Norah, meanwhile, had been feeling somewhat “out of things.” It was really more than human nature could be expected to bear that she should remain on the log with the three boys, while Jim told amazing yarns about her. Still it was decidedly lonesome in the jutting root of the old tree, looking fixedly at the water, in which placidly lay a float that had apparently forgotten that the first duty of a float is to bob.
Jim's voice, murmuring along in his lengthy recital, came to her softly, and she could see from her perch the interested faces of the two others. It mingled drowsily with the dull drone of bees in the ti-tree behind her, and presently Norah, to her disgust, found that she was growing drowsy too.
“This won't do!” she reflected, shaking herself. “If I go to sleep and tumble off this old root I'll startle away all the fish in the creek.” She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the splash of a leaping fish. “No good when they jump like that,” said Norah to herself. “I guess I'll go and explore.”
She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy—not that Norah's free and independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along the bank.
A little farther up she came across black Billy—a very cheerful aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine blackfish to leave their watery bed.
“Oh, I say!” said Norah, round-eyed and envious. “How do you manage it, Billy? We can't catch one.”
Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words.
“Plenty bob-um float,” he explained lucidly. “Easy 'nuff. You try.”
“No, thanks,” said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. “I'm sick of trying—and I've no luck. Going to cook 'em for dinner, Billy?”
“Plenty!” assented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it suffice.
“That's a good boy,” said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old white. “I'm going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when lunch is ready.”
“Plenty,” said Billy intelligently.
Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush, and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives it.
She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand—clinging creepers and twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, clusters of maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade, and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling disgusted with herself.
Suddenly she stopped in amazement.
She was on the edge of a small clear space, at the farther side of which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the whole space was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in surprise.
For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent.
The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks, and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was all very neat and tidy. “It looks quite home-like,” said Norah to herself.
As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him, as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he straightened himself he was wonderfully tall—taller even than Dad, who was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes.
But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have passed muster in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee. He was dressed entirely in skins—wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though there was an occasional section that looked like 'possum. They didn't look bad, either, she thought—a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling.
The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper—Norah had never seen one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked good, too—nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased “Not half bad!” he said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped.
The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to blow the dust from the result of his cookery.
At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent handkerchief.
As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its imprisonment, so Norah's sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her efforts to repress it. It came—
“A—tish—oo—oo!”
The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round.
“What on earth's that?” he said. “Who's there?” For a moment Norah hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second's thought showed her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, “It's me.”
“'Me', is it?” said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt—at the merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. “'Me ',” he repeated. “'Me' looks rather nice, I think. But what's she doing here?”
“I was looking at you,” Norah exclaimed.
“I won't be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king,” said the old man. “But don't you know that no one comes here? No young ladies in blue dresses and brown curls—only wombats and wallabies, and ring-tailed 'possums—and me. Not you—me, but me—me! How do you account for being here?”
Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man, whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke.
“But I don't think you know,” she said. “Quite a lot of other people come here—this is Anglers' Bend. At least, Anglers' Bend's quite close to your camp. Why, only, to-day there's Jim and the boys, and black Billy, and me! We're not wallabies!”
“Jim—and the boys—and black Billy—and me!” echoed the old man faintly. “Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than a bunyip! But—I've been here for three months, little lady, and have never come across anyone. Are you sure you're quite serious?”
“Quite,” Norah answered. “Perhaps it was that no one came across you, you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp here sometimes, but we haven't been for more than three months.”
“Well, I must move, that's all,” said the old man. “I do like quiet—it's annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance.”
“Did you make them yourself?” asked Norah.
“Behold how she fences!” said the old man. “I did indeed!”
“Then they do you proud!” said Norah solemnly.
The old man laughed.
“I shall prize your expression of opinion,” he said. “May I ask the name of my visitor?”
“I'm Norah. Please who are you?”
“That's a different matter,” said the other, looking nonplussed. “I certainly had a name once, but I've quite forgotten it. I have an excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I'd be delighted if you could!”
“I couldn't.” Norah shook her head. “But I'll tell you what I think you are.”
“Do.”
“A hermit!”
The old man's face cleared.
“My dear Miss Norah,” he said, “you've made a profound discovery. I am—I am—a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me?
“I can't, I'm afraid,” said Norah, looking affectionately at the damper. “The boys will be looking for me, if I don't go back. Listen—there's Jim coo-eeing now!”
“And who may Jim be?” queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily.
“Jim's my brother,” Norah said. “He's fifteen, and he's just splendid. Harry and Wally are his two chums.”
“Coo-ee! Coo-ee!”
Norah answered the call quickly and turned to the Hermit, feeling a little apologetic.
“I had to call,” she explained—“Jim would be anxious. They want me for lunch.” She hesitated. “Won't you come too?” she asked timidly.
“I haven't eaten with my fellow-men for more time than I'd care to reckon,” said the Hermit. “I don't know—will they let me alone afterwards? Are they ordinary abominable boys?”
“Indeed, they're not!” said Norah indignantly. “They won't come near you at all, if you don't want them—but I know they'd be pleased if you came. Do!”
“Coo-ee!”
“Jim's getting impatient, isn't he?” said the Hermit. “Well, Miss Norah, if you'll excuse my attire I'll come. Shall I bring my damper?”
“Oh, please!” Norah cried. “We've never tasted damper.”
“I wish I hadn't,” said the Hermit grimly. He picked up the fallen cake. “Let us away!” he said. “The banquet waits!”
During their walk through the scrub it occurred to Norah once or twice to wonder if her companion were really a little mad. He said such extraordinary things, all in the most matter-of-fact tone—but when she looked up at him his blue eyes twinkled so kindly and merrily that she knew at once he was all right, and she was quite certain that she liked him very much.
The boys were getting impatient. Lunch was ready, and when lunch has been prepared by Mrs. Brown, and supplemented by fresh blackfish, fried over a camp fire by black Billy, it is not a meal to be kept waiting. They were grouped round the table-cloth, in attitudes more suggestive of ease than elegance, when Norah and her escort appeared, and for once their manners deserted them. They gaped in silent amazement.
“Boys, this is The Hermit,” said Norah, rather nervously. “I—I found him. He has a camp. He's come to lunch.”
“I must apologize for my intrusion, I'm afraid,” the Hermit said. “Miss Norah was good enough to ask me to come. I—I've brought my damper!”
He exhibited the article half shyly, and the boys recovered themselves and laughed uncontrollably. Jim sprang to his feet. The Hermit's first words had told him that this was no common swagman that Norah had picked up.
“I'm very glad to see you, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thank you,” said the Hermit gravely. “You're Jim, aren't you? And I conclude that this gentleman is Harry, and this Wally? Ah, I thought so. Yes, I haven't seen so many people for ages. And black Billy! How are you Billy?”
Billy retreated in great embarrassment.
“Plenty!” he murmured.
Everybody laughed again.
“Well,” Jim said, “we're hungry, Norah. I hope you and—er—this gentleman are.” Jim was concealing his bewilderment like a hero. “Won't you sit down and sample Billy's blackfish? He caught 'em all—we couldn't raise a bite between us—barring Wally's boot!”
“Did you catch a boot?” queried the Hermit of the blushing Wally. “Mine, I think—I can't congratulate you on your luck! If you like, after lunch, I'll show you a place where you could catch fish, if you only held the end of your finger in the water!”
“Good enough!” said Jim. “Thanks, awfully—we'll be jolly glad. Come on, Billy—trot out your frying-pan!”
Lunch began rather silently.
In their secret hearts the boys were rather annoyed with Norah.
“Why on earth,” Jim reflected, “couldn't she have left the old chap alone? The party was all right without him—we didn't want any one else—least of all an odd oddity like this.” And though the other boys were loyal to Norah, she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation, and was classed for the moment with the usual run of “girls who do rummy things.”
However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the state of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like quiet boys, were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for polite requests for bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous remark, “Chuck us the salt!”
Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really have taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the drollest stories, which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although he never laughed himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told them of the queer animals he saw—having, as he said, unusually good opportunities for watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where the lyrebirds danced, and had often crept silently through the scrub until he could command a view of the mound where these strange birds strutted and danced, and mimicked the other birds with life-like fidelity. He loved the birds very much, and never killed any of them, even when a pair of thievish magpies attacked his larder and pecked a damper into little bits when he was away fishing. Many of the birds were tame with him now, he said; they would hop about the camp and let him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that was quite a pet, which he offered to show them—an offer that broke down the last tottering barriers of the boys' reserve. Then there were his different methods of trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who was a trapper of much renown.
“Don't you get lonely sometimes?” Norah asked him.
The Hermit looked at her gravely.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Now and then one feels that one would give something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend's hand-grip. Oh, there are times, Miss Norah, when I talk to myself—which is bad—or yarn to old Turpentine, my snake, just to hear the sound of words again. However, when these bad fits come upon me I know it's a sign that I must get the axe and go and chop down sufficient trees to make me tired. Then I go to sleep, and wake up quite a cheerful being once more!”
He hesitated.
“And there's one thing,” he said slowly—“though it may be lonely here, there is no one to trouble you; no one to treat you badly, to be ungrateful or malicious; no bitter enemies, and no false friends, who are so much worse than enemies. The birds come and hop about me, and I know that it is because I like them and have never frightened them; old Turpentine slides his ugly head over my knees, and I know he doesn't care a button whether I have any money in my pocket, or whether I have to go out into the scrub to find my next meal! And that's far, far more than you can say of most human beings!”
He looked round on their grave faces, and smiled for the first time.
“This is uncommonly bad behaviour in a guest,” he said cheerily. “To come to lunch, and regale one's host and hostess with a sermon! It's too bad. I ask your forgiveness, young people, and please forget all I said immediately. No, Miss Norah, I won't have any damper, thank you—after a three months' course of damper one looks with joy once more on bread. If Wally will favour me—I think the correct phrase is will you 'chuck me the butter?'”—whereat Wally “chucked” as desired, and the meal proceeded merrily.
Lunch over, everyone seemed disinclined for action. The boys lay about on the grass, sleepily happy. Norah climbed into a tree, where the gnarled boughs made a natural arm-chair, and the Hermit propped his back against a rock and smoked a short black pipe with an air of perfect enjoyment. It was just hot enough to make one drowsy. Bees droned lazily, and from some shady gully the shrill note of a cricket came faintly to the ear. Only Billy had stolen down to the creek, to tempt the fish once more. They heard the dull “plunk” of his sinker as he flung it into a deep, still pool.
“Would you like to hear how I lost my boot?” queried the Hermit suddenly.
“Oh, please,” said Norah.
The boys rolled over—that is to say Jim and Wally rolled over. Harry was fast asleep.
“Don't wake him,” said the Hermit. But Wally's hat, skilfully thrown, had already caught the slumberer on the side of the head.
Harry woke up with surprising promptness, and returned the offending head-gear with force and directness. Wally caught it deftly and rammed it over his eyes. He smiled underneath it at the Hermit like a happy cherub.
“Now we're ready, sir,” he said. “Hold your row, Harry, the—this gentleman's going to spin us a yarn. Keep awake if you can spare the time!”
“I'll spare the time to kick you!” growled the indignant Harry.
“I don't know that you'll think it's much of a yarn,” the Hermit said hurriedly, entering the breach to endeavour to allay further discussion—somewhat to Jim's disappointment. “It's only the story of a pretty narrow escape.
“I had gone out fishing one afternoon about a month ago. It was a grand day for fishing—dull and cloudy. The sun was about somewhere, but you couldn't see anything of him, although you could feel his warmth. I'd been off colour for a few days, and had not been out foraging at all, and as a result, except for damper, my larder was quite empty.
“I went about a mile upstream. There's a splendid place for fishing there. The creek widens, and there's a still, deep pool, something like the pool at the place you call Anglers' Bend, only I think mine is deeper and stiller, and fishier! At all events, I have never failed to get fish there.
“I fished from the bank for a while, with not very good luck. At all events, it occurred to me that I could better it if I went out upon a big log that lay right across the creek—a tremendous tree it must have been, judging by the size of the trunk. You could almost ride across it, it's so wide—if you had a circus pony, that is,” added the Hermit with a twinkle.
“So I gathered up my tackle, hung the fish I'd caught across a bough in the shade, and went out on the log, and here I had good luck at once. The fish bit just as soon as I put the bait into the water, and though a good many of them were small there were some very decent-sized ones amongst them. I threw the little chaps back, on the principle that—
Baby fish you throw away
Will make good sport another day,
and at last began to think I had caught nearly enough, even though I intended to salt some. However, just as I thought it was time to strike for camp, I had a tremendous bite. It nearly jerked the rod out of my hands!
“'Hallo!' I said to myself, 'here's a whale!' I played him for a bit, for he was the strongest fish I ever had on a line in this country, and at last he began to tire, and I reeled the line in. It seemed quite a long time before I caught a glimpse of his lordship—a tremendous perch. I tell you I felt quite proud as his head came up out of the water.
“He was nearly up to the log, when he made a sudden, last leap in the air, and the quickness of it and his weight half threw me off my balance. I made a hurried step on the log, and my right foot slipped into a huge, gaping crack. It was only after I had made two or three ineffectual struggles to release it that I found I was stuck.
“Well I didn't realize the seriousness of the position for a few minutes,” the Hermit went on. “I could understand that I was wedged, but I certainly never dreamed that I could not, by dint of manoeuvring, wriggle my foot out of the crack. So I turned my attention to my big fish, and—standing in a most uncomfortable position—managed to land him; and a beauty he was, handsome as paint, with queer markings on his sides. I put him down carefully, and then tried to free myself.
