Without, the wan, wind-weary boughs;

Within, the will

To go and hear the wee feet tread

Within the garden of the dead.

—R. Crawford.

THERE were no traces of storm when the girls awoke next morning. Mrs. Archdale came in with tea as soon as she heard their voices. Her face was quite smiling and happy.

“Very likely that dear old ‘Brownie’ of yours would say I shouldn’t give you early tea,” she observed. “And I’m sure she’d be right. But I do love it myself, and I’ve only got you for one morning, so I had to bring it! Jack says I’ll ruin my system with tea, and all I can say is, it’s a beautiful ending for a system!”

No one quarrelled with the tea or with the wafers of buttered toast that accompanied it. Mrs. Archdale talked briskly while the girls ate.

“It’s just a perfect morning,” she said. “Blue sky and a little breeze, and everything so clean and beautiful! You will have a lovely ride into the ranges. I’ve often threatened to make Jack take me up Ben Athol, but he regards me as quite insane when I mention it. But I should love to go.”

“Come with us,” Norah cried.

She shook her head.

“Oh, I couldn’t leave my old man,” she said. “We never go very far away from each other now. Some day I will persuade him to go, and perhaps we’ll find the remains of your camp. But the blacks won’t have left much of it.”

“Are there many blacks?” Jean asked, wide-eyed.

“No, very few. Two or three families, I believe. They used to be in one of the aboriginal settlements, and sometimes they go back there in the cold weather; but they won’t stay there when the spring comes, and they say two or three camp in the hills all the year round. Sometimes they come down to Atholton and hang about the township for a week or two begging for food and old clothes; but they are a perfect nuisance, and they’d steal your very clothes-lines! So everybody hunts them, and after a while they clear out.”

“Do they come out here?”

“It’s a bit far from the township for them to come much,” Mrs. Archdale answered. “One young darkey, who calls himself Braggan Dudley, visits us occasionally, and tries to sell us very badly-made boomerangs; and his old mother makes rush baskets rather well. I buy the baskets, and scorn the boomerangs. But last time Mr. Braggan came he helped himself to one of Jack’s hats. Unfortunately for him, Jack happened along at the moment, and made things lively for him with his stock-whip; so I don’t fancy we shall see much of the gentleman in future. Not that you can tell—they have cheek enough for anything.”

“I hope we’ll run across some of them,” Jean said. “I haven’t seen any Australian blacks.”

“Don’t get excited over the prospect,” Mrs. Archdale told her. “They may have been worth seeing when they dressed in paint—not that they often wore so much as that!—and roamed the forest before the white people came; but in their present state of half civilization they are as miserable a set as you could imagine. I haven’t met any that are not whining, thieving, pitiful creatures—filthy beyond imagination, too, most of them. There used to be a woman in the ranges of a rather better type—she had been employed as a housemaid on one of the stations, and had learned some decent ways, though, of course, she ran off and married a blackfellow. But she must have gone back to one of the settlements, I fancy; at any rate I haven’t heard anything of her for two years or more. I’d like to know what became of Black Lucy; she wasn’t at all a bad sort.”

Mr. Linton, arriving with the boys at an early hour, had more to say on the subject of the blacks.

“Green—the storekeeper—tells me it won’t be safe to leave our camp unprotected,” he said. “Those wandering natives are a perfect nuisance—there’s nothing they won’t steal. That ends Master Billy’s chance of getting to the top of the peak. He’ll have to stay and mind camp, poor chap. Still, he’ll think himself terribly important, and if any of his dusky brethren should come along he’ll quite enjoy hunting them off; so he’s not altogether to be pitied.

“Was the hotel bad?” Norah inquired.

“Don’t allude to the hotel!” Wally said. “We’ve had a busy night, and we’re all soured—and sore!”

“Oh, you poor souls!” Norah said. “Did they feed you decently?” At which Jim and Wally gave vent to a simultaneous groan, charged with bitter recollection.

“It was pretty dreadful,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “I think we’re fairly certain to want an early lunch!”

They said good-bye to Mrs. Archdale reluctantly, with many thanks and promises to see her on the return journey. She held Norah’s hand a little, looking at her wistfully. The others had ridden on down the hill.

“Would you mind if I gave you a kiss?” she asked, hesitating over each word. “I haven’t kissed any one but Jack since—since . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Norah bent down from the saddle quickly, and the poor woman flushed at the touch of the fresh young lips. She stood looking down the track long after the riders had vanished into the timber.

