Eustace made up his mind that he would start off in the direction whence the coo-ees had come. It was the only guide he had, and a very poor one, as had already been proved by the first cry he had so unfortunately tried to follow.
He waited just as long as he could bear, after silence fell on the camp. There was no question of taking Bolter. He was guarded as on the night before; besides, he would have made too much noise. Eustace dared not get up and walk himself, or even crawl. He had invented a silent, gliding movement as he lay scheming—by means of strong tufts of grass he meant to gradually pull his body, snakewise, little by little away from the open into the wood.
As soon as he dared he began his weird progress, quaking at every sound he made lest it should rouse those keen-eared sleepers so close around him. The soft "frou-frou" of the dry grass beneath him sounded to his excited fancy like the sudden rushing of a torrent. He was almost overwhelmed by the fear of pulling himself inadvertently up against one of those dark forms, for he did not know where every one was lying. One false move now, and it would mean the end of all things for him.
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The night was close and still with the silence that intensifies sound tenfold. Eustace thought he could not have had worse luck. His temptation was to hurry; common sense bade him hold himself in check. Panic urged him to risk everything, and make a bolt for it. But Bob's precept was ringing in his mind—there were two sides to the question; he might bolt, but where to in the dark? It was useless to dash headlong into trees and make for nowhere in particular. The plan was to get as far away as possible in the dark, unheard, so that by daylight he would be out of sight, and able to quicken his pace to some purpose.
Gliding, halting, scarcely breathing, he pulled himself along, and great beads of perspiration started on his forehead and trickled down into his eyes.
The darkness was useful in one way, but it had its disadvantages. He had no idea what progress he was making, and it seemed ages before his hand came against what he thankfully realized was the bark of a tree. Almost simultaneously there was a blinding flash of lightning, so vivid that for a full moment the sleeping camp lay revealed, and Eustacehad time to grasp the fact that he was well within the outskirts of the wood. The crash of thunder almost overhead brought him to his feet. Now was the time to make some pace, in the dense darkness, under cover of that merciful noise. Eustace was not the least afraid of thunder and lightning; he was used to tremendous storms, and loved nothing better than to stand out on the veranda to watch one raging round among the hills or out at sea. Now it was a positive blessing. Every flash showed him where he was, and he took care to have a tree trunk between himself and the camp. Then during the thunder bursts he made his way swiftly forward, groping cautiously like a blind man. His spirits rose with the excitement, and all his courage came back to him.
By the time the storm had grumbled itself away into the distance he knew he was well out of sight of the camp, and he dared to sit down to wait for dawn. Without the aid of the lightning it was folly to plunge farther into the scrub.
In spite of a stern resolve not even to let himself doze, the tired boy must have slept awhile, sitting with his back against a tree. There was just a first glimmer of light penetrating the thick foliage above when he opened his eyes with a sudden definite feeling of something having roused him.
Very much on the alert, instantly he raised his head, and sat listening with held breath. He was beginning to think he must have been mistaken, when there came a sound that made his hair stand on end and his blood run cold. He got up swiftly but softly, and stood, still backed by the tree, staringinto the gloom. The sound seemed to come from what looked like a dense thicket not very far to the right, but as yet it was not light enough to distinguish objects from each other.
"Is it some animal, or a native, or what can it be?" Eustace questioned, feeling most horribly shaky.
There was a long pause, and then the silence was once more broken by a deep, heavy groan—something like a long sobbing sigh.
The boy was paralyzed with horror. Besides which, to have moved, to have gone forward, would have been useless in this half light. He could have done nothing, seen nothing. There was nothing for it but to wait till daybreak. He could not bring himself to sit down again; there is always a feeling of being ready for anything when one is standing.
There was another long interval, and then this awful sound came once more—slow, laboured, intensely painful. There could be no doubt that something or some one was suffering inexpressibly not twenty yards away. The voice was like the voice of a man having a nightmare, and trying to call some one to help him. The third time the sound came Eustace almost fancied it contained a word—"Help."
Five times he heard it, and every time it was exactly the same in tone and duration. Each time he became more persuaded that it was a muffled cry for help.
The light was coming at last. Soon he would be able to venture forward and find out what horrible secret the thicket held.
The boy sank down on his knees and prayed with all his might for strength to face whatever it might befor at the thought of the ordeal before him he could have turned and fled. He stood up again as white as a sheet, but resolute, and ashamed of the temptation.
"Who is there?" he demanded in a hoarse, shaky voice unlike his own.
His throat was parched, his lips dry. He had not spoken a word for two nights and a day; it was scarcely wonderful speech was difficult.
There was no answer for a full minute, and then came that same groaning cry again, not as in answer to the question, but at its own regular interval.