“And I tried—and tried—and tried—until I was tired out, and stiff and hopeless. By that time it was nearly dark. After I had endeavoured unsuccessfully to get the boot clear, I unlaced it, and tried to get my foot out of it—but I was in a trifle too far for that, and try as I would I could not get it free. The crack was rather on the side of the log. I could not get a straight pull. Hurt? Yes, of course it hurt—not more from the pinching of the log, which you may try any time by screwing your foot up in a vice, than from my own wild efforts to get clear. My foot and ankle were stiff and sore from my exertions long before I knocked off in despair. I might have tried to cut the wood away, had I not left my knife on the bank, where I was fishing first. I don't know that it would have done much good, anyhow.
“Well, I looked at the situation—in fact, I had been looking at it all the time. It wasn't a very cheering prospect, either. The more I pondered over it, the less chance I saw of getting free. I had done all I could towards that end; now it only remained to wait for something to 'turn up.' And I was quite aware that nothing was in the least likely to turn up, and also that in all probability I would wear out some time before the log did.
“Night came on, and I was as hungry as a hunter—being a hunter, I knew just how hungry that is. I hadn't anything to eat except raw fish, and I wasn't quite equal to that yet. I had only one pipe of tobacco too, and you may be sure I made the most of that, I smoked it very, very slowly, and I wouldn't like to say how long it lasted.
“From time to time I made fresh attempts to release my foot—all unavailing, and all the more maddening because I could feel that my foot wasn't much caught—only just enough to hold it. But enough is as good as a feast! I felt that if I could get a straight pull at it I might get it out, and several times I nearly went head first into the water, overbalancing myself in the effort to get that straight pull. That wasn't a pleasant sensation—not so bad, indeed, if one had got as far as the water. But I pictured myself hanging from the log with a dislocated ankle, and the prospect was not inviting.
“So the night crept on. I grew deadly sleepy, but of course I did not care to let myself go to sleep; but worse than that was the stiffness, and the cramp that tortured the imprisoned leg. You know how you want to jump when you've got cramp? Well, I wanted to jump at intervals of about a minute all through that night, and instead, I was more securely hobbled than any old horse I ever saw. The mosquitoes worried me too. Altogether it was not the sort of entertainment you would select from choice!
“And then, just as day began to dawn, the sleepiness got the better of me. I fought it unavailingly; but at last I knew I could keep awake no longer, and I shut my eyes.
“I don't know how long I slept—it couldn't have been for any time, for it was not broad daylight when I opened my eyes again. Besides, the circumstances weren't the kind to induce calm and peaceful slumber.
“I woke up with a start, and in my dreams I seemed to hear myself crying out with pain—for a spasm of cramp had seized me, and it was like a red-hot iron thrust up my leg. I was only half awake—not realizing my position a bit. I made a sudden spring, and the next moment off I went, headlong!
“I don't suppose,” said the Hermit reflectively, poking a stem of grass down his pipe, “that I'll ever lose the memory of the sudden, abject terror of that moment. They say 'as easy as falling off a log,' and it certainly doesn't take an able-bodied man long to fall off one, as a rule; but it seemed to me that I was hours and years waiting for the jerk to come on my imprisoned foot. I'm sure I lived through half a lifetime before it really came.
“Then it came—and I hardly felt it! There was just a sudden pull—scarcely enough to hurt very much, and the old boot yielded. Sole from upper, it came clean away, and the pressure on my foot alone wasn't enough to hold me. It was so unexpected that I didn't realize I was free until I struck the water, and went down right into the mud at the bottom of the creek.
“That woke me up, I can assure you. I came up choking and spluttering, and blinded with the mud—I wouldn't like to tell you for a moment that it was pleasant, but I can truthfully say I never was more relieved in my life. I struck out for the bank, and got out of the water, and then sat down on the grass and wondered why on earth I hadn't made up my mind to jump off that log before.
“I hadn't any boot left—the remainder had been kicked off as I swam ashore. I made my way along the log that had held me so fast all night, and there, wedged as tight as ever in the crack, was my old sole! It's there still—unless the mosquitoes have eaten it. I limped home with my fish, cleaned them, had a meal and went to bed—and I didn't get up until next day, either!
“And so, Mr. Wally, I venture to think that it was my boot that you landed this morning,” the Hermit said gravely. “I don't grudge it to you; I can't say I ever wish to see it again. You”—magnanimously—“may have it for your very own!”
“But I chucked it back again!” blurted out Wally, amidst a roar of laughter from Jim and Harry at his dismayed face.
“I forgive you!” said the Hermit, joining in the laugh. “I admit it was a relic which didn't advertise its own fame.”
“I guess you'd never want to see it again,” Jim said. “That was a pretty narrow escape—if your foot had been in just a bit farther you might have been hanging from that old log now!”
“That was my own idea all that night,” observed the Hermit; “and then Wally wouldn't have caught any more than the rest of you this morning! And that reminds me, I promised to show you a good fishing-place. Don't you think, if you've had enough of my prosy yarning, that we'd better make a start?”
The party gathered itself up with alacrity from the grass. Lines were hurriedly examined, and the bait tin, when investigated, proved to contain an ample supply of succulent grubs and other dainties calculated to tempt the most fastidious of fish.
“All ready?” said the Hermit.
“Hold on a minute,” Jim said. “I'll let Billy know where we're going.”
Billy was found fishing stolidly from a log. Three blackfish testified to his skill with the rod, at which Wally whistled disgustedly and Norah laughed.
“No good to be jealous of Billy's luck,” she said. “He can always get fish, when nobody else can find even a nibble. Mrs. Brown says he's got the light hand like hers for pastry.”
The Hermit laughed.
“I like Mrs. Brown's simile,” he said. “If that was her pastry in those turnovers at lunch, Miss Norah, I certainly agree that she has 'the light hand.'”
“Mrs. Brown's like the cook in The Ingoldsby Legends, Dad says,” Norah remarked.
“What,” said the Hermit—
“For soups and stews, and French regouts, Nell Cook is famous still—?” finished Norah delightedly. “However did you know, Mr. Hermit?”
The Hermit laughed, but a shade crossed his brow. “I used to read the Legends with a dear old friend many years before you were born, Miss Norah,” he said gravely. “I often wonder whether he still reads them.”
“Ready?” Jim interrupted, springing up the bank. “Billy understands about feeding the ponies. Don't forget, mind, Billy.”
“Plenty!” quoth Billy, and the party went on its way. The Hermit led them rapidly over logs and fallen trees, up and down gullies, and through tangles of thickly growing scrub. Once or twice it occurred to Jim that they were trusting very confidingly to this man, of whom they knew absolutely nothing; and a faint shade of uneasiness crossed his mind. He felt responsible, as the eldest of the youngsters, knowing that his father had placed him in charge, and that he was expected to exercise a certain amount of caution. Still it was hard to fancy anything wrong, looking at the Hermit's serene face, and the trusting way in which Norah's brown little hand was placed in his strong grasp. The other boys were quite unconscious of any uncomfortable ideas, and Jim finally dismissed his fears as uncalled for.
“I thought,” said the Hermit, suddenly turning, “of taking you to see my camp as we went, but on second thoughts I decided that it would be better to get straight to work, as you young people want some fish, I suppose, to take home. Perhaps we can look in at my camp as we come back. It's not far from here.”
“Which way do you generally go to the river?” Norah asked.
“Why, anyway,” the Hermit answered. “Generally in this direction. Why do you ask, Miss Norah?”
“I was wondering,” Norah said. “We haven't crossed or met a single track.”
The Hermit laughed.
“No,” he said, “I take very good care not to leave tracks if I can avoid it. You see, I'm a solitary fellow, Miss Norah, and prefer, as a rule, to keep to myself. Apart from that, I often leave camp for the greater part of the day when I'm fishing or hunting, and I've no wish to point out the way to my domain to any wanderers. Not that I've much to lose, still there are some things. Picture my harrowed feelings were I to return some evening and find my beloved frying-pan gone!”
Norah laughed.
“It would be awful,” she said.
“So I planned my camp very cunningly,” continued the Hermit, “and I can tell you it took some planning to contrive it so that it shouldn't be too easily visible.”
“Well, it isn't from the side I came on it,” Norah put in; “I never dreamed of anything being there until I was right on the camp. It did surprise me!”
“And me,” said the Hermit drily. “Well that is how I tried to arrange camp, and you could be within a dozen yards of it on any side without imagining that any was near.”
“But surely you must have made some sort of a track leading away from it,” said Jim, “unless you fly out!”
The Hermit laughed.
“I'll show you later how I manage that,” he said.
The bush grew denser as the little party, led by the Hermit, pushed along, and Jim was somewhat surprised at the easy certainty with which their guide led the way, since there was no sign of a track. Being a silent youth, he held his tongue on the matter; but Wally was not so reserved.
“However d'you find your way along here?” he asked. “I don't even know whether we're near the creek or not.”
“If we kept still a moment you'd know,” the Hermit said. “Listen!” He held up his hand and they all stood still. There came faintly to their ears a musical splash of water.
“There's a little waterfall just in there,” the Hermit said, “nothing much, unless the creek is very low, and then there is a greater drop for the water. So you see we haven't got far from the creek. How do I know the way? Why, I feel it mostly, and if I couldn't feel it, there are plenty of landmarks. Every big tree is as good as a signpost once you know the way a bit, and I've been along here pretty often, so there's nothing in it, you see, Wally.”
“Do you like the bush, Mr. Hermit?” Norah asked.
The Hermit hesitated.
“Sometimes I hate it, I think, Miss Norah,” he said, “when the loneliness of it comes over me, and all the queer sounds of it bother me and keep me awake. Then I realise that I'm really a good way from anywhere, and I get what are familiarly called the blues. However, that's not at all times, and indeed mostly I love it very much, its great quietness and its beauty; and then it's so companionable, though perhaps you're a bit young to understand that. Anyhow, I have my mates, not only old Turpentine, my snake, but others—wallabies that have come to recognise me as harmless, for I never hunt anywhere near home, the laughing jackasses, two of them, that come and guffaw to me every morning, the pheasants that I watch capering and strutting on the logs hidden in the scrub. Even the plants become friends; there are creepers near my camp that I've watched from babyhood, and more than one big tree with which I've at least a nodding acquaintance!”
He broke off suddenly.
“Look, there's a friend of mine!” he said gently. They were crossing a little gully, and a few yards on their right a big wallaby sat staring at them, gravely inquisitive. It certainly would not have been human nature if Jim had not longed for a gun; but the wallaby was evidently quite ignorant of such a thing, and took them all in with his cool stare. At length Wally sneezed violently, whereat the wallaby started, regarded the disturber of his peace with an alarmed air, and finally bounded off into the scrub.
“There you go!” said the Hermit good-humouredly, “scaring my poor beastie out of his wits.”
“Couldn't help it,” mumbled Wally.
“No, a sneeze will out, like truth, won't it?” the Hermit laughed. “That's how Miss Norah announced herself to me to-day. I might never have known she was there if she hadn't obligingly sneezed! I hope. you're not getting colds, children!” the Hermit added, with mock concern.
“Not much!” said Wally and Norah in a breath.
“Just after I came here,” said the Hermit, “I was pretty short of tucker, and it wasn't a good time for fishing, so I was dependent on my gun for most of my provisions. So one day, feeling much annoyed after a breakfast of damper and jam, I took the gun and went off to stock up the larder.
“I went a good way without any luck. There didn't seem anything to shoot in all the bush, though you may be sure I kept my eyes about me. I was beginning to grow disheartened. At length I made my way down to the creek. Just as I got near it, I heard a whirr-r-r over my head, and looking up, I saw a flock of wild duck. They seemed to pause a moment, and then dropped downwards. I couldn't see where they alighted, but of course I knew it must be in the creek.
“Well, I didn't pause,” said the Hermit. “I just made my way down to the creek as quickly as ever I could, remaining noiseless at the same time. Ducks are easily scared, and I knew my hopes of dinner were poor if these chaps saw me too soon.
“So I sneaked down. Pretty soon I got a glimpse of the creek, which was very wide at that point, and fringed with weeds. The ducks were calmly swimming on its broad surface, a splendid lot of them, and I can assure you a very tempting sight to a hungry man.
“However, I didn't waste time in admiration. I couldn't very well risk a shot from where I was, it was a bit too far, and the old gun I had wasn't very brilliant. So I crept along, crawled down a bank, and found myself on a flat that ran to the water's edge, where reeds, growing thickly, screened me from the ducks' sight.
“That was simple enough. I crawled across this flat, taking no chances, careless of mud, and wet, and sword grass, which isn't the nicest thing to crawl among at any time, as you can imagine; it's absolutely merciless to face and hands.”
“And jolly awkward to stalk ducks in,” Jim commented, “the rustle would give you away in no time.”
The Hermit nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “that's its worst drawback, or was, on this occasion. It certainly did rustle; however, I crept very slowly, and the ducks were kind enough to think I was the wind stirring in the reeds. At any rate, they went on swimming, and feeding quite peacefully. I got a good look at them through the fringe of reeds, and then, like a duffer, although I had a good enough position, I must try and get a better one.
“So I crawled a little farther down the bank, trying to reach a knoll which would give me a fine sight of the game, and at the same time form a convenient rest for my gun. I had almost reached it when the sad thing happened. A tall, spear-like reed, bending over, gently and intrusively tickled my nose, and without the slightest warning, and very greatly to my own amazement, I sneezed violently.
“If I was amazed, what were the ducks! The sneeze was so unmistakably human, so unspeakably violent. There was one wild whirr of wings, and my ducks scrambled off the placid surface of the water like things possessed. I threw up my gun and fired wildly; there was no time for deliberate taking of aim, with the birds already half over the ti-tree at the other side.”