Atholton was not an exciting city. It consisted of a few scattered houses, most of them bark-roofed, since the cartage of roofing iron to this remote district was an expensive matter. No railway was within sixty miles, and communication with the outer world was by means of a coach, which ran twice a week. ThePeak Hotelwas the high-sounding appellation of the inn, where Mr. Linton and the boys had suffered many things. The Atholton inhabitants referred to it briefly as The Pub. There was a store, combining various matters; within its small compass could be found groceries, drapery, bread, meat, saddlery, and the post office; while at a pinch the storekeeper would undertake a commission for a plough, a tombstone or a piano. The only other business establishment was a blacksmith’s shop, where just now the smith was busy in shrinking a tyre for the wheel of a bullock dray. The bullocks, a fine team of ten polled Angus, were drooping their black heads wearily outside, the heavy yokes falling forward on their necks. Their driver propped his long form against the doorpost, and exchanged district news with the smith.

At the store Black Billy might be seen adjusting to the pack-saddle a bundle done up in sacking, and containing provisions. The storekeeper came out as the party rode up; after the manner of Bush storekeepers, all agog to talk.

“ ’Mornin’, Miss Linton,” he said, addressing Jean and Norah impartially. “Lovely day you’ve got for your ride, now—haven’t you? All the same, I wouldn’t mind bettin’ you’ll be pretty tired before you get up to the peak of old Ben Athol.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Norah said. “We don’t mind getting a bit tired.”

“In a good cause?” finished the storekeeper, chuckling at his own lightsome play of words. “Well, some have one idea of a lark, and some have another; I can’t see much meself in climbing up that stony old hill, but it’s all a matter of taste. And how did you get on at Mrs. Archdale’s?”

“She was very kind to us,” Norah answered, warmly.

“Not a kinder woman in the districk,” said the storekeeper, producing a fragment of black and ancient tobacco, and proceeding to cut up some. “Pity she’s gone a bit queer. I was tellin’ your Pa last night how rummy she’s got since their youngster died, an’ I believe I fair worried him about you. But, of course, Mrs. Archdale’s all right—she’s only a bit queer on that point.”

“I don’t call her queer,” Jean burst out, indignantly. “She can’t help thinking about her little girl, of course.”

“But she’s just awfully nice!” Norah seconded. “And she was as good to us as ever she could be.”

“There, now, I told your Pa she would be,” said the storekeeper, quite unmoved. “Keeps that little home of hers like a new pin, too, don’t she? Of course, Mrs. Archdale’s a cut above the ordinary—had a bit of education, and all that. And, as you say, no one could blame her for frettin’ about that poor little kid. Such a jolly little youngster she was—always had a laugh for you. I can tell you the whole districk was cut up over that youngster’s loss—an’ it wasn’t for want of huntin’ that the poor little body was never found. Of course, that’s what’s on her mother’s nerves.”

“One can’t wonder at that,” said Mr. Linton.

“No, of course you can’t. Bad enough for a child to die; but not to be able to give it decent burial makes it mighty rough—especially on a woman. Not the first, by a long way, that has never been found in these ranges, they’re that thick an’ full of gullies; but the wonder was we didn’t get little Babs Archdale. All the districk was out. There wasn’t a yard of scrub unbeaten for ten mile, I don’t think.”

“Poor little baby!” said Norah, very low.

“Ay. An’ the mother—my word, I don’t reckon any of us as were huntin’ ’ll ever forget Mrs. Archdale’s face. She’s not the kind as shows her feelin’s very ready; an’ that made it all the worse. Poor soul! Poor soul! An’ after we’d had to give up, and the black trackers had gone back, an’ every one knew it was hopeless, she an’ Jack kept on looking, night an’ day I dunno at last what old Jack was most afraid of—not findin’ her or findin’ her. Twas a relief to every one when we heard the mother had gone down with fever. She was ravin’ for weeks.”

The storekeeper dropped his voice, looking round.

“An’ there’s a yarn,” he said. “I dunno if it’s true. Some people say it is. Half her time Mrs. Archdale’s off in the scrub alone; an’ the yarn is that she’s got a little cross stuck up in the ground in some gully, an’ ‘Babs’ carved on it; an’ she keeps flowers there, like as if it was really her little kiddie’s grave. An’ they say she goes down there an’ just sits still an’ looks at it. I dunno. Old Jack can’t know anything about it, or he’d never leave her; but it ain’t the kind of thing you like to think of a woman doin’—not a woman you like. An’ all this districk thinks the world of Mrs. Archdale.”