Following the curve of the thicket a little way, behind a thick group of trees Eustace came to a sudden standstill with a cry of dismay; for there, standing almost upright in the thickest of the scrub, was the figure of a man, his bare head bowed down upon his breast so that his face was invisible, his arms hanging down at his sides.
It struck Eustace at once as strange that he should be standing making this terrible sound. It would not have surprised the boy nearly so much to have found him lying down—indeed, that he had expected. Bracing himself to the task, Eustace went closer.
"I say," he said in a loud voice, "what's up?"
The man made neither sign nor movement. Could he be tied there to a stake? the boy wondered. Was he deaf and blind?
"I say," Eustace said, almost shouting now, "can't you see me?"
Fighting down his own horror of the situation, he pressed a little closer, to find the man's shirt torn to shreds, his arms pinioned down to his sides by something that looked like small cords.
"It's the 'wait-a-bit' cane!" Eustace exclaimed aloud, shrinking back sharply with a quick horror of being entrapped by it himself.
Here was an awful state of affairs. A wretched wayfarer caught and held like a fly in a spider's web, and not a soul at hand to help.
To go back to the natives was out of the question. With their reputation for cruelty and hatred of white men it would be worse than useless to appeal to them. What was to be done? What would Bob have done under the circumstances?
With a gasping cry Eustace crept closer again, and bending low he strained to catch a glimpse of the man's face without going too perilously deep into the thicket.
"Bob," whispered the boy, "Bob, is it you? Oh, speak to me—is it you?"
Little fool that he had been not to think of it before. But somehow these last hours of terror, centred only upon himself and his own means of escape, had blunted his intelligence to everything else—even to the remembrance of Bob. He was mad with himself for it now—so mad that all thought of personal danger fell away from him. He had room for nothing but the realization that this must be Bob indeed standing here helpless and dying of privation.
Oh the folly of having waited for the light! But Eustace stayed for nothing more now—not even to look at the two sides of the question. He dashed against the bushes like a little mad thing, recklessly fighting his way towards the imprisoned man.
"Bob, Bob!" he said in a voice choked with sobs.
It was difficult to grasp that this huddled, helpless figure was Bob, the big, the strong. But when at last Eustace saw the white, drawn face he knew there was no mistake about it.
There came that awful groan again, but this time Eustace did not shrink back.
"It's all right, Bob," he said huskily. "I've come now. I'm going to help you all I can. You shan't die—you shan't—you shan't."
He spoke the last words through set teeth, for he had taken out his clasp-knife, and was hacking at the cruel bonds with all his might.
It needed no explanation to tell Eustace how Bob had got there. The thing was as plain as daylight. He must have been riding fast, and inadvertently struck against some "wait-a-bit," which rebounded like a bit of twisted elastic, and caught him in such a grip that he was powerless to free himself. Bolter passed on from beneath, and the more he fought and struggled the tighter he became entangled. Had his arms been free it would have been different; but the strength of the cane was marvellous—moreover, it was covered with vicious thorns. That Bob had fought desperately for his life was to be seen by the condition of his shirt and his deeply-scored skin. He was now in a state of more than semi-unconsciousness from exhaustion and starvation; still, at intervals, he half roused himself to call for help, as he must have been doing for days.
It was no easy matter to saw through the cane, which was wound again and again round him. But bit by bit Eustace worked at it, with a ferocity that was bound to tell. He was mad with fear for Bob,and madness is said to increase strength extraordinarily.
More by good luck than good guidance the boy was not caught in the meshes himself, for he took no care.
As the last coils were cut, and Bob was bereft of his main support, he fell gradually to the ground, lying in the pathway Eustace had made to reach him, and from there the boy could not move him an inch. Perhaps owing to the change of position Bob had stopped groaning at last; but though Eustace called him, and implored him to speak, if only a word, he made no sign.
"I suppose it is faintness," Eustace thought in deep trouble, for this was something so terribly new in Bob. He did not seem the sort of fellow who could ever be ill.
Something ought to be done for him, and that quickly; this much Eustace knew. At home he would have rushed for water; but here where there was none—where there was nothing—what was he to do? If only he were a man, and carried a brandy flask, as his father always did! A sudden brilliant idea struck him—perhaps Bob carried a flask himself!
It was the work of but a few seconds to search him, and to the boy's joy he found a little flask full of spirit. It was not very long since Eustace had had a practical demonstration of what to do with some one in a faint. He remembered Mrs. Robertson's treatment of his mother the night of their fright about Becky.
So first he moistened the dry blue lips, then puta few drops between them. Oh, it was a tedious, terrifying business—too long to describe; and nothing scared Eustace more than the choking and gasping with which Bob came to himself at last. But it was the turning-point and saving of his life.