“Did you get any?” Jim asked.
“One duck,” said the Hermit sadly. “And even for him I had to swim; he obligingly chose a watery grave just to spite me, I believe. He wasn't much of a duck either. After I had stripped and swum for him, dressed again, prepared the duck, cooked him, and finally sat down to dinner, there was so little of him that he only amounted to half a meal, and was tough at that!”
“So was your luck,” observed Wally.
“Uncommonly tough,” agreed the Hermit. “However, these things are the fortunes of war, and one has to put up with them, grin, and play the game. It's surprising how much tougher things look if you once begin to grumble. I've had so much bad luck in the bush that I've really got quite used to it.”
“How's that?” asked Harry.
“Why,” said the Hermit, “if it wasn't one thing, it was mostly another. I beg your pardon, Miss Norah, let me help you over this log. I've had my tucker stolen again and again, several times by birds, twice by swaggies, and once by a couple of black fellows pilgrimaging through the bush I don't know whither. They happened on my camp, and helped themselves; I reckoned myself very lucky that they only took food, though I've no doubt they would have taken more if I hadn't arrived on the scene in the nick of time and scared them almost out of their wits.”
“How did you do that?” asked Norah; “tell us about it, Mr. Hermit!”
The Hermit smiled down at Norah's eager face.
“Oh, that's hardly a yarn, Miss Norah,” he said, his eyes twinkling in a way that made them look astonishingly young, despite his white hair and his wrinkles. “That was only a small happening, though it capped a day of bad luck. I had been busy in camp all the morning cooking, and had laid in quite a supply of tucker, for me. I'd cooked some wild duck, and roasted a hare, boiled a most splendid plum-duff and finally baked a big damper, and I can tell you I was patting myself on the back because I need not do any more cooking for nearly a week, unless it were fish—I'm not a cook by nature, and pretty often go hungry rather than prepare a meal.
“After dinner I thought I'd go down to the creek and try my luck—it was a perfect day for fishing, still and grey. So I dug some worms—and broke my spade in doing so—and started off.
“The promise of the day held good. I went to my favourite spot, and the fish just rushed me—the worms must have been very tempting, or else the fish larder was scantily supplied. At any rate, they bit splendidly, and soon I grew fastidious, and was picking out and throwing back any that weren't quite large enough. I fished from the old log over the creek, and soon had a pile of fish, and grew tired of the sport. I was sleepy, too, through hanging over the fire all the morning. I kept on fishing mechanically, but it was little more than holding my bait in the water, and I began nodding and dozing, leaning back on the broad old log.
“I didn't think I had really gone to sleep, though I suppose I must have done so, because I dreamed a kind of half-waking dream. In it I saw a snake that crept and crept nearer and nearer to me until I could see its wicked eyes gleaming, and though I tried to get away, I could not. It came on and on until it was quite near, and I was feeling highly uncomfortable in my dream. At last I made a great effort, flung out my hand towards a stick, and, with a yell, woke up, to realise that I had struck something cold, and clammy, and wet. What it was I couldn't be certain for an instant, until I heard a dull splash, and then I knew. I had swept my whole string of fish into the water below!
“Oh, yes, I said things—who wouldn't? I was too disgusted to fish any more, and the nightmare having thoroughly roused me, I gathered up my tackle and made tracks for home, feeling considerably annoyed with myself.
“You must know I've a private entrance into my camp. It's a track no one would suspect of being a track, and by its aid I can approach noiselessly. I've got into a habit of always sneaking back to camp—just in case anyone should be there. This afternoon I came along quietly, more from force of habit than from any real idea of looking out for intruders. But half-way along it a sound pulled me up suddenly. It was the sound of a voice.
“When you haven't heard anyone speak for a good many months, the human voice has quite a startling effect upon you—or even the human sneeze, Miss Norah!” added the Hermit, with a twinkle. “I stopped short and listened with all my might. Presently the voice came again, low and guttural, and I knew it for a native's.
“The conviction didn't fill me with joy, as you may imagine. I stole forward, until by peeping through the bushes I gained a view of the camp—and was rewarded with the spectacle of two blacks—ill-favoured brutes they were, too—quite at home, one in the act of stuffing my cherished roast hare into a dirty bag, the other just taking a huge bite out of my damper!
“The sight, as you may imagine, didn't fill me with joy. From the bulges in my black visitors' bag I gathered that the ducks had preceded the hare; and even as I looked, the gentleman with the damper relaxed his well-meant efforts, and thrust it, too, into the bag. Then they put down the bag and dived into the tent, and I heard rustlings and low-toned remarks that breathed satisfaction. I reckoned it was time to step in.
“Luckily, my gun was outside the tent—indeed I never leave it inside, but have a special hiding-place for it under a handy log, for fear of stray marauders overhauling my possessions. A gun is a pretty tempting thing to most men, and since my duck-shooting failure I had treated myself to a new double-barrel—a beauty.
“I crept to the log, drew out both guns, and then retired to the bushes—a little uncertain, to tell the truth, what to do, for I hadn't any particular wish to murder my dusky callers; and at the same time, had to remember that they were two to one, and would be unhampered by any feeling of chivalry, if we did come to blows. I made up my mind to try to scare them—and suddenly I raised the most horrible, terrifying, unearthly yell I could think of, and at the same time fired both barrels of one gun quickly in the air!
“The effect was instantaneous. There was one howl of horror, and the black fellows darted out of the tent! They almost cannoned into me—and you know I must look a rum chap in these furry clothes and cap, with my grandfatherly white beard! At all events, they seemed to think me so, for at sight of me they both yelled in terror, and bolted away as fast as their legs could carry them. I cheered the parting guests by howling still more heartily, and firing my two remaining barrels over their heads as they ran. They went as swiftly as a motor-car disappears from view—I believe they reckoned they'd seen the bunyip. I haven't seen a trace of them since.
“They'd had a fine time inside the tent. Everything I possessed had been investigated, and one or two books badly torn—the wretches!” said the Hermit ruefully. “My clothes (I've a few garments beside these beauties, Miss Norah) had been pulled about, my few papers scattered wildly, and even my bunk stripped of blankets, which lay rolled up ready to be carried away. There wasn't a single one of my poor possessions that had escaped notice, except, of course, my watch and money, which I keep carefully buried. The tent was a remarkable spectacle, and so close and reminiscent of black fellow that my first act was to undo the sides and let the fresh air play through. I counted myself very lucky to get off as lightly as I did—had I returned an hour later none of my goods and chattels would have been left.”
“What about the tucker?” Harry asked; “did they get away with the bag they'd stowed it in?”
“Not they!” said the Hermit; “they were far too scared to think of bags or tucker. They almost fell over it in their efforts to escape, but neither of them thought of picking it up. It was hard luck for them, after they'd packed it so carefully.”
“Is that how you looked at it?” Jim asked, laughing.
“Well—I tried to,” said the Hermit, laughing in his turn. “Sometimes it was pretty hard work—and I'll admit that for the first few days my own misfortunes were uppermost.”
“But you didn't lose your tucker after all, you said?” queried Wally. “I thought they left the bag?”
“They did,” the Hermit admitted. “But have you ever explored the interior of a black fellow's bag, Master Wally? No? Well, if you had, you would understand that I felt no further hankerings over those masterpieces of the cook's art. I'm not extra particular, I believe, but I couldn't tackle them—no thanks! I threw them into the scrub—and then washed my hands!”
“Poor you!” said Norah.
“Oh, I wasn't so badly off,” said the Hermit. “They'd left me the plum-duff, which was hanging in its billy from a bough. Lots of duff—I had it morning, noon and night, until I found something fresh to cook—and I haven't made duff since. And here we are at the creek!”
The party had for some time been walking near the creek, so close to it that it was within sound, although they seldom got a glimpse of water, save where the ti-tree scrub on the bank grew thinner or the light wind stirred an opening in its branches. Now, however, the Hermit suddenly turned, and although the others failed to perceive any track or landmark, he led them quickly through the scrub belt to the bank of the creek beyond.
It was indeed an ideal place for fishing. A deep, quiet pool, partly shaded by big trees, lay placid and motionless, except for an occasional ripple, stirred by a light puff of wind. An old wattle tree grew on the bank, its limbs jutting out conveniently, and here Jim and Wally ensconced themselves immediately, and turned their united attention to business. For a time no sound was heard save the dull “plunk” of sinkers as the lines, one by one, were flung into the water.
The Hermit did not fish. He had plenty at his camp, he said, and fishing for fun had lost its excitement, since he fished for a living most days of the week. So he contented himself with advising the others where to throw in, and finally sat down on the grass near Norah.
A few minutes passed. Then Jim jerked his line hurriedly and began to pull in with a feverish expression. It lasted until a big black fish made its appearance, dangling from the hook, and then it was suddenly succeeded by a look of intense disgust, as a final wriggle released the prisoner, which fell back with a splash into the water.
“Well, I'm blessed!” said Jim wrathfully.
“Hard luck!” said Harry.
“Try again, Jimmy, and stick to him this time,” counselled Wally, in a fatherly tone.
“Oh, you shut up,” Jim answered, re-baiting his hook. “I didn't catch an old boot, anyhow!”—which pertinent reflection had the effect of silencing Wally, amidst mild mirth on the part of the other members of the expedition.
Scarcely a minute more, and Norah pulled sharply at her line and began to haul in rapidly.
“Got a whale?” inquired Jim.
“Something like it!” Norah pulled wildly.
“Hang on!”
“Stick to him!”
“Mind your eye!”
“Don't get your line tangled!”
“Want any help, Miss Norah?”
“No thanks.” Norah was almost breathless. A red spot flamed in each cheek.
Slowly the line came in. Presently it gave a sudden jerk, and was tugged back quickly, as the fish made another run for liberty. Norah uttered an exclamation, quickly suppressed, and caught it sharply, pulling strongly.
Ah—he was out! A big, handsome perch, struggling and dancing in the air at the end of the line. Shouts broke from the boys as Norah landed her prize safely on the bank.
“Well done, Miss Norah,” said the Hermit warmly.
“That's a beauty—as fine a perch as I've seen in this creek.”
“Oh, isn't he a splendid fellow!” Norah cried, surveying the prey with dancing eyes. “I'll have him for Dad, anyhow, even if I don't catch another.”
“Yes, Dad's breakfast's all right,” laughed the Hermit. “But don't worry, you'll catch more yet. See, there goes Harry.”
There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod, hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.
“Not bad for a beginning!” he said, grinning. “But not a patch on yours, Norah!”
“Oh, I had luck,” Norah said. “He really is a beauty, isn't he? I think he must be the grandfather of all the perches.”
“If that's so,” said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of “do or die” earnestness, “I reckon I've got the grandmother on now!”
A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.
“Hurry up, Jim!”
“Go slow!”
“There—he's getting off again!”
“So are you!” said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing hard.
“Only a boot, Jim—don't worry!”
“Gammon!—it's a shark!—look at his worried expression!”
“I'll 'shark' you, young Harry!” grunted Jim. “Mind your eye—there he comes!” And expressions of admiration broke from the scoffers as a second splendid perch dangled in the air and was landed high and dry—or comparatively so—in the branches of the wattle tree.
“Is he as big as yours, Norah?” queried Jim a minute later, tossing his fish down on the grass close to his sister and the Hermit.
Norah laid the two fishes alongside.
“Not quite,” she announced; “mine's about an inch longer, and a bit fatter.”
“Well, that's all right,” Jim said. “I said it was the grandmother I had—yours is certainly the grandfather! I'm glad you got the biggest, old girl.” They exchanged a friendly smile.
A yell from Wally intimated that he had something on his hook, and with immense pride he flourished in the air a diminutive blackfish—so small that the Hermit proposed to use it for bait, a suggestion promptly declined by the captor, who hid his catch securely in the fork of two branches, before re-baiting his hook. Then Harry pulled out a fine perch, and immediately afterwards Norah caught a blackfish; and after that the fun waxed fast and furious, the fish biting splendidly, and all hands being kept busy. An hour later Harry shook the last worm out of the bait tin and dropped it into the water on his hook, where it immediately was seized by a perch of very tender years.
“Get back and grow till next year,” advised Harry, detaching the little prisoner carefully, the hook having caught lightly in the side of its mouth. “I'll come for you next holidays!” and he tossed the tiny fellow back into the water. “That's our last scrap of bait, you chaps,” he said, beginning to wind up his line.
“I've been fishing with an empty hook for I don't know how long,” said Jim, hauling up also. “These beggars have nibbled my bait off and carefully dodged the hook.”
“Well, we've plenty, haven't we?” Norah said. “Just look what a splendid pile of fish!”
“They take a bit of beating, don't they?” said Jim. “That's right, Wal, pull him up!” as Wally hauled in another fine fish. “We couldn't carry more if we had 'em.”
“Then it's a good thing my bait's gone, too!” laughed Norah, winding up. “Haven't we had a most lovely time!”
Jim produced a roll of canvas which turned out to be two sugar bags, and in these carefully bestowed the fish, sousing the whole thoroughly in the water. The boys gathered up the lines and tackle and “planted” the rods conveniently behind a log, “to be ready for next time,” they said.
“Well, we've had splendid sport, thanks to you, sir,” Jim said, turning to the Hermit, who stood looking on at the preparations, a benevolent person, “something between Father Christmas and Robinson Crusoe,” as Norah whispered to Harry. “We certainly wouldn't have got on half as well if we'd stayed where we were.”