Norah rode beside her father, and they were silent long after they had bidden the storekeeper good-bye and left the roofs of Atholton low among the timber as they mounted into the hills. She looked up at him at last.

“Oh, Dad,” she said; “if only any one could help her!”

“Ay,” said David Linton. “But that’s beyond human power, my little girl.”

“I think she liked having us, Dad,” Norah said, half shyly. “That’s nothing, of course, unless it kept her from thinking. Can we go back there for another night on our way home?”

“If you like, dear,” he said. “But you’d rather camp, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think so—not if she’d like us. She asked me if she could kiss me, Dad.”

“Did she?” Mr. Linton said. “Poor lonely soul! It would really be better if Archdale took her out of the district altogether—if she’d go. But that would be the difficulty, I expect. I could give him a good billet on Billabong if he’d take it. I’ll be looking for a storekeeper next month.”

“Oh, I wish he would,” Norah exclaimed. “But I don’t think Mrs. Archdale would ever leave here She feels she’s a bit nearer that poor dead baby, perhaps.”

Above them they could catch glimpses of the track as it rose spirally into the hills. Atholton nestled back into the very foot of the ranges. Scarcely half a mile from its last house the flat country ended, and the hills, tier on tier, rose ahead. Indeed, only for a little while was there any real track. A few isolated mountain farms were perched on tiny flats among the ridges, but as soon as the last of these was passed the wheel track, rough as it was, ended abruptly, and there was only a rough Bush path. Sheep had made it originally, and it had been widened by drovers bringing down stock; but at best it was narrow and uneven, and often the scrub grew so closely on either side, that it was only possible for two to ride abreast.

It was too exquisite a day to be sad. Later the sun would be hot, but now the jewels of last night’s rain still hung, trembling, on leaf and bough, and caught the sunlight in liquid flashes. As they rode brushing the dewy branches, they seemed to shake loose the hundred scents of the Bush, and the sharp fragrance was like a refreshing draught. There were not many wild flowers left, but there was no sameness in the scrub, that showed varying shades of colour—tender green of young branches; grey-green and blue-grey of the gum trees, shading to bronze in the distance; on the topmost boughs of young saplings translucent leaves that showed against the sunlight, yellow and red, and glowing crimson. Overhead a sky of perfect blue, deep and pure, wherein sailed piled masses of white cloud, flushed with pink where the rays fell. And all about them birds that sang and chirped and whistled, flitting busily in the green recesses of the scrub; such tame birds that it was evident that few humans came this way to break into the peace and safety of their hills.

“I guess we’ve had our last canter for a day or two,” Jim said. “Nothing but climbing now. How’s the pack standing it Billy?”

“Plenty!” said the sable retainer, vaguely. “Baal that pfeller slip—Boss packed him on.” His grin suddenly was a streak of light in the darkness of his countenance.

But for the deep whisperings of the Bush it was a land of silence. They had mounted above the last of the hill farms; no longer the faint bleating of sheep came to their ears, or a cattle call sounding through the timber. Here and there they caught glimpses of a steer, poking through the scrub in search of the sparse native grass; but presently there were no more fences, and they had climbed into the country that was No Man’s Land.

No one would have had it. Even the easily pleased rabbit would have found scant pickings on the stony soil. The scrub became scanty and gnarled—the winds that blew across the face of the ranges in winter twisted the saplings into queer, bent shapes, and whirled the very earth from their roots. The horses, unused to such unkind ground, slipped and stumbled on the sandstone outcropping here and there. Sometimes there were gullies where the growth was dense—often the site of some old landslip, or a deep cleft between two hills; and sometimes the sound of falling water carried their eyes to where a spring, concealed in some rocky hollow, sent a miniature fall drip-dripping down a steep slope—its margin daintily green, with little plants striving for a hold among the stones.

They camped for lunch early, seizing a patch of deep shade, where a great blue gum grew out of a gully—the only big tree visible among the sparse scrub. A huge boulder had sheltered it as a sapling, protecting it until it had won strength sufficient to outgrow the kindly refuge, and fling its great head towards the sky. The boulder lay at its feet now, and the riders camped in its shadow. Near at hand a spring trickled softly into a rainwashed hole, which brimmed over, sending a silver thread of water down among the stones below. There was little or no grass for the horses; but for this halt they had carried a small ration of hard feed for each horse, and the sweating steeds welcomed it eagerly. The night camp was to be made on a flat further up, where, the storekeeper had told Mr. Linton, they would find grass.