It took Bob a long time to pull himself sufficiently together to make a sign to Eustace that he knew him. He was far too weak to speak at first; but after a long, dazed study of the boy's white, miserable face, Bob's lips parted in a pitiful attempt at a smile.
To his own after-annoyance and shame, whenever he remembered it, Eustace flung himself face downwards on the ground and fairly sobbed. What fear for his own safety and all the horrors he had gone through had no power to do, the relaxation of this tension of anxiety about Bob did.
"Say, old chap," came in a far-away whisper to his ears, "don't!"
It pulled him up short. Bob's eyes were closed, and he looked so like fainting again that Eustace gave him more brandy.
It had a good effect; but later, not even when he had regained his full consciousness, could Bob move hand or foot; he was as stiff as a log. Just as he had been bound rigidly upright, so he remained now lying at full length.
"Guess I'm pretty helpless," he said in a thin, weak voice. "I shall have to be oiled before I can move." Then, after a little while, when he had been lying staring at his companion meditatively some minutes, he said, "Just explain what you are doing here, will you?"
From the very beginning—the return of Bolter—Eustace told the story of the last few days, and Bob listened with growing eagerness in his eyes.
"So you lost yourself finding me," he said at the end. "And there isn't a doubt you've saved my life, old boy."
But even this assertion did not cheer Eustace.
"I'm afraid I haven't, though," he said miserably, "because you see we are lost."
"Not a bit of it," Bob said. "If I had any legs I could walk you out of the wood in two hours. I know the way perfectly."
"Do you?" Eustace exclaimed. "Then what did you come here for?"
"Merely to see if it was true there were any natives in the neighbourhood," was the answer. "I never got as far as the camp, but my shouts brought a whole lot of them gibbering round me. It seemed to amuse them to see me there; but they threatened to kill me if I went on shouting, so I had to shut up and hope for the best. They have come each day in little batches and watched me awhile, then slipped away. At last I began to feel so bad that I rather wished they would come and finish me off, to put me out of my misery; so I began calling again. But I suppose my voice was too weak to matter; they knew I couldn't be heard. Anyhow, the beggars didn't touch me. I dare say they'll come again to-day."
Eustace looked scared.
"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "I hope they won't. They'll take us prisoners, and goodness knows what they'll do to us. We must get away from here before they come."
"You must," said Bob, "but I can't. You'll have to take my compass, and keep going due west with it all the time. You'll know where you are the minute you get out into the open."
Eustace stared at him blankly.
"But I couldn't go and leave you," he exclaimed.
"Why not?" asked Bob with a smile.
"How could I," Eustace said warmly, "and you in danger? I just won't go. Nothing shall make me."
There was a curious light in Bob's eyes as they rested on the slip of a lad kneeling beside him.
"Good old man," he said, "you can't do me any good by staying. For both our sakes you must go, and as fast as you can."
"But suppose while I am away—" began Eustace desperately.
"We've got to chance that," said Bob bravely. "You couldn't save my life if you stayed; you could only die too, and what would be the good of that?"
"I would rather," said Eustace chokily.
"Well, I wouldn't," Bob said firmly. "We mustn't think about ourselves in it at all. You've got to go home and set the dear home-folks' minds at rest about us. They'll know no peace till they hear, one way or another. Then, of course, they'll set out to fetch me. You'll guide them. If I am here, well and good. If I am not, don't you forget I wouldn't let you stay. You did the only thing you could for me by obeying orders."
Eustace hid his face in his hands because his lips were trembling so; he felt sick, and shaky all over.
"O Bob," he said, "must I?"
"For my sake, laddie," said Bob softly.
Eustace stood up, but kept his head turned away that Bob should still not see his face.
"I do wish," said Bob lightly, "that you could give me a nice slice of beef before you go; I'm so hungry."
It was a little bit of chaff to help the boy to pull himself together. It worked quite a miracle, for Eustace's face cleared instantly.
"Why, how stupid of me!" he said. "I can give you something to eat. It was what I couldn't finish of my own."
Out of his pockets he pulled the unappetizing lumps of food he had secreted, and kneeling again, he began feeding the helpless man as if he had been a baby.
"Upon my word, you are a magician," said Bob, keeping up a cheery tone, although he could little more than whisper. "But eat some yourself; turn and turn about."
"I don't want any," said the boy.
"Obey," said Bob briskly, with his kind smile.
So they made their strange meal together. It was a small one, but quite enough for Bob after his long starvation.
"I ate every leaf and berry within my reach," he told Eustace, "or I don't think I should be alive to tell the tale. Lucky for me, they were none of them poisonous. When they were done I started on chewing twigs, but they didn't go far."
At last Eustace had no excuse to linger. Very unwillingly he rose to do Bob's behest. He had never heard of anything so awful as leaving himlike this to his fate. It seemed the worst kind of desertion—something that he would be ashamed of all the days of his life.