“Oh, I don't know,” the Hermit answered. “Yours is a good place—I've often caught plenty of fish there—only not to be relied on as this pool is. I've really never known this particular spot fail—the fish seem to live in it all the year round. However, I'm glad you've had decent luck—it's not a bit jolly to go home empty-handed, I know. And now, what's the next thing to be done? The afternoon's getting on—don't you think it's time you came to pay me a visit at the camp?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Norah cried.
Jim hesitated.
“We'd like awfully to see your camp, if—if it's not any bother to you,” he said.
“Not the least in the world,” the Hermit said. “Only I can't offer you any refreshment. I've nothing but cold 'possum and tea, and the 'possum's an acquired taste, I'm afraid. I've no milk for the tea, and no damper, either!”
“By George!” said Jim remorsefully. “Why, we ate all your damper at lunch!”
“I can easily manufacture another,” the Hermit said, laughing. “I'm used to the process. Only I don't suppose I could get it done soon enough for afternoon tea.”
“We've loads of tucker,” Jim said. “Far more than we're likely to eat. Milk, too. We meant to boil the billy again before we start for home.”
“I'll tell you what,” Norah said, struck by a brilliant idea. “Let's coo-ee for Billy, and when he comes send him back for our things. Then if—if Mr. Hermit likes, we could have tea at his camp.”
“Why, that's a splendid notion,” the Hermit cried. “I'm delighted that you thought of it, Miss Norah, although I'm sorry my guests have to supply their own meal! It doesn't seem quite the thing—but in the bush, polite customs have to fall into disuse. I only keep up my own good manners by practising on old Turpentine, my snake! However, if you're so kind as to overlook my deficiencies, and make them up yourselves, by all means let us come along and coo-ee for sweet William!”
He shouldered one of the bags of fish as he spoke, disregarding a protest from the boys. Jim took the second, and they set out for the camp.
Their way led for some time along the track by which they had come, if “track” it might be called. Certainly, the Hermit trod it confidently enough, but the others could only follow in his wake, and wonder by what process he found his way so quickly through the thick bush.
About half a mile along the creek the Hermit suddenly turned off almost at right angles, and struck into the scrub. The children followed him closely, keeping as nearly at his heels as the nature of the path would permit.
Norah found it not very pleasant. The Hermit went at a good rate, swinging over the rough ground with the sure-footed case of one accustomed to the scrub and familiar with the path. The boys unhampered by skirts and long hair, found no great difficulty in keeping up with him, but the small maiden of the party, handicapped by her clothes, to say nothing of being youngest of them all, plodded along in the rear, catching on sarsaparilla vines and raspberry tangles, plunging head first through masses of dogwood, and getting decidedly the worst of the journey.
Harry was the first to notice that Norah was falling “into the distance,” as he put it, and he ran back to her immediately.
“Poor old kid!” he said shamefacedly. “I'd no idea you were having such a beast of a time. Sorry, Norah!” His polite regrets were cut short by Norah's catching her foot in a creeper and falling bodily upon him.
“Thank you,” said Harry, catching her deftly. “Delighted, I'm sure, ma'am! It's a privilege to catch any one like you. Come on, old girl, and I'll clear the track for you.”
A little farther on the Hermit had halted, looking a trifle guilty.
“I'm really sorry, Miss Norah,” he said, as Norah and Harry made their way up to the waiting group. “I didn't realise I was going at such a pace. We'll make haste more slowly.”
He led the way, pausing now and again to make it easier for the little girl, holding the bushes aside and lifting her bodily over several big logs and sharp watercourses. Finally he stopped.
“I think if you give Billy a call now, Jim,” he said, “he won't have much difficulty in finding us.”
To the children it seemed an utter impossibility that Billy should ever find them, though they said nothing, and Jim obediently lifted up his voice and coo-ee'd in answer to the Hermit's words. For himself, Jim was free to confess he had quite lost his bearings, and the other boys were as much at sea as if they had suddenly been dropped down at the North Pole. Norah alone had an idea that they were not far from their original camping-place; an idea which was confirmed when a long “Ai-i-i!” came in response to Jim's shout, sounding startlingly near at hand.
“Master Billy has been making his way along the creek,” commented the Hermit. “He's no distance off. Give him another call.”
“Here!” Jim shouted. Billy answered again, and after a few more exchanges, the bushes parted and revealed the sable retainer, somewhat out of breath.
“Scoot back to camp, Billy,” Jim ordered. “Take these fish and soak 'em in the creek, and bring back all our tucker—milk and all. Bring it—Where'll he bring it, sir?” to the Hermit.
“See that tall tree, broken with the bough dangling?” the Hermit asked, pointing some distance ahead. Billy nodded. “Come back to that and cooee, and we'll answer you.”
“Plenty!” said Billy, shouldering the bags of fish, and departing at a run. Billy had learnt early the futility of wasting words.
“Come along,” said the Hermit, laughing.
He turned off into the scrub, and led the way again, taking, it seemed to Norah, rather a roundabout path. At length he stopped short, near a dense clump of dogwood.
“My back door,” he said politely.
They stared about them. There was no sign of any door at all, nor even of any footprints or marks of traffic. The scrub was all about them; everything was very still and quiet in the afternoon hush.
“Well, you've got us beaten and no mistake!” Jim laughed, after they had peered fruitlessly about. “Unless you camp in the air, I don't see—”
“Look here,” said the Hermit.
He drew aside a clump of dogwood, and revealed the end of an old log—a huge tree-trunk that had long ago been a forest monarch, but having fallen, now stretched its mighty length more than a hundred feet along the ground. It was very broad and the uppermost side was flat, and here and there bore traces of caked, dry mud that showed where a boot had rested. The dogwood walled it closely on each side.
“That's my track home,” the Hermit said. “Let me help you up, Miss Norah.”
He sprang up on the log as he spoke, and extended a hand to Norah, who followed him lightly. Then the Hermit led the way along the log, which was quite broad enough to admit of a wheelbarrow being drawn down its length. He stopped where the butt of the old tree, rising above the level of the trunk, barred the view, and pulling aside the dogwood, showed rough steps, cut in the side of the log.
“Down here, Miss Norah.”
In a moment they were all on the ground beside him—Wally, disdaining the steps, having sprung down, and unexpectedly measured his length on the earth, to the accompaniment of much chaff. He picked himself up, laughing more than any of them, just as Norah popped her head through the scrub that surrounded them, and exclaimed delightedly—.
“Why, here's the camp.”
“I say,” Jim said, following the Hermit into the little clearing, “you're well planted here!”
The space was not very large—a roughly circular piece of ground, ringed round with scrub, in which big gum trees reared their lofty heads. A wattle tree stood in the centre, from its boughs dangling a rough hammock, made of sacking, while a water bag hung from another convenient branch. The Hermit's little tent was pitched at one side; across the clearing was the rude fireplace that Norah had seen in the morning. Everything, though tough enough, was very clean and tidy, with a certain attempt at comfort.
The Hermit laughed.
“Yes, I'm pretty well concealed,” he agreed. “You might be quite close to the camp and never dream that it existed. Only bold explorers like Miss Norah would have hit upon it from the side where she appeared to me this morning, and my big log saves me the necessity of having a beaten track home. I try, by getting on it at different points, to avoid a track to the log, although, should a footmark lead anyone to it, the intruder would never take the trouble to walk down an old bushhung tree-trunk, apparently for no reason. So that I feel fairly secure about my home and my belongings when I plan a fishing expedition or an excursion that takes me any distance away.”
“Well, it's a great idea,” Jim said. “Of course, a beaten track to your camp would be nothing more or less than an invitation to any swaggie or black fellow to follow it up.”
“That's what I thought,” the Hermit said; “and very awkward it would have been for me, seeing that one can't very well put a padlock on a tent, and that all my belongings are portable. Not that there's anything of great value. I have a few papers I wouldn't care to lose, a watch and a little money—but they're all safely buried in a cashbox with a good lock. The rest I have to chance, and, as I told you, I've so far been pretty lucky in repelling invaders. There's not much traffic round here, you know!”
Jim and Norah laughed. “Not much,” they said, nodding.
“My tent's not large,” the Hermit said, leading the way to that erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.
“It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day,” said Wally.
“It would,” said the Hermit, “if I did untie them. They're only part of my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally.” He slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.
“A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all those,” said the Hermit. “He'd be rather disgusted, on completing the job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And perhaps by that time I might be home!”
The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah, beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore marks of long and honourable use.
The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said, reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp, wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.
“A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser,” Wally said. “I wouldn't like it myself.”
“Once would be enough for most chaps.” Harry grinned.
“Oh, get out! you know what I mean,” retorted Wally. “You chaps are never satisfied unless you're pulling my leg—it's a wonder I don't limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose.”
“He's an educated chap, too,” Harry said—“talks like a book when he likes. I wonder what on earth he's doing it for?”
They had dropped their voices instinctively, and had moved away from the tent.
“He's certainly not the ordinary swaggie,” Norah said slowly.
“Not by a good bit,” Wally agreed. “Why, he can talk like our English master at school! Perhaps he's hiding.”
“Might be,” Harry said. “You never can tell—he's certainly keen enough on getting away from people.”
“He's chosen a good place, then.”
“Couldn't be better. I wonder if there's anything in it—if he really has done anything and doesn't want to be found?”
“I never heard such bosh!” said Norah indignantly. “One would think he really looked wicked, instead of being such a kind old chap. D'you think he's gone and committed a murder, or robbed a bank, or something like that? I wonder you're not afraid to be in his camp!”
The boys stared in amazement.
“Whew-w-w!” whistled Wally.
Harry flushed a little.
“Oh steady, Norah!” he protested—“we really didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It was only an idea. I'll admit be doesn't look a hardened sinner.”
“Well, you shouldn't have such ideas,” Norah said stoutly; “he's a great deal too nice, and look how kind he's been to us! If he chooses to plant himself in the bush, it's no one's business but his own.”
“I suppose not,” Harry began. He pulled up shortly as the Hermit, followed by Jim, emerged from the tent.
The Hermit had a queer smile in his eyes, but Jim looked desperately uncomfortable.
Jim favoured the others with a heavy scowl as he came out of the tent, slipping behind the Hermit in order that he might deliver it unobserved. It was plain enough to fill them with considerable discomfort. They exchanged glances of bewilderment.
“I wonder what's up now?” Wally whispered.
Jim strolled over to them as the Hermit, without saying anything, crossed to his fireplace, and began to put some sticks together.
“You're bright objects!” he whispered wrathfully. “Why can't you speak softly if you must go gabbling about other people?”
“You don't mean to say he heard us?” Harry said, colouring.
“I do, then! We could hear every word you said, and it was jolly awkward for me. I didn't know which way to look.”
“Was he wild?” whispered Wally.
“Blessed if I know. He just laughed in a queer way, until Norah stuck up for him, and then he looked grave. 'I'm lucky to have one friend,' he said, and walked out of the tent. You're a set of goats!” finished Jim comprehensively.
“Well, I'm not ashamed of what I said, anyhow!” Norah answered indignantly. She elevated her tip-tilted nose, and walked away to where the Hermit was gathering sticks, into which occupation she promptly entered. The boys looked at each other.
“Well, I am—rather,” Harry said. He disappeared into the scrub, returning presently with a log of wood as heavy as he could drag. Wally, seeing his idea, speedily followed suit, and Jim, after a stare, copied their example. They worked so hard that by the time the Hermit and Norah had the fire alight, quite a respectable stack of wood greeted the eye of the master of the camp. He looked genuinely pleased.
“Well, you are kind chaps,” he said. “That will save me wood-carting for many a day, and it is a job that bothers my old back.”
“We're very glad to get it for you, sir,” Jim blurted, a trifle shamefacedly. A twinkle came into the Hermit's eyes as he looked at him.
“That's all square, Jim,” he said quietly, and without any more being said the boys felt relieved. Evidently this Hermit was not a man to bear malice, even if he did overhear talk that wasn't meant for him.
“Well,” said the Hermit, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, “it's about time we heard the dusky Billy, isn't it?”
“Quite time, I reckon,” Jim replied. “Lazy young beggar!”
“Well, the billy's not boiling yet, although it's not far off it.”
“There he is,” Norah said quickly, as a long shout sounded near at hand. The Hermit quickly went off in its direction, and presently returned, followed by Billy, whose eyes were round as he glanced about the strange place in which he found himself, although otherwise no sign of surprise appeared on his sable countenance. He carried the bags containing the picnic expedition's supply of food, which Norah promptly fell to unpacking. An ample supply remained from lunch, and when displayed to advantage on the short grass of the clearing the meal looked very tempting. The Hermit's eyes glistened as Norah unpacked a bag of apples and oranges as a finishing touch.
“Fruit!” he said. “Oh, you lucky people! I wish there were fruit shops in the scrub. I can dispense with all the others, but one does miss fruit.”
“Well, I'm glad we brought such a bagful, because I'm sure we don't want it,” Norah said. “You must let us leave it with you, Mr. Hermit.”
“Water's plenty boilin',” said Billy
Tea was quickly brewed, and presently they were seated on the ground and making a hearty meal, as if the lunch of a few hours ago had never been.
“If a fellow can't get hungry in the bush,” said Wally, holding out his hand for his fifth scone, “then he doesn't deserve ever to get hungry at all!” To which Jim replied, “Don't worry, old man—that's a fate that's never likely to overtake you!” Wally, whose hunger was of a generally prevailing kind, which usually afflicted him most in school hours, subsided meekly into his tea-cup.
They did not hurry over the meal, for everyone was a little lazy after the long day, and there was plenty of time to get home—the long summer evening was before them, and it would merge into the beauty of a moonlit night. So they “loafed” and chatted aimlessly, and drank huge quantities of the billy-tea, that is quite the nicest tea in the world, especially when it is stirred with a stick. And when they were really ashamed to eat any more they lay about on the grass, yarning, telling bush tales many and strange, and listening while the Hermit spun them old-world stories that made the time slip away wonderfully. It was with a sigh that Jim roused himself at last.