Through the afternoon they climbed steadily. Soon it was easier to walk than to ride, since riding was no quicker—and to lean forward grasping a handful of your horse’s mane to ease the strain on his back, and prevent yourself slipping over his tail, is not an especially fascinating pastime, when pursued for any lengthy period. So they led the horses, stumbling over the rocky pathway—though stumbling was a somewhat exciting matter, as, if you fell, your steed would probably walk upon you, since you would be apt to roll back under his fore feet. It was a tiring day, even though the fresh mountain air helped them to forget the sun, beating down hotly upon their shoulders. They enjoyed it all—the English race, all the world over, has a way of taking its pleasure strenuously. No one thought of wanting the way made easier.

Then, just as Mr. Linton was casting somewhat uneasy glances at the weary horses, and wondering how much more acrobatic ability would be demanded of them, they came to a belt of deeper scrub, where moisture was suddenly perceptible in the soil that for hours had been arid and dry. For a few moments they climbed through it, in single file, and then a turn in the narrow track led them out upon a little plateau lying in a nook among the hills. Not more than fifty yards square, it showed green against the rugged slopes beyond. Water, unseen, trickled musically, and a few trees were dotted about.

“Whew-w!” whistled Jim. “What a ripping place to camp!”

“Couldn’t be better,” his father said, with relief.

“I’m going to stay here for a week!” Wally declared, casting his hat upon the ground.

“Then you’ll be living on gum leaves most of the time!” retorted Jim. “Perhaps you might get a monkey-bear if you were lucky.”

“I could stand devilled bear very well indeed, just now,” responded his friend. “Never met such hungry air in my life—in the words of the poet, there’s nothing in the world I couldn’t chew!”

“Well, that may be the poet’s opinion, but you’re not going to chew anything here until camp is fixed,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “Jean has us all beaten—her saddle is the first off.”

“Jean will get beastly unpopular if she’s not careful,” said Wally, favouring the energetic Jean with as much of a scowl as his cheerful countenance would permit. “These horribly-good people nearly always come to a bad end, and nobody loves them!” A tirade that left Jean quite unmoved, as she inquired of Mr. Linton if Nan were to be hobbled?

Besides the tent, there was a “wurley” to be put up to-night. The boys were inclined to scorn this at first, but found later on that they were glad of its shelter, for the keen mountain air was very different to the milder temperature of the plains, and their stock of blankets was not large. They built it of interlaced boughs, thick with leaves, and when finished it looked most inviting. By that time Jean and Norah had tea ready, and the camp fire was glowing redly in a rocky corner.

They sat about it afterwards, singing every chorus they could remember, to a spirited accompaniment by Wally on the penny whistle. The whistle was pitched in a higher key than Nature had rendered possible for most of the singers—a circumstance which did not at all impair the cheerfulness of the quartet, though Mr. Linton threatened to flee into the fastnesses of the bush if the “obbligato” were not discontinued. Black Billy, washing cups at the spring, and gathering kindling wood for the morning fire, grinned all the time in sympathy with the freshness and merriment of the young voices. They rang out cheerily, their echoes dying away on the lonely slopes. Never had such sounds disturbed the brooding silence of old Ben Athol.

To David Linton, lying awake in his “wurley” in the moonlight, gazing dreamily out at a star that trembled in the west, it seemed that the last chorus still lingered on the night air:—

“Wrap me up in my stock-whip and blanket,And say a poor buffer lies low—lies low,Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,On the plains where the coolibars grow.”

“Wrap me up in my stock-whip and blanket,

And say a poor buffer lies low—lies low,

Where the dingoes and crows can’t molest me,

On the plains where the coolibars grow.”

CHAPTER XVII

By rolling plain and rocky shelf,With stock-whip in his hand,He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,In Rough-and-ready Land.

By rolling plain and rocky shelf,

With stock-whip in his hand,

He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,

The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,

In Rough-and-ready Land.

—A. B. Paterson.

OH!” said Jean, despairingly. “I wish to goodness I hadn’t been born fat!”

“Very possibly you were not,” Jim’s voice said. “Don’t lay all the blame on your parents; it seems to me more an acquired habit on your part.” His cheerful face came over the edge of a boulder, and peeped down upon her.