Bob made him take his watch and chain with the compass on it.
"Keep the compass afterwards if you like," Bob said, "and give my love to every one."
Eustace turned sharply away; he could stand no more.
"Good-bye," he said thickly; "I feel a beast."
He took two quick strides forward, and walked right into some one. It was the great native chief.
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Eustace thought he had never seen anything so wicked as the chief's grin when he looked down into his astonished face. The black-fellow's teeth gleamed like a wolf's. His whole expression seemed to say, "Ha, ha! so I've caught you in the very act. You don't escape me so easily, you see." He evidently felt an exultant satisfaction in frustrating his departure, or he was rejoicing over having found him again.
With an overwhelming consciousness of Bob's helplessness, Eustace moved back quickly to the prostrate figure, as if to shelter it.
"What's up, old man?" questioned Bob, who from his position could see nothing. "You're not shirking, are you?"
The chief came rapidly within range of the sick man's eyes, and Bob's face fell most unmistakably. There was disappointment in every line of it.
"Phew!" he whistled, "we've lost our chance this time."
Exactly how crestfallen the pair was it would be impossible to describe. Not that Bob had harboured any hope for himself. He knew the natives wouldcome to him before Eustace could possibly get back with assistance, and finding him no longer an amusing spectacle, would probably dispatch him. But he had been bent on saving the boy's life and sending his message home.
The native chief said something in his rapid, unintelligible language, then turned, made a strange call, and began gesticulating violently.
Eustace dropped on his knees and hid his face on Bob's tattered shirt.
"Buck up, old chap," Bob said softly; "one can only die once. Let's show these black-fellows how a Christian and an Englishman can do it. You'll get the strength right enough; I'm not a bit afraid of your funking."
There was an advancing tramp, a crashing of branches: the chief's summons was being rapidly obeyed. With a long shuddering sigh Eustace raised himself and knelt upright, gazing down on his hero.
"That's right," said Bob steadily, with his own genial smile lighting up his whole face, "keep your eyes on mine; hold on to me if you like. I shan't think you a muff, because I know you aren't one."
But the boy did not touch him; he kept his hands clasped tightly together in a supreme effort to be worthy of Bob's belief in him. He heard the new-comers halt. The native spoke and moved aside. Then—
"Both of them!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Thank God for that."
Eustace sank back in a heap on the ground and stared up.
"Father!" cried Bob in astonishment.
It was Mr. Cochrane indeed, and with him Mr. Orban—as haggard a pair as could be met with in a long day's march.
It seemed little short of a miracle that they should appear at such a juncture, yet the explanation proved simple enough. The native chief had fetched them straight to the spot. There was no sort of nobility in the act: the man knew enough of white men's ways to expect a big reward. Bob he did not know; but when Eustace appeared on the scene he recognized the boy as belonging to the master of the neighbouring plantation, whom he had seen many times from a distance as he rode through the Bush. Mr. Orban was out with Mr. Cochrane making a frantic search of the entire neighbourhood when the chief arrived, and he would communicate his business to no one else. Not that it is likely any one else would have understood him or followed him as Mr. Orban did the moment he arrived home. The language was unintelligible to both men; but putting two and two together in their great anxiety, they made out that the chief could lead them where they would find something of interest to themselves. They had not dared to hope he knew the whereabouts of both their sons, or to speculate which they should find; they did not even know whether they were being taken to the living or the dead.
"I'm afraid you'll have a bit of bother getting me home," said Bob; "I'm as stiff as a board, and can't move hand or foot."
Then he told his story, and how Eustace had found him, and to all intents and purposes saved his life.
"And you, Eustace," said Mr. Orban—"how did you come here?"
When Eustace came to the description of the answering coo-ee on the banks of the creek, Mr. Orban interrupted him.
"That was only an echo. I knew there was one there, but I never thought of telling you."
"Thank God you didn't," said Mr. Cochrane, "and that he made the mistake. We should never have found Bob but for that."
"Father," Eustace said anxiously, "you won't forget poor old Bolter, will you? This black-fellow has got him in the camp over there."
"I had quite forgotten him," Mr. Orban said; "and we shall need him too."
Their own horses were quietly waiting a little distance back. By means of much gesticulation—pointing towards the horses, and then in the direction of the camp—the chief was made to understand what was wanted; and after a little demur he went away to fetch Bolter, but certainly most grudgingly.
The journey back to the plantation was one that none of the party could ever forget. The difficulty of conveying the helpless Bob, the suffering he so bravely tried to endure, and the terrible time it took, were indescribable.
It had of course been necessary to tell both mothers of the loss of their sons. Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy had gone immediately to the Orbans' house as more central for obtaining news.