“Well,” he said, “it's awfully nice being here, and I'm not in a bit of a hurry to go—are you, chaps?”
The chaps chorused “No.”
“All the same, it's getting late,” Jim went on, pulling out his watch—“later than I thought, my word! Come on—we'll have to hurry. Billy, you slip along and saddle up the ponies one-time quick!”
Billy departed noiselessly.
“He never said 'Plenty!'” said Wally disappointedly, gathering himself up from the grass.
“It was an oversight,” Jim laughed. “Now then, Norah, come along. What about the miserable remains?”
“The remains aren't so miserable,” said Norah, who was on her knees gathering up the fragments of the feast. “See, there's a lot of bread yet, ever so many scones, heaps of cake, and the fruit, to say nothing of butter and jam.” She looked up shyly at the Hermit. “Would you—would you mind having them?”
The Hermit laughed.
“Not a bit!” he said. “I'm not proud, and it is really a treat to see civilized food again. I'll willingly act as your scavenger, Miss Norah.”
Together they packed up the remnants, and the Hermit deposited them inside his tent. He rummaged for a minute in a bag near his bed, and presently came out with something in his hand.
“I amuse myself in my many odd moments by this sort of thing,” he said. “Will you have it, Miss Norah?”
He put a photograph frame into her hand—a dainty thing, made from the native woods, cunningly jointed together and beautifully carved. Norah accepted it with pleasure.
“It's not anything,” the Hermit disclaimed—“very rough, I'm afraid. But you can't do very good work when your pocket-knife is your only tool. I hope you'll forgive its shortcomings, Miss Norah, and keep it to remember the old Hermit.”
“I think it's lovely,” Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, “and I'm ever so much obliged. I'll always keep it.”
“Don't forget,” the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. “And some day, perhaps, you'll all come again.”
“We must hurry,” Jim said.
They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun, sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten responsibility.
“It's every man for his own steed,” he said. “Can you manage your old crock, Norah?”
“Don't you wish yours was half as good?” queried Norah, as she took the halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.
Jim grinned.
“Knew I'd got her on a soft spot!” he murmured, wrestling with a refractory crupper.
Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy's balance, and, after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a decisive “Bust!” amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily, the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log, not much the worse, except in temper.
“Damp in there, Billy?” queried Wally, with a grave face.
“Plenty!” growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and a dripping leg.
The Hermit had taken Norah's saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old man stroked the pony's glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put his nose into his hand.
“He likes you,” Norah said; “he doesn't do that to everyone. Do you like horses?”
“Better than men,” said the Hermit. “You've a good pony, Miss Norah.”
“Yes, he's a beauty,” the little girl said. “I've had him since he was a foal.”
“He'll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?”
“About that, I think.”
“And we'll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where we are,” said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. “We'll have to say good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, and good-bye,” said the Hermit, holding out his hand. “I'm sorry you've all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays—?”
“We'll come out,” nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. “And if ever you find your way in as far as our place—”
“I'm afraid not,” said the Hermit hastily. “As I was explaining to Miss Norah, I'm a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again.”
The boys said “good-bye” and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Norah looked at him pitifully.
“I won't say good-bye,” she said. “I'm coming back—some day. So it's—'so long!'”
“So long,” the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the saddle and kissed his cheek.
He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and, with slow steps, went back into the scrub.
They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well, and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode almost in silence.
It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great flapping thing flew into Harry's face, and he uttered a startled yell before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to “Way Down Upon the Swanee River” and more modern songs, which aren't half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry “obliged” with one of Gordon's poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.
“Old Harry's our champion elocutioner at school, you know,” Wally said. “You should have heard him last Speech Day! He got more clapping than all the rest put together.”
“Shut up, young Wally!” growled Harry in tones of affected wrath.
“Same to you,” said Wally cheerfully. “Why, you had all the mammas howling into their hankies in your encore piece!”
After which nothing would satisfy Norah but another recitation, and another after that; and then the timber ended, and there was only the level plain be tween them and home, with the moon just high enough to make it sufficiently light for a gallop. They tore wildly homeward, and landed in a slightly dishevelled bunch at the gate of the paddock.
No one was about the stables.
“Men all gone off somewhere,” said Jim laconically, proceeding to let his pony go. His example was followed by each of the others, the steeds dismissed with a rub and a pat, and the saddles placed on the stands.
“Well, I don't know about you chaps,” said Jim, “but I'm as hungry as a hunter!”
“Same here,” chorused the chaps.
“Come along and see what good old Brownie's put by for us,” said Norah, disappearing towards the house like a small comet.
The boys raced after her. In the kitchen doorway Mrs. Brown stood, her broad face resplendent with smiles.
“I was just beginning to wonder if any of you had fallen into the creek,” she said. “You must be hungry, poor dears. Supper's ready.”
“Where's Dad?” asked Norah.
“Your Pa's gone to Sydney.”
“Sydney!”
“Yes, my dears. A tallygrum came for him—something about some valuable cattle to be sold, as he wants.”
“Oh,” said Jim, “those shorthorns he was talking about?”
“Very like, Master Jim. Very sorry, your Pa were, he said, to go so suddint, and not to see you again, and the other young gentlemen likewise, seein' you go away on Monday. He left his love to Miss Norah, and a letter for you; and Miss Norah, you was to try not to be dull, and he would be back by Thursday, so he 'oped.”
“Oh,” said Norah, blankly. “It's hardly a homecoming without Dad.”
Supper was over at last, and it had been a monumental meal. To behold the onslaughts made by the four upon Mrs. Brown's extensive preparations one might have supposed that they had previously been starving for time uncounted.
“Heigho!” said Jim. “Our last day to-morrow.”
Groans followed from Harry and Wally.
“What do you want to remind a fellow for?”
“Couldn't help it—slipped out. What a jolly sell not to see old Dad again!” Jim wrinkled his brown handsome face into a frown.
“You needn't talk!” said Norah gloomily. “Fancy me on Monday—not a soul to speak to.”
“Poor old Norah—yes, it's rough on you,” said Jim. “Wish you were coming too. Why can't you get Dad to let you go to school in Melbourne?”
“Thanks,” said Norah hastily, “I'd rather not. I think I can bear this better. School! What on earth would I do with myself, shut up all day?”
“Oh, all right; I thought you might like it. You get used to it, you know.”
“I couldn't get used to doing without Dad,” returned Norah.
“Or Dad to doing without you, I reckon,” said Jim. “Oh, I suppose it's better as it is—only you'll have to get taught some day, old chap, I suppose.”
“Oh, never mind that now,” Norah said impatiently. “I suppose I'll have a governess some day, and she won't let me ride astride, or go after the cattle, or climb trees, or do anything worth doing, and everything will be perfectly hateful. It's simply beastly to be getting old!”
“Cheer up, old party,” Jim laughed. “She might be quite a decent sort for all you know. As for riding astride, Dad'll never let you ride any other way, so you can keep your mind easy about that. Well, never mind governesses, anyhow; you haven't got one yet, and sufficient unto the day is the governess thereof. What are we going to do to-morrow?”
“Can't do very much,” said Norah, still showing traces of gloom. “It's Sunday; besides, the horses want a spell, and you boys will have to pack—you leave pretty early on Monday, you know.”
“Oh, botheration!” said Wally, jumping up so suddenly that he upset his chair. “For goodness' sake, don't talk of going back until we actually get there; it's bad enough then. Let's go and explore somewhere to-morrow.”
“We can do that all right,” said Jim, glad of any turn being given to the melancholy conversation. “We've never taken you chaps to the falls, two miles up the creek, and they're worth seeing.”
“It's a nice walk, too,” added Norah, putting sorrow to flight by deftly landing a pellet of bread on Harry's nose. “Think you can struggle so far, Harry?”
“Yes, and carry you back when you knock up,” said that gentleman, returning the missile, without success, Norah having retreated behind a vase of roses. “I think it would be a jolly good plan.”
“Right oh!” said Jim. “That's settled. We'll pack up in the morning, get Brownie to give us dinner early, and start in good time. It doesn't really take long to walk there, you know, only we want to be able to loaf on the way, and when we get to the falls.”
“Rather,” said Harry. “I never see any fun in a walk when you tear somewhere, get there, and tear back again. Life's too short. Come on, Norah, and play to us.”
So they trooped into the drawing-room, and for an hour the boys lay about on sofas and easy chairs, while Norah played softly. Finally she found that her entire audience was sound asleep, a state of things she very naturally resented by gently pouring water from a vase on their peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah.
“Now then, Harry, are you ready?”
“Coming,” said Harry's cheerful voice. He appeared on the verandah, endeavouring to cram a gigantic apple into his pocket.
“Norah's,” he said, in response to Jim's lifted eyebrows. “Don't know if she means to eat it in sections or not—it certainly doesn't mean to go into my pocket as it is.” He desisted from his efforts. “Try it in the crown of your hat, old man.”
“Thanks—my hat's got all it knows to hold my brains,” retorted Jim. “You can't take that thing. Here, Norah,” as that damsel appeared on the step, “how do you imagine Harry's going to cart this apple?”
“Quite simple,” said Norah airily. “Cut it in four, and we'll each take a bit.”
“That's the judgment of Solomon,” said Wally, who was lying full length on the lawn—recovering, as Jim unkindly suggested, from dinner.
“Well, come along,” Jim said impatiently—“you're an awfully hard crowd to get started. We want to reach the falls in fair time, to see the sunlight on them—it's awfully pretty. After about three or four o'clock the trees shade the water, and it's quite ordinary.”
“Just plain, wet water,” murmured Wally. Jim rolled him over and over down the sloping lawn, and then fled, pursued by Wally with dishevelled attire and much grass in his mouth. The others followed more steadily, and all four struck across the paddock to the creek.
It was a rather hot afternoon, and they were glad to reach the shade of the bank and to follow the cattle track that led close to the water. Great fat bullocks lay about under the huge gum trees, scarcely raising their eyes to glance at the children as they passed; none were eating, all were chewing the cud in lazy contentment. They passed through a smaller paddock where superb sheep dotted the grass—real aristocrats these, accustomed to be handled and petted, and to live on the fat of the land—poor grass or rough country food they had never known. Jim and Norah visited some special favourites, and patted them. Harry and Wally admired at a distance.
“Those some of the sheep you saved from the fire?” queried Harry.
Norah flushed.
“Never did,” she said shortly, and untruthfully. “Don't know why you can't talk sense, Jim!”—at which that maligned youth laughed excessively, until first the other boys, and then Norah, joined in, perforce.
After again climbing over the sheep-proof fence of the smaller paddock they came out upon a wide plain, almost treeless, save for the timber along the creek, where their cattle track still led them. Far as they could see no fence broke the line of yellow grass. There were groups of cattle out on the plain. These were store bullocks, Jim explained, a draft recently arrived from Queensland, and hardly yet acclimatised.
“It takes a good while for them to settle down,” Norah said, “and then lots of 'em get sick—pleuro and things; and we inoculate them, and their tails drop off, and sometimes the sick ones get bad-tempered, and it's quite exciting work mustering.”
“Dangerous?” asked Wally.
“Not with a pony that knows things like Bobs,” said Bobs' mistress. “He always keeps his weather eye open for danger.”
“Not a bad thing, as you certainly don't,” laughed Jim.
“Well—do you?”
“Certainly I do,” said Jim firmly, whereat Norah laughed very heartily.
“When I leave school, Dad says I can go on the roads with the cattle for one trip,” said Jim. “Be no end of fun—takes ever so long to bring them down from Queensland, and the men have a real good time—travel with a cook, and a covered buggy and pair to bring the tucker and tents along.”
“What'll you be?” asked Wally—“cook?”
“No, slushy,” said Harry.
“No, I'll take you two chaps along in those billets,” grinned Jim.
“I don't know who'd be cook,” said Norah solemnly; “but I don't think the men would be in very good condition at the end of the trip, whichever of you it was!”
With such pleasantries they beguiled the way, until, on rounding a bend in the track, a dull roar came plainly to their ears.
“What's that?” asked Wally, stopping to listen.
“That's the falls, my boy,” replied Jim. “They're really quite respectable falls—almost Niagarous! Come along, we'll see them in a couple of minutes.”
The sound of falling water became plainer and plainer as they pushed on. At this point the track was less defined and the scrub thicker—Jim explained that the cattle did not come here much, as there was no drinking-place for them for a good distance below the falls. They might almost have imagined themselves back in the bush near the Hermit's camp, Harry said, as they pushed their way through scrub and undergrowth, many raspberry vines adding variety, if not charm, to the scramble. The last part of the walk was up bill, and at length they came out upon a clearer patch of ground.
For some time the noise of the falls had deepened, until now it was a loud roar; but the sound had hardly prepared the boys for the sight that met their gaze. High up were rocky cliffs, sparsely clothed with vegetation, and through these the creek had cut its way, falling in one sheer mass, fifty feet or more, into the bed below, hollowed out by it during countless ages. The water curved over the top of the fall in one exquisite wave, smooth as polished marble, but half-way down a point of rock jutted suddenly out, and on this the waters dashed and split, flying off from it in a cloud of spray. At the foot the cataract roared and bubbled and seethed in one boiling mass of rapids.
But the glory of it all was the sunlight. It fell right on the mass of descending water; and in the rays the fall glittered and flashed with all the colours of the rainbow, and the flying spray was like powdered jewels. It caught the drops hanging on the ferns that fringed the water, and turned them into twinkling diamonds. The whole fall seemed to be alive in the sunbeams' dancing light.