“ ’Tisn’t my fault at all!” said Jean, indignantly. “You know very well I hardly ever eat butter or potatoes, and I love them both. We’re all fat; and Dad and Mother are the fattest!”

“It must be the New Zealand air,” said Jim, regarding her with interest. “Perhaps, if we turned you out into a poor paddock for a while, you’d come down in condition. Not that I’d advise it, because we like you as you are—but I hate to see you worried.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass!” responded the harassed Jean. “This isn’t a time for polite conversation—I want to get over that horrid old rock. And I’m so hot!”

“Well, didn’t I hear your bleat of woe, and come back to help you, though I was making for the peak like the gentleman in ‘Excelsior,’ you ungrateful woman?” asked Jim. He swung his long legs over the boulder, and came scrambling down to where she stood. “Poor old thing! It’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a poor old thing, and I won’t be pitied,” retorted Jean with indignation. “I haven’t got long legs like all of you, but I can climb hills, for all that. I only want a leg-up over this boulder.”

“Of course you do,” said Jim, in his best soothing manner—which was wont to have anything but a soothing effect. “Lend me your foot, Miss Yorke, and be prepared to put some spring into your portly frame. One, two, three—up you go!” He hoisted her deftly, and with a quick movement Jean had scrambled to the top of the rock.

It was one of a hundred similar sandstone boulders scattered over the side of the hill. Sometimes, by dodging through crevices and under jutting points of rock, it was possible to avoid them; but often they lay so thickly that to skirt them was impossible except by a detour too long to be practicable. There was not much vegetation to be seen. Grass was practically non-existent, but tough young gums grew here and there among the rocks, with twisted stems, finding a foothold in some mysterious manner by thrusting deep twining roots into the crevices. There leafage was too sparse and stunted to give any real shade, and the sun beat down with blinding force; though it was not yet noon, the rocks were hot under the touch.

Ahead, straggling forms could be seen pushing their way upward. Wally and Norah were in the lead, by virtue of long legs and tough muscles; then came Mr. Linton, with whom Jim had been climbing until he heard Jean’s small “bleat” of distress, and turned back to help her. The camp was far below: for a long time they had lost even the faint curl of the smoke of their fire, where Billy had been left disgustedly washing up the breakfast things, and with strict orders to remain on guard throughout the day.

Mr. Linton and the boys carried valises strapped across their shoulders, containing food and water. Already it had been found necessary to husband the latter, since climbing on such a day was thirsty work, and the supply of water bottles was not large. To brew tea at the Peak was considered out of the question; that was a luxury to be anticipated on getting back to the camp. Even now, Jean looked longingly at Wally’s diminishing burden, and solaced herself indifferently by chewing an exceedingly dry gum leaf, which tasted very strongly of eucalyptus, and made her, if anything, thirstier than before.

There were scarcely any small birds in this high region—cover was too scarce, and food supply correspondingly low. Once they caught sight of an eagle-hawk, sailing leisurely across a path of blue sky, visible between two hills; and, even as they looked, his wings ceased to beat, he hovered, motionless, for a moment, and then fell like a stone, swooping on some prey descried in a distant gully. Occasionally there were holes that looked like rabbit-burrows, and sometimes an opening that marked the entrance to a wombat hole: but of wild life they saw nothing, save here and there a lizard sunning itself on a patch of warm rock, and sliding off with incredible rapidity at the unfamiliar sound of voices.

“As for the blacks,” said Jean, resentfully, “I believe it was only a yarn about them—or they’re all gone. We haven’t seen even a trace of a camp.”

“Well, there’s a good deal of room for a camp or so to exist without our coming across them,” Jim answered, wisely. “But I think it’s quite likely there are none left—why on earth should they stay in country like this when they can be fed and housed decently at one of the settlements? Of course, the gentle black is a peculiar sort of chap, and hates to be shut up within four walls. Still, I think this sort of thing would scare even a native back to civilization.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Jean made answer. “I did want to see some.”

“There’s old King Billy at the Darrells’ station,” Jim told her, kindly. “He lives there, and reckons he owns it. If you like, we’ll get him trotted out for your inspection. He’s our Billy’s father, and I’ve no doubt he’d be glad to call on his loving son, especially if he thought his screw had just been paid.” Which handsome offer did very little to appease Jean’s longings, even when Jim supplemented it with a further proposal to make the monarch appear in war-paint and utter horrifying tribal yells. After having been acquainted with William, junior, it was difficult to expect any romantic attributes in his royal father.