Mr. Orban dispatched one coolie from the plantation for the doctor, who lived fifteen miles away. Another man he sent up the hill as fast as he couldgo with a note preparing his wife for their arrival, and the whole white-faced party was out waiting for it as the slow procession—Bob on a stretcher in the midst—wound its way to the house.
The joy of the meeting was lost sight of in the anxiety, for Bob was by this time delirious with pain, Eustace so weak that he was nearly fainting.
For the next ten days the house was no better than a hospital—its central interest the condition of the two patients within its walls; but the first day Bob and Eustace were brought out on to the veranda—two white-faced shadows of themselves—Bob laughingly called it the convalescent home.
Up to that point everything was, as Nesta expressed it, horrid; but when Bob was about again, even if his voice was weaker, his laugh a ghost of itself, matters at once began to improve.
They were all sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening.
"What I can't understand," said Nesta meditatively, breaking a long pause, "is why the black-fellows wouldn't let Eustace answer father's coo-ee."
"It is quite simple," said Mr. Orban. "The chief had evidently given strict orders he was not to be allowed to go in his absence, and they were afraid we should come and take him away. Then the chief would have got no reward."
"What I can't understand," said Peter, who never remained long in the background, "is why the black-fellows didn't cut Bob down. It was wicked of them."
"That's what I think," said Nesta. "If they left him because they thought it funny, I wish they could be tortured."
"Nesta, Nesta, my darling!" said Mrs. Orban warningly.
"I suppose," said Miss Chase softly, "the poor things have no knowledge of mercy."
"None," said Mr. Cochrane, who was over spending the evening; "and they wouldn't understand it if you showed them any, either."
"No heathens ever do," said Mrs. Orban, "and how should they? They have no Great Example to follow as we have. It is the people who have the chance of knowing better, and still are cruel and heartless, that I would have tortured—if any one."
Mr. Orban gave a soft laugh.
"If any one, indeed, wife," he said. "You know as well as I do that you wouldn't have a spider hurt for torturing a fly."
Every one laughed with him except Mrs. Orban herself. Her tender heart was as good as a fable in the household. But she said quite gravely,—
"You have chosen a bad example for once, Jack. A spider is as ignorant as a heathen. It has only its own nature to follow."
"Got the worst of it there, Mr. Orban," said Bob in an amused tone.
"Talking of cruelty," remarked Miss Chase, "what do you do to your unfortunate cows here at night? I never heard such a dismal noise as they make."
"Cows!" exclaimed every one in astonishment.
"Yes, cows," was the answer. "If you listen you can hear them now."
There was an instant hush, followed by renewed peals of laughter.
"Those aren't cows I advise you to go and sympathizewith, Miss Chase," said Bob. "We call them alligators hereabouts, and at the present minute they are lying on the banks of the creek wishing a nice, tasty supper would come strolling along."
"There are alligators in the river, and yet Nesta says you boat on it and bathe in it!" exclaimed Miss Chase. "What extraordinary people you are!"
"There are alligators one side of the bar and sharks the other, and one often upsets going over it in rough weather," said Bob cheerfully.
"How horrible!" said Miss Chase.
"When Aunt Dorothy saw a tarantula strolling round the table towards her the other day she nearly had a fit," said Peter.
"Don't tell tales out of school, Peter Perky," said Aunt Dorothy. "A poor, ignorant Englishwoman isn't expected to be brave when she sees a spider as big as a penny bun, with furry legs in proportion, trying to sit on her knee."
"Then, so far, Miss Chase," said Bob, with a twinkle in his eyes, "you are not infatuated with our Bush life?"
"Have you and Eustace given me much chance to be?" she asked. "You must confess you did not give me a very good first impression by both running away and losing yourselves. We don't think that sort of thing necessary for the entertainment of our friends in England. Spiders are spiders there, too, not animated penny buns, and our cows don't want to eat us."
"Oh, of course," said Bob, "everything is perfect in England—isn't it, Nesta?"
"It has some advantages," said Mrs. Orban. "I think the absence of these excitements is amongst them."
She was looking very worn out after her recent experiences.
"Well, it's my opinion, my dear," said Mr. Orban, "that with your little family you would have excitements wherever you went. It has seemed fated to give you one shock after another."
"Only just lately, Jack," was the gentle response, for Mrs. Orban caught a contrite expression in Eustace's eyes.
"It was the coming of the witch that did it," said Bob. "As soon as she started for Queensland queer things began happening over here. She wanted to make you out of conceit with life here, so that she could more easily bewitch you over to England. That was her spell."
"And the queer thing is," said Mr. Orban quite gravely, "that it has acted. She is going to take them all away from me when she goes—wife, and sons, and daughters."
"Father," exclaimed Nesta, "what are you saying?"