“Oh-h, I say,” whispered Harry. “Fancy never showing us this before!” He cast himself on the ground and lay, chin in hands, gazing at the wonder before him.
“We kept it to the last,” said Norah softly. She sat down by him and the others followed their example.
“Just think,” said Harry, “that old creek's been doing that ever since time began—every day the sun comes to take his share at lighting it up, long before we were born, and ages after we shall die! Doesn't it make you feel small!”
Norah nodded understandingly. “I saw it once by moonlight,” she said. “Dad and I rode here one night—full moon. Oh, it was lovely! Not like this, of course, because there wasn't any colour—but a beautiful white, clean light, and the fall was like a sheet of silver.”
“Did you ever throw anything over?” asked Wally. His wonderment was subsiding and the boy in him woke up again.
“No good,” said Jim. “You never see it again. I've thrown a stick in up above, and it simply whisks over and gets sucked underneath the curtain of water at once, and disappears altogether until it reaches the smooth water, ever so far down.”
“Say you went over yourself?”
“Wouldn't be much left of you,” Jim answered, with a laugh. “The bed of the creek's simply full of rocks—you can see a spike sticking up here and there in the rapids. We've seen sheep come down in flood-time—they get battered to bits. I don't think I'll try any experiments, thank you, young Wally.”
“You always were a disobliging critter,” Wally grinned.
“Another time a canoe came over,” Jim said. “It belonged to two chaps farther up—they'd just built it, and were out for the first time, and got down too near the falls. They didn't know much about managing their craft, and when the suck of the water began to take them along they couldn't get out of the current. They went faster and faster, struggling to paddle against the stream, instead of getting out at an angle and making for the bank—which they might have done. At last they could hear the roar of the falls quite plainly.”
“What happened to them?” asked Wally. “Did they go over?”
“Well, they reckoned it wasn't healthy to remain in the canoe,” said Jim. “It was simply spinning along in the current, and the falls were almost in sight. So they dived in, on opposite sides—the blessed canoe nearly tipped over when they stood up, and only the shock of the cross drive kept her right. Of course the creek's not so very wide, even farther up beyond the falls, and the force of their spring sent them nearly out of the current. They could both swim well, and after a struggle they got to the banks, just in time to see the canoe whisk over the waterfall!”
“What hard luck!”
“It was rather. They started off down-stream to find it, but for a long way they couldn't see a trace. Then, right in the calm water, ever so far down, they found it—bit by bit. It was broken into so much matchwood!”
“What did they do?” asked Wally.
“Stood and stared at it from opposite sides, like two wet images,” said Jim, laughing. “It's lowdown to grin, I suppose, but they must have looked funny. Then one of them swam across and they made their way to our place, and we fixed them up with dry things and drove them home. I don't think they've gone in for canoeing since!” finished Jim reflectively.
“Well, I guess it would discourage them a bit,” Wally agreed. “Getting shipwrecked's no fun.”
“Ever tried it?”
“Once—in Albert Park Lagoon,” Wally admitted bashfully. “Some of us went out for a sail one Saturday afternoon. We didn't know much about it, and I really don't know what it was that tipped the old boat over. I was the smallest, so naturally I wasn't having any say in managing her.”
“That accounts for it,” said Jim dryly.
“Didn't mean that—goat!” said Wally. “Anyhow, I was very much astonished to find myself suddenly kicking in the mud. Ever been in that lake? It isn't nice. It isn't deep enough to drown you, but the mud is a caution. I got it all over me—face and all!”
“You must have looked your best!” said Jim.
“I did. I managed to stand up, very much amazed to find I wasn't drowned. Two of the others walked out! I was too small to do more than just manage to keep upright. The water was round my chest. I couldn't have walked a yard.”
“How did you manage?”
“A boat came along and picked up the survivors,” grinned Wally. “They wouldn't take us in. We were just caked with mud, so I don't blame 'em—but we hung on to the stern, and they towed us to the shore. We were quite close to land. Then they went back and brought our boat to us. They were jolly kind chaps—didn't seem to mind any trouble.”
“You don't seem to have minded it, either,” said Norah.
“We were too busy laughing,” Wally said. “You have to expect these things when you go in for a life on the ocean wave. The worst part of it came afterwards, when we went home. That was really unpleasant. I was staying at my aunt's in Toorak.”
“Did you get into a row?”
“It was unpleasant,” Wally repeated. “Aunts haven't much sympathy, you know. They don't like mess, and I was no end messy. We won't talk about it, I think, thank you.” Wally rolled over on his back, produced an apple and bit into it solemnly.
“Let us respect his silence,” said Jim.
“You had aunts too?” queried Wally, with his mouth full.
“Not exactly aunts,” Jim said. “But we had an old Tartar of a housekeeper once, when we were small kids. She ruled us with a rod of iron for about six months, and Norah and I could hardly call our souls our own. Father used to be a good deal away and Mrs. Lister could do pretty well as she liked.”
“I did abominate that woman,” said Norah reflectively.
“I don't wonder,” replied Jim. “You certainly were a downtrodden little nipper as ever was. D'you remember the time we went canoeing in the flood on your old p'rambulator?”
“Not likely to forget it.”
“What was it?” Wally asked. “Tell us, Jim.”
“Norah had a pram—like most kids,” Jim began.
“Well, I like that,” said Norah, in great indignation. “It was yours first!”
“Never said it wasn't,” said Jim somewhat abashed by the laughter that ensued. “But that was ages ago. It was yours at this time, anyhow. But only the lower storey was left—just the floor of the pram on three wheels. Norah used to sit on this thing and push herself along with two sticks, like rowing on dry land.”
“It was no end of fun,” said Norah. “You could go!”
“You could,” grinned Jim. “I'll never forget the day I saw you start from the top of the hill near the house. The pram got a rate on of a mile a minute, and the sticks weren't needed. About half-way down it struck a root, and turned three double somersaults in the air. I don't know how many Norah turned—but when Dad and I got to the spot she was sitting on a thick mat of grass, laughing like one o'clock, and the pram was about half a mile away on the flat with its wheels in the air! We quite reckoned you were killed.”
“Yes, and Dad made me promise not to go down that hill again,” said Norah ruefully. “It was a horrid nuisance!”
“Well, there was a flood,” said Jim. “Not very much of a one. We'd had a good bit of rain, and the water-hole in the home paddock overflowed and covered all the flat about two feet deep. At first it was a bit too deep for Norah and her wheeled boat, but when it went down a bit she set off voyaging. She did look a rum little figure, out in the middle of the water, pushing herself along with her two sticks! Mrs. Lister didn't approve of it, but as Dad had given her leave, the housekeeper couldn't stop her.”
At this point Norah was heard to murmur “Cat!”
“Just so!” said Jim. “Well, you know, I used to poke fun at Norah and this thing. But one day I had gone down to the water's edge, and she came up on it, poling herself through the water at a great rate, and it occurred to me it didn't look half bad fun. So I suggested a turn myself.”
“You said, 'Here, kid, let's have that thing for a bit,'” said Norah firmly.
“Did I?” said Jim, with meekness.
“Yes, you did. So I kindly got off.”
“Then?” asked Harry.
“He got on. I said, 'Jim, dear, pray be careful about the holes, and let me tell you where they are!'”
“I'm sure you did!” grinned Wally.
“And he said, 'If a kid like you can keep out of holes, I guess I can!'”
“I'm sure he did!” said Wally.
“Yes. So he set off. Now I had been over that flat so often in dry weather that I knew every bit of it. But Jim didn't. He went off as hard as he could, and got on very well for a little bit—”
“Am I telling this yarn, or are you?” inquired Jim, laughing.
“This is the part that is best for me to tell,” said Norah solemnly. “Then he turned suddenly, so suddenly I hadn't time to do more than yell a warning, which he didn't hear—and the next minute the side wheels of the pram went over the edge of a hole, and the thing turned upside down upon poor old Jimmy!”
“How lovely!” said Wally, kicking with delight. “Well, and what happened?”
“Oh, Jim can tell you now,” laughed Norah. “I wasn't under the water!”
“I was!” said Jim. “The blessed old pram turned clean over and cast me bodily into a hole. That was all I knew—until I tried to get out, and found the pram had come, too, and was right on top of me—and do you think I could move that blessed thing?”
“Well?”
“In came Norah,” said Jim. “(I'll take it out of you now, my girl!) She realised at once what had happened and waded in from the bank and pulled the old pram off her poor little brother! I came up, spluttering, to see Norah, looking very white, just preparing to dive in after me!”
“You never saw such a drowned rat!” said Norah, taking up the tale. “Soaked—and muddy—and very cross! And the first thing he did was to abuse my poor old wheely-boat!”
“Well—wouldn't you?” Jim laughed. “Had to abuse something! Anyhow, we righted her and Norah waded farther in after the sticks, which had floated peacefully away, and we pulled the wheely-boat ashore. Then we roared laughing at each other. I certainly was a drowned rat, but Norah wasn't much better, as she'd slipped nearly into the hole herself, in pulling the pram off me. But when we'd laughed, the first thought was—'How are we going to dodge Mrs. Lister!' It was a nasty problem!”
“What did you do?”
“Well, after consultation we got up near the house, planting the pram in some trees. We dodged through the shrubbery until we reached that old summer-house, and there I left Norah and scooted over to the stables, and borrowed an overcoat belonging to a boy we had working and a pair of his boots. Dad was away, or I might have gone straight to him. I put on the borrowed things over my wet togs (and very nice I looked!) and trotted off to the side of the house. No one seemed about, so I slipped into my room through the window and then into Norah's, and got a bundle of clothes, and back I scooted to the summer-house, left Norah's things there, and found a dressing-room for myself among some shrubs close by.
“Well, do you know, that old cat, Mrs. Lister, had seen us all the time? She'd actually spotted us coming up the paddock, dripping, and had deliberately planted herself to see what we'd do. She knew all about my expedition after clothes; then she followed us to the shrubbery, and descended upon us like an avalanche, just as we got half-dressed!”
“'May I ask what you naughty little children are doing?' she said.
“Well, you know, that put my back up a bit—'cause I was nearly twelve, and Dad didn't make a little kid of me. However, I tried to keep civil, and tell her what had happened; but she told me to hold my tongue. She grabbed Norah by the shoulder, and called her all the names under the sun, and shook her. Then she said, 'You'll come to bed at once, miss!' and caught hold of her wrist to drag her in.
“Now Norah had sprained her wrist not long before, and she had to be a bit careful of it. We all knew that. She didn't cry out when Mrs. Lister jerked her wrist, but I saw her turn white, and knew it was the bad one.”
“So he chucked himself on top of old Mrs. Lister, and pounded her as hard as he could,” put in Norah, “and she was so astonished she let me go. She turned her attention to Jim then, and gave him a terrible whack over the head that sent him flying. And just then we heard a voice that was so angry we hardly recognised it for Dad's, saying—
“'What is this all about?'”
“My word, we were glad to see Dad!” said Jim. “He came over and put his arm round Norah—poor little kid. Mrs. Lister had screwed her wrist till it was worse than ever it had been, and she was as white as a sheet. Dad helped her on with her clothes. All the time Mrs. Lister was pouring out a flood of eloquence against us, and was nearly black in the face with rage. Dad took no notice until Norah was dressed. Then he said, 'Come to me in the study in twenty minutes,' and he picked Norah up and carried her inside, where he dosed her, and fixed up her wrist. I put on my clothes and followed them.
“Norah and I never said anything until Mrs. Lister had told her story, which was a fine production, little truth, and three parts awful crams. Then Dad asked for our side, and we just told him. He knew we never told lies, and he believed us, and we told him some other things Mrs. Lister used to do to us in the way of bullying and spite. I don't know that Dad needed them, because Norah's wrist spoke louder than fifty tales, and he didn't need any more evidence, though after all, she might have grabbed the bad wrist by mistake, and she had done far worse things on purpose. But the end of it was, Mrs. Lister departed that night, and Norah and I danced a polka in the hall when we heard the buggy drive off.”
“That being the case,” said Norah gravely, “we'll all have an apple.”
The apples were produced and discussed, and then it was time to think of home, for the sun had long since left the glistening surface of the falls. So they gathered themselves up, and reluctantly enough left the beautiful scene behind them, with many a backward look.
The way home was rather silent. The shadow of the boys' departure was over them all, and Norah especially felt the weight of approaching loneliness. With Dad at home it would have been easier to let the boys go, but the prospect of several days by herself, with only the servants for company, was not a very comforting one. Norah wished dismally that she had been born a boy, with the prospect of a journey, and mates, and school, and “no end of larks.” Then she thought of Dad, and though still dismal, unwished the wish, and was content to remain a girl.
There was a little excitement on the homeward trip over a snake, which tried to slip away unseen through the grass, and when it found itself surrounded by enemies, coiled itself round Harry's leg, a proceeding very painful to that youth, who nevertheless stood like a statue while Jim dodged about for a chance to strike at the wildly waving head. He got it at last, and while the reptile writhed in very natural annoyance, Harry managed to get free, and soon put a respectful distance between himself and his too-affectionate acquaintance. Jim finished up the snake, and they resumed the track, keeping a careful look-out, and imagining another in every rustle.
“Well done, old Harry!” said Wally. “Stood like a statue, you did!”
“Thanks!” said Harry. “Jim's the chap to say 'Well done' to, I think.”
“Not me,” said Jim. “Easy enough to try to kill the brute. I'd rather do that than feel him round my leg, where I couldn't get at him.”
“Well, I think I would, too,” Harry said, laughing. “I never felt such a desire to stampede in my life.”