Ben Athol was a deceptive mountain. Often the summit seemed quite near, as if but a few yards more would land them at their destination. This was cheering, and led them to climb with great ardour, each striving to be first over the toppling edge that appeared to be the margin of the crest. But when it was surmounted, it was found to be only a shoulder, and the actual Peak loomed high above them yet. This occurred so often that it moved Wally to wrath and eloquence.

“I never saw anything rummier than the anatomy of this blessed hill,” he said. “It’s got as many shoulders as an octopus ought to have, only they’re all on the same side! I think we’ll be climbing it like this till the end of time, and never getting any forarder. Do you think it would pay to cut round and try to climb up its chest instead?”

Jim said, “Don’t be personal!” and patted him on the shoulder with such friendly force that the orator, who chanced to be sitting on the extreme edge of a boulder, slid off, and continued sliding until he found Mother Earth—which happened with some force. This led to reprisals, and by the time that the combatants, somewhat dusty, had adjusted their differences, the remainder of the expedition was some distance up the Peak.

It was the Peak itself, and the last pull was a steep one. All the ground was heaped with stones, great and small. To dodge them was out of the question, and every foot of the way had to be climbed. There were no trees here, though on the very summit a few clung amid the rocks. It was hot work, crawling, climbing, slipping—the rough sandstone grazing the hands that clung to it and the knees as they scrambled across. But it was the top. Jean and Norah raced for the last few yards—a contest abruptly ended by the latter’s catching her foot in a crevice and falling headlong. Jean arrived at the Peak by herself, and looked round in some astonishment, to behold her chum rising from the earth and ruefully surveying a hole in her skirt.

“Oh—I’m sorry!” said the victor, laughing and flushed. “Are you hurt, old girl?”

“Only my feelings—and my skirt!” laughed Norah, inspecting a grazed hand as a matter of lesser moment. “It’s a good thing we packed needles and cotton.” She came up beside Jean, and caught her breath in quick ecstasy. “Jeanie! what a view!”

The ranges lay beneath them, rolling east and west. Darkly green, their clothing of timber hid all ruggedness and inequalities, and only that waving expanse of foliage rippled softly from their feet. Here and there a peak, higher than its fellows, reared its crest, or a giant tree flung a proud head skywards; but there was little to break the softly-rounded masses of green. But out beyond the hills, the plains lay extended, mile on mile, spreading away illimitably. Dark lines winding sinuously over their bosoms showed the timber bordering the courses of creeks and rivers. Once a sun ray caught a glint of blue where a lake rippled thousands of feet below. On one lonely plain a belt of pines made a dark mass, easily distinguishable, even at so great a distance. On all was silence—so profound that it was easy to imagine that the green country lying below was as desolate and uninhabited as the rugged Peak where they stood.

David Linton, coming up silently, looked out long over the country he loved, one hand on Norah’s shoulder. Then he sat down on a boulder and lit his pipe, still watching and silent, as the blue smoke trailed away.

The boys arrived hastily, flushed and panting.

“Beat you!” gasped Wally.

“Dead heat, you old fraud!” Jim retorted.

“Be quiet, you duffers,” said Norah, affectionately. “Come here and look across the world!”

So they looked—and were impressed even into silence for three minutes, which is a remarkable tribute to be exacted by any landscape from any boy. Then Nature reasserted itself.

“I could drink in that view for hours,” said Wally, with fervour, “if I weren’t so thirsty!” He undid his bundle in haste, and looked longingly at the water bottle. “May we all moisten our lips just once, Mr. Linton—one little moist?”

“We’d better take stock,” responded that gentleman, coming out of his reverie, and proceeding to unstrap his load. “Jim, how much have you got left?”

They inspected the supply, which was found to be barely sufficient to assist in washing down luncheon. This once settled, they threw care to the winds, and demolished all, since going down hill would be a quicker matter, and the heat less than on the journey up. “Horses travel well when there’s water ahead, so perhaps I may expect the same from you!” remarked Mr. Linton, to the just indignation of his party, who averred that his willingness to allow the water to be finished proceeded solely from anxiety to have no load to carry down.