"Is it a story, daddy?" demanded Peter.
"No, the solemn truth," said Mr. Orban.
"I don't understand," said Eustace blankly.
"How should you when so much nonsense is being talked?" said his mother. "But the fact is, father thinks a change of air would do us all a great deal of good; and as grannie wants us, and has sent us our passage money—"
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Nesta, "don't go on, mummie. You make it sound just as if it were real, and itwillbe so disappointing to have toun-fancy it again."
But Eustace said breathlessly,—
"Mother,isit true?"
"Quite true," was the grave answer. "We sail the end of next month. It is all settled."
"What did I say?" said Bob in mock despair. "She'll take you away, and you'll never come back any more."
"Oh, there you are quite wrong, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "If Dorothy is a witch, Jack is a wizard, and he will magic us all back again in a year and a day at latest."
"Well, I simply can't believe it," said Nesta.
"It's the queerest thing I have ever heard," said Eustace.
But Peter set up such yells of delight he had to be repressed by the early-to-bed threat—always a useful one when Peter became rampageous, for he hated going to bed at any time.
That evening no one could talk of anything but this trip to England. No matter what subject was started, everything harked back to this wonderful plan, which Mr. Orban had been thinking out for some time, only confiding in his wife and Miss Chase as long as the matter was undecided. Bob kept up the appearance of being utterly woebegone, and Nesta and Peter seemed to have turned into machines for asking questions.
Of the party only Eustace was silent, and presently Nesta noticed the fact.
"Aren't you most awfully glad?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Eustace slowly.
"Goodness!" said Nesta in a bustling tone, "you've always said you wanted to go."
"That was when I knew we couldn't," replied Eustace, scarcely thinking what he was saying.
"What a funny thing to say," said Nesta. "But youdostill want to go, don't you?"
"I don't know," said Eustace.
"Well, you are a queer boy," said Nesta in rather a disgusted tone. "I call that silly."
"I think I know just what Eustace means," said Miss Chase quietly. "He wants to get there without going—to be there without leaving home. It is how I felt about coming here."
"I don't understand a bit," said Nesta, with a shake of her head.
"I do," said Bob. "One knows what one is leaving, but one doesn't know what one is going to. It is a toss-up whether there is to be any happiness in the venture. But I prophesy the witch will see to it you don't want to come back in a hurry. You'll enjoy yourself no end."
"Why, Bob," exclaimed Nesta in astonishment, "how you have changed! That is all the opposite to what you have always said before."
"Is it?" said Bob lamely. "Well, I suppose I must be bewitched too. What do you expect when you will import such things into the country?"
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Aunt Dorothy's cows" became as great a family joke as "Aunt Dorothy's lunatics;" indeed, scarcely a day passed that the household was not amused by some quaint mistake of hers. Every one chaffed her, especially Bob; and as the two patients rapidly recovered, the house-party was a merry one. In spite of the thought of parting with his family so soon, Mr. Orban was in much better spirits; the cane had been safely cut, the good crop had been spoiled neither by fire nor the rainy season coming too soon, and the crushing was well in progress.
"Oh dear," exclaimed Nesta one morning at breakfast, "I am so sorry you are getting well, Bob."
"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said Bob with deliberate politeness. "One is always so glad of one's friends' good wishes."
Every one laughed except Nesta.
"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "Of course the minute you are well you will go, and the house will be duller than ever without you."
"Very prettily put for the rest of us, dear," said Miss Chase. "I am sure we feel much complimented."
"I don't know what you mean," said Nesta in bewilderment. "I didn't mean to compliment any one."
"You achieved it, however," said Bob. "You called them a pack of dull dogs not fit to live with. Of course they feel charmed with your opinion."
"Oh, I didn't," said Nesta.
"You inferred it," said Miss Chase. "However, we forgive you. Fortunately we shan't be able to die of dullness entirely, because there will be so much to be done preparing for the voyage."
"I vote Bob stays with us till we go," said Eustace.—"He would be jolly useful, wouldn't he, mother?"
"Really, Eustace," remonstrated Mrs. Orban with a laugh, "I am ashamed of you. Is that the way you treat your friends?"
Eustace reddened and looked uncomfortable as the laugh went round. Glancing deprecatingly at Bob, he found that he was not even smiling. It did seem a cheeky way of putting it.
"I beg your pardon," he began, when Bob interrupted quickly.
"No, don't. I was only thinking what a jolly thing you had said. What are friends for if they are not to be made use of?"
"That is rather a dangerous theory to propound," said Mr. Orban. "Supposing your friends take advantage of it—what then?"
"A real friend never would take advantage of it," said Bob with certainty; "that is just how you can test him. The chap who will take nothing from you, but only give, is a patronizing bounder; the fellow who will give nothing to you, but only take, is a mean beggar; the man who will give and take equally is your chum. Hold on to him when you've got him."