“It was beastly,” affirmed Norah. She was a little pale. “It seemed about an hour before he poked his horrid head out and let Jim get a whack at it. But you didn't lose much time, then, Jimmy!”
“Could he have bitten through the leg of your pants?” queried Wally, with interest.
“He couldn't have sent all the venom through, I think,” Jim replied. “But enough would have gone to make a very sick little Harry.”
“It'd be an interesting experiment, no doubt,” said Harry. “But, if you don't mind, I'll leave it for someone else to try. I'd recommend a wooden-legged man as the experimenter. He'd feel much more at his ease while the snake was trying how much venom he could get through a pant leg!”
“I was just a-goin' to ring the big bell,” said Mrs. Brown.
She was standing on the front verandah as the children came up the lawn.
“Why, we're not late, Brownie, are we?” asked Norah.
“Not very.” The old housekeeper smiled at her. “Only when your Pa's away I allers feels a bit nervis about you—sech thoughtless young people, an' all them animals and snakes about!”
“Gammon!” said Jim laughing. “D'you mean to say I can't look after them, Brownie?”
“I'd rather not say anythink rash, Master Jim,” rejoined Mrs. Brown with a twinkle.
“I guess Mrs. Brown's got the measure of your foot, old man,” grinned Harry.
“Oh, well,” said Jim resignedly, “a chap never gets his due in this world. I forgive you, Brownie, though you don't deserve it. Got a nice tea for us?”
“Sech as it is, Master Jim, it's waitin' on you,” said Mrs. Brown, with point.
“That's what you might call a broad hint,” cried Jim. “Come on, chaps—race you for a wash-up!”
They scattered, Mrs. Brown laying violent hands on the indignant Norah, and insisting on arraying her in a clean frock, which the victim resisted, as totally unnecessary. Mrs. Brown carried her point, however, and a trim little maiden joined the boys in the dining-room five minutes later.
Mrs. Brown's cooking was notable, and she had excelled herself over the boys' farewell tea. A big cold turkey sat side by side with a ham of majestic dimensions, while the cool green of a salad was tempting after the hot walk. There were jellies, and a big bowl of fruit salad, while the centre of the table was occupied by a tall cake, raising aloft glittering white tiers. There were scones and tarts and wee cakes, and dishes of fresh fruit, and altogether the boys whistled long and softly, and declared that “Brownie was no end of a brick!”
Whereat Mrs. Brown, hovering about to see that her charges wanted nothing, smiled and blushed, and said, “Get on, now, do!”
Jim carved, and Jim's carving was something to marvel at. No method came amiss to him. When he could cut straight he did; at other times he sawed; and, when it seemed necessary, he dug. After he had finished helping every one, Wally said that the turkey looked as if a dog had been at it, and the ham was worse, which remarks Jim meekly accepted as his due. Nor did the inartistic appearance of the turkey prevent the critic from coming back for more!
Everyone was hungry, and did full justice to “Brownie's” forethought; while Norah, behind the tall teapot, declared that it was a job for two men and a boy to pour out for such a thirsty trio. Harry helped the fruit salad, and Harry's helpings were based on his own hunger, and would have suited Goliath. Finally, Norah cut the cake with great ceremony, and Wally's proposal that everyone should retire to the lawn with a “chunk” was carried unanimously.
Out on the grass they lay and chattered, while the dusk came down, and slowly a pale moon climbed up into the sky. Norah alone was silent. After a while Harry and Wally declared they must go and pack, and Jim and his sister were left alone.
Wally and Harry scurried down the hail. The sound of their merry voices died away, and there was silence on the lawn.
Jim rolled nearer to Norah.
“Blue, old girl?”
“'M,” said a muffled voice.
Jim felt for her hand in the darkness—and found it. The small, brown fingers closed tightly round his rough paw.
“I know,” he said comprehendingly. “I'm awfully sorry, old woman. I do wish we hadn't to go.”
There was no answer. Jim knew why—and also knowing perfectly well that tears would mean the deepest shame, he talked on without requiring any response.
“Beastly hard luck,” he said. “We don't want to go a bit—fancy school after this! Ugh! But there are three of us, so it isn't so bad. It wouldn't matter if Dad was at home, for you. But I must say it's lowdown to be leaving you all by your lonely little self.”
Norah struggled hard with that abominable lump in her throat, despising herself heartily.
“Brownie'll be awfully good to you,” went on Jim. “You'll have to buck up, you know, old girl, and not let yourself get dull. You practise like one o'clock; or make jam, or something; or get Brownie to let you do some cooking. Anything to keep you 'from broodin' on bein' a dorg,' as old David Harum says. There's all the pets to look after, you know—you've got to keep young black Billy up to the mark, or he'll never feed 'em properly, and if you let him alone he changes the water in the dishes when the last lot's dry. And, by George, Norah”—Jim had a bright idea—“Dad told me last night he meant to shift those new bullocks into the Long Plain. Ten to one he forgot all about it, going away so suddenly. You'll have to see to it.”
“I'd like that,” said Norah, feeling doubtfully for her voice.
“Rather—best thing you can do,” Jim said eagerly. “Take Billy with you, of course, and a dog. They're not wild, and I don't think you'll have any trouble—only be very careful to get 'em all—examine all the scrub in the paddock. Billy knows how many there ought to be. I did know, but, of course, I've forgotten. Of course Dad may have left directions with one of the men about it already.”
“Well, I could go too, couldn't I?” queried Norah.
“Rather. They'd be glad to have you.”
“Well, I'll be glad of something to do. I wasn't looking forward to to-morrow.”
“No,” said Jim, “I know you weren't. Never mind, you keep busy. You might drive into Cunjee with Brownie on Tuesday—probably you'd get a letter from Dad a day earlier, and hear when he's coming home—and if he says he's coming home on Thursday, Wednesday won't seem a bit long. You'll be as right as ninepence if you buck up.”
“I will, old chap. Only I wish you weren't going.”
“So do I,” said Jim, “and so do the other chaps. They want to come again some holidays.”
“Well, I hope you'll bring them.”
“My word! I will. Do you know, Norah, they think you're no end of a brick?”
“Do they?” said Norah, much pleased. “Did they tell you?”
“They're always telling me. Now, you go to bed, old girl.”
He rose and pulled her to her feet.
Norah put her arms round his neck—a very rare caress.
“Good night,” she said. “I—I do love you, Jimmy!”
Jim hugged her.
“Same here, old chap,” he said.
There was such scurrying in the early morning. Daylight revealed many things that had been overlooked in the packing overnight, and they had to be crammed in, somehow. Other things were remembered which had not been packed, and which must be found, and diligent hunt had to be made for them.
Norah was everybody's mate, running on several errands at once, finding Jim's school cap near Harry's overcoat while she was looking for Wally's cherished snake-skin. Her strong brown hands pulled tight the straps of bulging bags on which their perspiring owners knelt, puffing. After the said bags were closed and carried out to the buggy, she found the three toothbrushes, and crammed each, twisted in newspaper, into its owner's pocket. She had no time to think she was dull.
Mrs. Brown, who had been up since dawn, had packed a huge hamper, and superintended its placing in the buggy. It was addressed to “Master James, Master Harry, and Master Wallie,” and later Jim reported that its contents were such as to make the chaps at school speechless—a compliment which filled Mrs. Brown with dismay, and a wish that she had put in less pastry and perhaps a little castor oil. At present she felt mildly safe about it and watched it loaded with a sigh of relief.
“Boom-m-m!” went the big gong, and the boys rushed to the dining-room, where Norah was ready to pour out tea.
“You have some, Norah,” said Harry, retaining his position close to the teapot, whence Wally had vainly striven to dislodge him.
“Yes, old girl, you eat some breakfast,” commanded Jim.
Norah flashed a smile at him over the cosy.
“Lots of time afterwards,” she said, a little sadly.
“No time like the present.” Wally took a huge bite out of a scone, and surveyed the relic with interest. Someone put a smoking plateful before him, and his further utterances were lost in eggs and bacon.
Mrs. Brown flitted about like a stout guardian angel, keeping an especially watchful eye on Jim. If the supply on his plate lessened perceptibly, it was replenished with more, like manna from above. To his laughing protests she merely murmured, “Poor dear lamb!” whereat Wally and Harry laughed consumedly, and Jim blushed.
“Well, you've beaten me at last, Brownie,” Jim declared finally. He waved away a chop which was about to descend upon his plate. “No truly, Brownie dear; there are limits! Tea? No thanks, Norah, I've had about a dozen cups already, I believe! You fellows ready?”
They were, and the table was briskly deserted.
There was a final survey of the boys' room, which resembled a rubbish heap, owing to vigorous packing.
Everybody ran wildly about looking for something.
Wally was found searching frantically for his cap, which Norah discovered—on his head. There was a hurried journey to the kitchen, to bid the servants “Good-bye.”
The buggy wheels scrunched the gravel before the hall door. The overseer coo-ee'd softly.
“All aboard!”
“All right, Evans!” Jim appeared in the doorway, staggering under a big Gladstone bag. Billy, similarly laden, followed. His black face was unusually solemn.
“Chuck 'em in, Billy. Come on, you chaps!”
The chaps appeared.
“Good-bye, Norah. It's been grand!” Harry pumped her hand vigorously.
“Wish you were coming!” said Wally dismally. “Good-bye. Write to us, won't you, Norah?”
“Now then, Master Jim!” Evans glanced at his watch.
“Right oh!” said Jim. He put his arm round the little girl's shoulders and looked keenly into her face. There was no hint of breaking down. Norah met his gaze steadily and smiled at him. But the boy knew.
“Good-bye, little chap,” he said, and kissed her. “You'll keep your pecker up?”
She nodded. “Good-bye, Jimmy, old boy.”
Jim sprang into the buggy.
“All right, Evans.”
They whirled down the drive. Looking back, waving their caps, the boys carried away a memory of a brave little figure, erect, smiling and lonely on the doorstep.
The next few days went by slowly enough.
Norah followed faithfully all Jim's plans for her amusement. She practised, did some cooking, and helped Mrs. Brown preserve apricots; then there were the pets to look to and, best of all, the bullocks to move from one paddock to another. It was an easy job, and Evans was quite willing to leave it to Norah, Billy and a dog. The trio made a great business of it, and managed almost to forget loneliness in the work of hunting through the scrub and chasing the big, sleepy half-fat beasts out upon the clear plain. There were supposed to be forty-four in the paddock, but Norah and Billy mustered forty-five, and were exceedingly proud of themselves in consequence.
Next day Norah persuaded Mrs. Brown to allow herself to be driven into Cunjee. There was nothing particular to go for, except that, as Norah said, they would get the mail a day earlier; but Mrs. Brown was not likely to refuse anything that would chase the look of loneliness from her charge's face. Accordingly they set off after an early lunch, Norah driving the pair of brown ponies in a light single buggy that barely held her and her by no means fairy-like companion.
The road was good and they made the distance in excellent time, arriving in Cunjee to see the daily train puff its way out of the station. Then they separated, as Norah had no opinion whatever of Mrs. Brown's shopping—principally in drapers' establishments, which this bush maiden hated cordially. So Mrs. Brown, unhampered, plunged into mysteries of flannel and sheeting, while Norah strolled up the principal street and exchanged greetings with those she knew.
She paused by the door of a blacksmith's shop, for the smith and she were old friends, and Norah regarded Blake as quite the principal person of Cunjee. Generally there were horses to be looked at, but just now the shop was empty, and Blake came forward to talk to the girl.
“Seen the p'lice out your way?” he asked presently, after the weather, the crops, and the dullness of business had been exhausted as topics.
“Police?” queried Norah. “No. Why?”
“There was two mounted men rode out in your direction yesterday,” Blake answered. “They're on the track of that Winfield murderer, they believe.”
“What was that?” asked Norah blankly. “I never heard of it.”
“Not heard of the Winfield murder! Why, you can't read the papers, missy, surely?”
“No; of course I don't,” Norah said. “Daddy doesn't like me to read everyday ones.”
Blake nodded.
“No, I s'pose not,” he said. “You're too young to worry your little head about murders and suchlike. But everybody was talkin' about the Winfield affair, so I sorter took it for granted that you'd know about it.”
“Well, I don't,” said Norah. “What is it all about?”
“There's not very much I can tell you about it, missy,” Blake said, scratching his head and looking down at the grave lace. “Nobody knows much about it.
“Winfield's a little bit of a place about twenty miles from 'ere, you know—right in the bush and away from any rail or coach line. On'y a couple o' stores, an' a hotel, an' a few houses. Don't suppose many people out o' this district ever heard of it, it's that quiet an' asleep.
“Well, there was two ol' men livin' together in a little hut a mile or so from the Winfield township. Prospectors, they said they were—an' there was an idea that they'd done pretty well at the game, an' had a bit of gold hidden somewhere about their camp. They kept very much to themselves, an' never mixed with anyone—when one o' them came into the township for stores he'd get his business done an' clear out as quick as possible.
“Well, about a month ago two fellows called Bowen was riding along a bush track between Winfield an' their camp when they came across one o' the ol' mates peggin' along the track for all he was worth. They was surprised to see that he was carryin' a big swag, an' was apparently on a move.
“'Hullo, Harris!' they says—'leavin' the district?' He was a civil spoken ol' chap as a rule, so they was rather surprised when he on'y give a sort o' grunt, an' hurried on.
“They was after cattle, and pretty late the same day they found themselves near the hut where the two ol' chaps lived, an' as they was hungry an' thirsty, they reckoned they'd call in an' see if they could get a feed. So they rode up and tied their horses to a tree and walked up to the hut. No one answered their knock, so they opened the door, an' walked in. There, lyin' on his bunk, was ol' Waters. They spoke to him, but he didn't answer. You see, missy, he couldn't, bein' dead.”