It was still hot when they left the summit. Resting there was scarcely a comfortable business; there was little shade, and the rocks were uneasy places for repose. “Better to have another spell on the way down, when we strike a good place,” said the leader; and the others chorussed their agreement. So they went down, slipping and sliding on the boulders—digging their heels into a patch of earth whenever one was discovered soft enough to act as foothold. It was not without risk, for the Peak was steep, and a false step among the stones would probably have resulted unpleasantly. David Linton was free from minor anxieties concerning his irresponsible clan, holding the happy-go-lucky Australian belief that worrying does not pay; still, he breathed more freely when the descent of the Peak itself was accomplished, and a slightly easier slope lay before them. Broken legs are at all times awkward—but to carry a broken leg down a mountain side is not a performance to be lightly contemplated.

He pulled up an hour later.

“Well, I have no idea as to the views of the clan,” he remarked. “But I am going to have a spell. It is borne in upon me that I am getting old, and that I have not had a smoke for a long time.”

“You’re not old, at all, but we’ll all have a spell,” Norah responded. They had halted in a shady spot, where native grass tried to grow, and there were stones of a convenient shape to serve as seats. The Peak loomed far above them, grim and remote, although they were yet on its side. They had climbed down so far that the view all round was blotted out, since now they were below the level of the timber-crowned hills that clustered round Ben Athol. Already the fierceness of the sun had gone, and there was even a breath of chill in the shady stillness where they rested.

They lay on the ground or found stony seats, and for half an hour talked lazily or did not talk at all, as the spirit moved them. Jim and his father were deep in a discussion of bullocks. Suddenly Norah, who had been industriously biting the tough grass stems, as an aid to thought, scrambled to her feet.

“I want to go and explore,” she said. “Who will come?”

“Me,” said Jean and Wally, simultaneously, and with painful disregard of the King’s English.

“Not I, I think,” said her father. “I want to finish my pipe.”

“Then I’ll keep you company,” Jim said. “Don’t get lost, you kids!”

“Kid yourself!” remarked Wally. “Then we’ll meet back at the camp, sir?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Don’t get far off the track, Wally,” said Mr. Linton; “and take care of my daughters!” He smiled at Jean.

“I’ll keep ’em well in order, sir,” said Wally. “Observe, children, Papa has put you under my charge!” Whereat Norah tilted her nose disdainfully, and they scrambled off among the rocks.

The prohibition against getting far from the path made exploration limited—not that there was much to be gained by exploring, since one part of the hill seemed precisely the same as another. Very rarely, a lean mountain sheep appeared, to scurry off among the timber in bleating affright at the strange apparitions; but in general the scrub and the rocks were monotonously alike, and travelling, once off the sheep track, was considerably more difficult. So they made their way back to it, resolving that exploration was a mistaken ideal, and journeyed down hill cheerfully.

Wally paused when they were beginning to think that the camp must be close at hand.

“Cease your foolish persiflage!” said he, severely. “I’ve an idea.”

“Never!” said Jean, with open incredulity. “Where?”

“It’s this,” said Wally. “Somewhere in my bones it is borne in upon me that young Billy is asleep. Let’s see if we can’t take him by surprise.”

“All right,” Norah said, twinkling. “But why you should think poor old Billy is snoring at the post of Duty is more than I can say, unless you’re thinking that in similar circumstances you’d be sleeping yourself!”

“There may be something in that,” said Wally, regarding the supposition with due consideration. “If Billy has kept awake all day he’s a hero and a martyr, and I should like to crown him with a chaplet of ‘prickly Moses,’ laurel leaves being unobtainable. Anyhow, let us creep upon him, and make him think he’s attacked by sable warriors, clad principally in ferocity.”

They went on softly, in single file. The path was easier, as the slope became less acute; an hour earlier, quiet walking would have been impossible, owing to shifting stones that had a way of rattling down hill at a touch; but now they could prowl, soft-footed, through the scanty undergrowth. It was, perhaps, five minutes later when the first glimpse of the green plateau came into view, and at a signal from Wally they stole forward noiselessly, halting in the shadow of the scrub that fringed its edge.

It was immediately evident that Wally’s instinct had been entirely correct. Black Billy had succumbed to the heat, or the soporific effect of the eucalyptus scents, or his own loneliness—or, very possibly, to a combination of all three. He lay on his back under a little tree, his battered old felt hat pulled over his eyes, and his skinny limbs flung carelessly in the abandonment of sleep. His mouth was wide-open, and snores proceeded from him steadily.