"An excellent definition, Bob," said Mr. Orban, with a genial smile. "We shall certainly never let you go."
There was a second's pause, then Bob said quietly,—
"Thank you, sir. I guess I shall hold on to all of you too."
It took Nesta to the end of breakfast to unravel the meaning of the sudden gravity that had fallen over the party, and then she was not sure of herself.
"Why, you silly," said Eustace, to whom she appealed in private, "don't you see?—Father as good as said it—Bob is the right kind of chap to have for a chum. And so he is. I guess I know that better than any one."
"I don't see why you should," exclaimed Nesta jealously. "We all know Bob; he isn't anybody's in particular. He said himself he meant to hold on toallof us, not just one person only."
Her tone was "snubby" in the extreme, but Eustace was utterly silent for a moment.
Nesta did not know it; he would never know it himself; but there was a big difference in Eustace nowadays. He had not gone through great experiences untouched; some things in life leave an indelible impression.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I'm glad he said that."
Nesta was so astonished at getting no response to her assertion that she exclaimed,—"
Said what?"
"Why, that he will hold on to us," Eustace said.
"Well," Nesta remarked, again with a touch of superiority, "of course we all knew that without his telling us."
Eustace eyed her with a quietness that somehow irritated the girl. She could not understand him at all, and nothing annoyed Nesta so much as to discover she was not understanding something that was perfectly clear to somebody else.
"Didn't you know it?" she asked sharply.
"Of course," said Eustace dreamily.
"Then what do you mean?" Nesta demanded.
"I was thinking about going to England," was the seemingly irrelevant reply.
"What has that got to do with it?" said Nesta.
"Everything," Eustace said. "If we had been going to stay here for ever and ever I shouldn't have thought so much about it. As it is, it means a lot that good old Bob won't forget us."
"Why, how stupid you are to-day," Nesta exclaimed. "Did you think he might in 'a year and a day,' as mother calls it?"
"How do you know it will be only 'a year and a day'?" Eustace said almost roughly. "How do you know we shall ever come back?"
"Eustace!" cried Nesta, staring at him as if she thought he must have suddenly gone mad.
"Well?" he said briefly.
"But this is home—and father is staying here," the girl argued. "We couldn't stay in England for ever."
"I don't know," said Eustace. "I've got an awfully queer feeling about going ever since it was settled. And it seems to me Bob has it too."
"Oh, stuff!" said Nesta bracingly. "Bob only says it to tease Aunt Dorothy."
"He said just the same things before Aunt Dorothycame," was the response. "That is nothing to go by."
"Well, neither are your queer feelings," said Nesta. "I haven't any. I don't see why we should stay in England. What is to make us?"
"Suppose we were left there to go to school?" suggested Eustace, watching her narrowly.
Nesta stared at him blankly. It was evidently a new idea to her.
"Do you think we might be?" she said; then her expression broke, and she smiled. "It would be just splendid, wouldn't it?" she added.
Eustace was silent a moment.
"You wouldn't mind leaving Trixy?" he said.
"Well, I should come back again," Nesta answered, feeling somehow annoyingly rebuked, "and I should have such loads and shoals of things to tell her and show her. All about the girls and my clothes, you know—"
"Oh," exclaimed Eustace in a tone of disgust, "that is all girls care about—talking, and showing off."
"It isn't," Nesta said quickly. "I should like the learning."
"Well, I shouldn't," admitted Eustace frankly; "I hate learning. It is only games that make school worth going to, and that isn't enough to make up for other things."
"What other things?" asked Nesta curiously.
"Oh, never mind," said Eustace impatiently; "I don't want to talk about it."
But Nesta did exceedingly; she wanted to talk of nothing else; till at last Eustace went off in desperation down the hill to watch the sugar crushing,saying something about, "It isn't as if people could come back to Queensland for the holidays," and "Everything would be different when they were all grown up."
"I don't know what is the matter with him," Nesta said to herself in perplexity. "I do believe he doesn't want to go at all. And I'm sure he is wrong about our staying there. No such luck!"
Bob did stay on after he was quite well and strong, and he entirely justified Eustace's prophecy. He proved most useful; nothing apparently could have been done without him. "But for Bob," said Mrs. Orban, "I don't believe we should ever be ready in time."
It was he who saw to the soundness of the travelling boxes, to the making of a packing case; he who had advice and assistance to give to every one, and who was certainly the life and spirit of the party in the evenings when other people seemed tired or out of heart. Eustace was not at all in good form. Mrs. Orban was at times inclined to have grave misgivings as to the wisdom of the step, and of course felt leaving her husband. Mr. Orban himself, though he insisted on the trip, was naturally a little sad at the prospect. Even Aunt Dorothy—the witch—had her moments of sadness that her visit should be drawing so rapidly to a close. Only to Nesta and Peter did the time seem to drag and hang heavy, as if it would never pass.
"You'll have to come back with them, Miss Chase," said Bob a few evenings before the great departure.
"I wish I could," she said; "but I am quite sure mother and father won't see the force of that."
"Well, I think you ought to—don't you, Mrs. Orban?" Bob said. "Miss Chase hasn't had half enough Colonial experiences yet."
"The few you have given me have been sufficiently vivid to count for a good many though," said the girl merrily. "I don't know that I really want any more."
"One doesn't always want what is good for one," said Bob. "Besides, there is another way of looking at it—isn't there, Nesta? It has been proved you are a witch. You ought to be brought back by main force to be punished for whisking these good people all off to England with you."
"So she ought," said Nesta gleefully. "She must be burned at the stake. We'll make you come."
"We will, Aunt Dorothy," cried Peter, ready for the fray; "and if you won't, we'll get Bob to come and fetch you."
"Will you really, Peter Perky?" retorted Aunt Dorothy. "I should like to see you. Why, Mr. Cochrane wouldn't set his nose inside England for all the witches in the world."
"Well, no, perhaps not for all the witches in the world," said Bob thoughtfully; "they might prove rather too much for me. But what a lot of nonsense we talk, to be sure."
The nonsense had the effect of sending Miss Chase to bed quite unusually meditative, and, do what she would, she could not get off to sleep for wondering whether she ever would come back to Queensland again. It seemed of all things most impossible, and yet, as she argued, who would ever have thought of her coming at all this time only a year ago?
She had become accustomed to most of the night sounds that had at first puzzled and sometimes frightened her, and by day there was something about the life that delighted her—it was so free, such an open air existence! "They seem to me to sweep all their worries with the dust over the edge of the veranda," she thought. "I think England will feel a little stiff and shut in after it."
It was a bright moonlight night. A deluded cock at about midnight awoke and fancied it must be day. He crowed so loudly over his discovery that he roused a great enemy of his, who replied in husky irritation and no measured terms that he was a fool. But the mischief was done—some half-dozen young cockerels took the matter up as a joke, and crowed persistently in spite of all remonstrance from the rest of the poultry.
Miss Chase put her head under the bedclothes and tried to shut out the sound, but in vain. Besides, it was far too hot to sleep with a buried nose and mouth. Resolutely keeping her eyes tight shut, she set her mind upon nothing but sleep. She must have lain like that for quite ten minutes, when suddenly her eyes unclosed in spite of her, just as if they were worked by a spring, and she was as wide awake as ever. At least so she fancied the first instant, but the next she thought she must be dreaming. There had been no sound—nothing but Nesta's regular breathing—and yet at the other side of the room, standing with his back towards her, was the figure of a man.
Her first impulse was to call out, her second prompted caution, and she pinched herself hard tomake sure whether she was awake or not. There was no doubt about it—she was not asleep; the pinch hurt considerably, and the man was still there. He was apparently examining the things on her dressing-table minutely, and she guessed he was looking for valuables. Knowing the story of the dark visitor who had frightened every one so before her arrival, Miss Chase had followed the general rule and left nothing of any value lying about, though no one thought a thief would venture into the house now that it was so full. Here he certainly was, however, and the question was, "What ought she to do?"
Miss Chase lay absolutely still, her heart beating to suffocation, her mind working rapidly. There was no saying that this was the same man. He might be of a much more desperate and vicious character. Had she been alone she might have risked screaming for help, but there was also Nesta to be considered; she dared not expose the child to a knock on the head to silence her.
The man took a slow tour of the room, peering into nooks and corners in a stealthy, silent way that was most eerie to watch. Miss Chase bore it until at last he went towards Nesta's bed with that cat-like, sinister gait. The horror of his approaching the helpless sleeper at the other side of the room was too much for the girl's strained nerves. His back was towards her; he fancied her asleep. Slipping her hand under her pillow she drew out a small revolver, then sat up softly and took careful aim. There was a report, a howl of fear and pain, and the man turned to gaze wildly round the room. Nesta sprang from her bed with a terrified yell and rushedto her aunt, who sat, still pointing her weapon at the intruder, with a look of grim determination in her eyes.
With a heavy groan the man started towards the window, limping pitifully. He disappeared out on to the veranda, leaving a trail of blood across the uncarpeted floor.
"Now go for your father," said Miss Chase, giving the trembling girl a push. "Tell him what has happened."
Nesta needed no second bidding, but she had not reached the door before it opened and Mr. Orban dashed in.
"Through there," said Miss Chase, pointing towards the window. "Follow the blood track. He can't go fast. I winged him."
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