“Sweet child,” said Wally admiringly. “Nothing lovelier than a sleeping cherub, is there? What did I tell you, young Norah Linton? Grovel.”

“I grovel,” whispered Norah, laughing. “Poor old Billy, he must have been horribly dull.”

“Not he, lazy young nigger. Plenty to eat and nothing to do is a blackfellow’s heaven,” responded Wally, in an energetic whisper. “Hold on until I collect my breath for a yell.”

Norah caught his arm.

“Wally! Look there.”

From behind the tent suddenly emerged a figure, looking round cautiously. As she straightened up they could see her face plainly—a black woman, shapeless and bent as in the manner of all black “gins,” when their first youth is passed. Her broad face, hideous in its dark ugliness, shone with the peculiar polish of black skins. She was dressed in rags, principally of sacking, amidst which could be seen the remnant of an old print frock that had once been red; a man’s felt hat covered her matted hair ineffectually, since here and there stray locks stuck out of holes in the crown.

“Great Scott,” Wally whistled. “And that young beggar, Billy, snoring. Well, Jean, there’s your noble savage, anyhow, and I hope you like her.”

“Why, she got a picaninny,” Norah whispered eagerly.

As the woman moved they could see a tiny form clinging to her skirts on the other side. She faced round presently, and they saw the small aboriginal—a queer mite, in rags of sacking also, and a piece of the same elegant material tied over its head.

No one could have said off-hand that it was boy or girl—it was merely picaninny. Elfish eyes looked out from a tangle of black hair under the sacking. One little dark hand clung to the black gin’s skirts; the other grasped a tiny boomerang that was evidently a toy. There was something uncanny in its perfect silence and caution of the little thing.

“Rum little beggar!” Wally whispered. “Fine Australian native in the making! Jean, are you impressed?”

“The woman’s awful,” Jean murmured back. “But the baby’s a jolly little chap. I wonder if he’s a boy or girl”—a confusion of genders which sent Wally off into a fit of silent laughter that was almost alarming, since it made him apoplectic in appearance.

“Do be quiet!” Norah whispered. “She’s certain to hear you.”

But the black gin was quite unsuspicious of the watching eyes. She poked about the camp, here and there picking up some trifle and concealing it somewhere about her rags. Billy’s recumbent form she avoided carefully, and her eyes never left him for more than a moment. She wandered softly about the tent, longing, yet fearing, to untie the flap and make more detailed investigations. And always at her side trotted the picaninny, clinging to her skirt and entirely unconcerned by the adventure, except in its silence and stealthy movements.

Presently, however, it stopped suddenly, released its hold, and sat down on the ground with a comically knitted brow. The gin looked down, an impatient frown on her heavy features. The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up; it was searching for it, twisting itself to try to get a view of its case-hardened sole. The gin cautioned it with uplifted finger, and leaving it on the ground, stole off on a further tour of exploration.

The black baby was evidently very cross. It frowned and twisted over its foot, and seemed to be telling the splinter, under its breath, its unbiassed opinion of it. Meanwhile, the lubra was lying flat on her face beside the tent, groping under the canvas with one hand, and her soul apparently charged with hope. Norah and Jean watched her, choking with laughter, since, so far as they knew, she could only encounter a bunk.

“You’ll have to take steps if she tries another spot, Wally,” Norah whispered.

“Right-oh!” was the noiseless response, given somewhat absently. Wally was watching the picaninny. He turned to Norah in a moment.

“That’s a rum little blackfellow,” he said. “See its foot; I’ve never seen a darky with a foot like that, and we used to live amongst ’em in Queensland. They’re all just as flat-footed as a—a platypus. But look at the instep that rum little black coon has got; it’s as high an instep as I’ve ever seen, and the foot’s quite pretty.”

Norah looked as desired. The dusky baby was still contorting on the grass, fishing vigorously in its foot for the offending splinter. Its face was turned towards them, but bent so intently over its task that they could scarcely see it. There was no doubt that the small foot was pretty—a slender foot, with arched instep, incongruous enough, sticking out of the sacking rags.

Then, as they watched, success rewarded the picaninny’s efforts. The hard little fingers, with talonlike nails, found the head of the splinter, and drew it carefully out. The child looked up triumphantly, a smile breaking out suddenly and illuminating all its dark face. And at sight of the smile Norah gave a great start, and cried out aloud:

“Wally—did you see! It isn’t a picaninny at all! It’s Mrs. Archdale’s baby!”

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