“Dead!” said Norah, her eyes dilating.
Blake nodded.
“Stone dead,” he said. “They thought at first he'd just died natural, as there was no mark o' violence on 'im, but when they got a doctor to examine 'im he soon found out very different. The poor ol' feller 'ad been poisoned, missy; the doctor said 'e must a' bin dead twelve hours when the Bowens found 'im. Everything of value was gone from the hut along with his mate, old Harris—the black-hearted villain he must be!”
“Why, do they think he killed the other man?” Norah asked.
“Seems pretty certain, missy,” Blake replied. “In fact, there don't seem the shadder of a doubt. He was comin' straight from the hut when the Bowens met 'im—an' he'd cleared out the whole place, gold an' all. Oh, there ain't any doubt about Mr. Harris bein' the guilty party. The only thing doubtful is Mr. Harris's whereabouts.”
“Have the police been looking for him?” asked Norah.
“Huntin' high an' low—without any luck. He seems to have vanished off the earth. They've bin follerin' up first one clue and then another without any result. Now the last is that he's been seen somewhere the other side of your place, an' two troopers have gone out to-day to see if there's any truth in the rumour.”
“I think it's awfully exciting,” Norah said, “but I'm terribly sorry for the poor man who was killed. What a wicked old wretch the other must be!—his own mate, too! I wonder what he was like. Did you know him?”
“Well, I've seen old Harris a few times—not often,” Blake replied. “Still, he wasn't the sort of old man you'd forget. Not a bad-looking old chap, he was. Very tall and well set up, with piercin' blue eyes, long white hair an' beard, an' a pretty uppish way of talkin'. I don't fancy anyone about here knew him very well—he had a way of keepin' to himself. One thing, there's plenty lookin' out for him now.”
“I suppose so,” Norah said. “I wonder will he really get away?”
“Mighty small chance,” said Blake. “Still, it's wonderful how he's managed to keep out of sight for so long. Of course, once in the bush it might be hard to find him—but sooner or later he must come out to some township for tucker, an' then everyone will be lookin' out for him. They may have got him up your way by now, missy. Is your Pa at home?”
“He's coming home in a day or two,” Norah said; “perhaps to-morrow. I hope they won't find Harris and bring him to our place.”
“Well, it all depends on where they find him if they do get him,” Blake replied. “Possibly they might find the station a handy place to stop at. However, missy, don't you worry your head about it—nothing for you to be frightened about.”
“Why, I'm not frightened,” Norah said. “It hasn't got anything to do with me. Only I don't want to see a man who could kill his mate, that's all.”
“He's much like any other man,” said Blake philosophically. “Say, here's someone comin' after you, missy, I think.”
“I thought I'd find you here,” exclaimed Mrs. Brown's fat, comfortable voice, as its owner puffed her way up the slope leading to the blacksmith's. “Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. I've finished all my shopping, Miss Norah, my dear, and the mail's in, and here's a letter for you, as you won't be sorry to see.”
“From Dad? How lovely!” and Norah, snatching at the grey envelope with its big, black writing, tore it open hastily. At the first few words, she uttered a cry of delight.
“Oh, he's coming home to-morrow, Brownie—only another day! He says he thinks it's time he was home, with murderers roaming about the district!” and Norah executed a few steps of a Highland fling, greatly to the edification of the blacksmith.
“Dear sakes alive!” said Mrs. Brown, truculently. “I think there are enough of us at the station to look after you, murderer or no murderer—not as 'ow but that 'Arris must be a nasty creature! Still I'm very glad your Pa's coming, Miss Norah, because nothing do seem right when he's away—an' it's dull for you, all alone.”
“Master Jim gone back, I s'pose?” queried Blake.
“Yesterday,” Norah added.
“Then you must be lonely,” the old blacksmith said, taking Norah's small brown hand, and holding it for a moment in his horny fist very much as if he feared it were an eggshell, and not to be dropped. “Master Jim's growing a big fellow, too—goin' to be as big a man as his father, I believe. Well, good-bye, missy, and don't forget to come in next time you're in the township.”
There was nothing further to detain them in Cunjee, and very soon the ponies were fetched from the stables, and they were bowling out along the smooth metal road that wound its way across the plain, and Norah was mingling excited little outbursts of delight over her father's return with frequent searches into a big bag of sweets which Mrs. Brown had thoughtfully placed on the seat of the buggy.
“I don't know why Blake wanted to go telling you about that nasty murderer,” Mrs. Brown said. They were ten miles from Cunjee, and the metal road had given place to a bush track, in very fair order.
“Why not?” asked Norah, with the carelessness of twelve years.
“Well, tales of murders aren't the things for young ladies' ears,” Mrs. Brown said primly. “Your Pa never tells you such things. The paper's been full of this murder, but I would 'a' scorned to talk to you about it.”
“I don't think Blake meant any harm,” said Norah. “He didn't say so very much. I don't suppose he'd have mentioned it, only that Mr. Harris is supposed to have come our way, and even that doesn't seem certain.”
“'Arris 'as baffled the police,” said Mrs. Brown, with the solemn pride felt by so many at the worsting of the guardians of the law. “They don't reely know anythink about his movements, that's my belief. Why, it's weeks since he was seen. This yarn about his comin' this way is on'y got up to 'ide the fact that they don't know a thing about it. I don't b'lieve he's anywhere within coo-ee of our place. Might be out of the country now, for all anyone's sure of.”
“Blake seemed to think he'd really come this way;” Norah said.
“Blake's an iggerant man,” said Mrs. Brown loftily.
“Well, I'll keep a look-out for him, at any rate,” laughed Norah. “He ought to be easy enough to find—tall and good-looking and well set up—whatever that may mean—and long white beard and hair. He must be a pretty striking-looking sort of old man. I—” And then recollection swept over Norah like a flood, and her words faltered on her lips.
Her hand gripped the reins tighter, and she drove on unconsciously. Blake's words were beating in her ears. “Not a bad-looking old chap—very tall and well set up—piercing blue eyes and a pretty uppish way of talking.” The description had meant nothing to her until someone whom it fitted all too aptly had drifted across her mental vision.
The Hermit! Even while she felt and told herself that it could not be, the fatal accuracy of the likeness made her shudder. It was perfect—the tall, white-haired old man—“not the sort of old man you'd forget”—with his distinguished look; the piercing blue eyes—but Norah knew what kindliness lay in their depths—the gentle refined voice, so different from most of the rough country voices. It would answer to Blake's “pretty uppish way of talking.” Anyone who had read the description would, on meeting the Hermit, immediately identify him as the man for whom the police were searching. Norah's common sense told her that.
A wave of horror swept over the little girl, and the hands gripping the reins trembled. Common sense might tell one tale, but every instinct of her heart told a very different one. That gentle-faced old man, with a world of kindness in his tired eyes—he the man who killed his sleeping mate for a handful of gold! Norah set her square little chin. She would not—could not—believe it.
“Why, you're very quiet, dearie.” Mrs. Brown glanced inquiringly at her companion. “A minute ago you was chatterin', and now you've gone down flat, like old soda-water. Is anything wrong?”
“No, I'm all right, Brownie. I was only thinking,” said Norah, forcing a smile.
“Too many sweeties, I expect,” said Mrs. Brown, laying a heavy hand on the bag and impounding it for future reference. “Mustn't have you get indigestion, an' your Pa comin' home to-morrow.”
Norah laughed.
“Now, did you ever know me to have indigestion in my life?” she queried.
“Well, perhaps not,” Mrs. Brown admitted. “Still, you never can tell; it don' do to pride oneself on anything. If it ain't indigestion, you've been thinking too much of this narsty murder.”
Norah flicked the off pony deliberately with her whip.
“Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy,” she said. “He's not doing a bit of the work. Nigger's worth two of him.” The injured Darkie shot forward with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too inconvenient cross-examination.
Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly.
The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went, “though,” as poor Norah reflected, “you can't always tell a person just by hearing what he's like.” Then there was no denying that the conduct of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that he desired nothing so much as to be left alone—any one would have gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had to admit that it looked black against the Hermit.
Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her confidence and friendship; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah's power to believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted against the thought that her friend could be so base.
“He was in trouble,” Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy mind; “he was unhappy. But I know he wasn't wicked. Why, Bobs made friends with him!”
The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew “a good sort.”
“I won't say anything,” she decided at last, as they wheeled round the corner of the homestead. “If they knew there was a tall old man there, they'd go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he's all right. I'll hold my tongue about him altogether—even to Dad.”
The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies, while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare.
“Well, my little girl, it's good to see you again,” Mr. Linton said, putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. “Steady, dear—mind the ponies.” He jumped in, and put his arm round her. “Everything well?”
“Yes, all right, Daddy. I'm so glad to have you back!”
“Not gladder than I am to get back, my little lass,” said her father. “Good-day, Billy. Let 'em go, Norah.”
“Did you see Jim?” asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward.
“No—missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school, to find Master Jim had gone down the river—rowing practice. I was sorry to miss him; but it wasn't worth waiting another day in town.”
“Jim would be sorry,” said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim's letters were of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger.
“Yes, I suppose he would,” Mr. Linton replied. “I regretted not having sent a telegram to say I was going to the school—it slipped my memory. I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you've been pretty dull, my girlie?”
“Oh it was horrid after the boys went,” Norah said. “I didn't know what to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck that you had to go away too.”
“Yes, I was very sorry it happened so,” her father said; “had we been alone together I'd have taken you with me, but we'll have the trip some other time. Did you have a good day's fishing on Saturday?”
“Yes,” said Norah, flushing a little guiltily—the natural impulse to tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. “We had a lovely day, and caught ever so many fish—didn't get home till ever so late. The only bad part was finding you away when we got back.”
“Well, I'm glad you had good luck, at any rate,” Mr. Linton said. “So Anglers' Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We'll have to go out there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy like a three days' jaunt on fishing bent?”
“Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?”
“Well, of course—since we'd be away three days. In this weather it would be a very good thing to do, I think.”
“You are a blessed Daddy,” declared his daughter rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. “I never knew anyone with such beautiful ideas.” She jigged on her seat with delight. “Oh, and, Daddy, I'll be able to put you on to such a splendid new hole for fishing!”
“Will you, indeed?” said Mr. Linton, smiling at the flushed face. “That's good, dear. But how did you discover it?”
Norah's face fell suddenly. She hesitated and looked uncomfortable.
“Oh,” she said slowly; “I—we—found it out last trip.”
“Well, we'll go, Norah—as soon as I can fix it up,” said her father. “And now, have you heard anything about the Winfield murderer?”
“Not a thing, Daddy. Brownie thinks it's just a yarn that he was seen about here.”
“Oh, I don't think so at all,” Mr. Linton said. “A good many people have the idea, at any rate—of course they may be wrong. I'm afraid Brownie is rather too ready to form wild opinions on some matters. To tell the truth, I was rather worried at the reports—I don't fancy the notion of escaped gentry of that kind wandering round in the vicinity of my small daughter.”
“Well, I don't think you need have worried,” said Norah, laughing up at him; “but all the same, I'm not a bit sorry you did, if it brought you home a day earlier, Dad!”
“Well, it certainly did,” said Mr. Linton, pulling her ear; “but I'm not sorry either. I can't stand more than a day or two in town. As for the murderer, I'm not going to waste any thought on him now that I am here. There's the gate, and here comes Billy like a whirlwind to open it.”
They bowled through the gate and up the long drive, under the arching boughs of the big gum trees, that formed a natural avenue on each side. At the garden gate Mrs. Brown stood waiting, with a broad smile of welcome, and a chorus of barks testified to the arrival of sundry dogs. “It's a real home-coming,” Mr. Linton said as he walked up the path, his hand on Norah's shoulder—and the little girl's answering smile needed no words. They turned the corner by the big rose bush, and came within view of the house, and suddenly Norah's smile faded. A trooper in dusty uniform stood on the doorstep.
“Why, that's a pleasant object to greet a man,” Mr. Linton said, as the policeman turned and came to meet him with a civil salute. He nodded as the man came up. “Did you want me?”
“It's only about this 'ere murderer, sir,” said the trooper. “Some of us is on a sort of a scent, but we haven't got fairly on to his tracks yet. I've ridden from Mulgoa to-day, and I came to ask if your people had seen anything of such a chap passing—as a swaggie or anything?”
“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Linton. “What is he like?”
“Big fellow—old—plenty of white hair and beard, though, of course, they're probably cut off by this time. Very decent-looking old chap,” said the trooper reflectively—“an' a good way of speakin'.”
“Well, I've seen no such man,” said Mr. Linton decidedly—“of course, though, I don't see all the 'travellers' who call. Perhaps Mrs. Brown can help you.”
“Not me sir,” said Mrs. Brown, with firmness. “There ain't been no such a person—and you may be sure there ain't none I don't see! Fact is, when I saw as 'ow the murderer was supposed to be in this districk, I made inquiries amongst the men—the white hands, that is—and none of them had seen any such man as the papers described. I reckon 'e may just as well be in any other districk as this—I s'pose the poor p'lice must say 'e's somewheres!”
She glared defiantly at the downcast trooper.
“Wish you had the job of findin' him, mum,” said that individual. “Well, sir, there's no one else I could make inquiries of, is there?”
“Mrs. Brown seems to have gone the rounds,” Mr. Linton said. “I really don't think there's any one else—unless my small daughter here can help you,” he added laughingly.
But Norah had slipped away, foreseeing possible questioning.
The trooper smiled.
“Don't think I need worry such a small witness,” he said. “No, I'll just move on, Mr. Linton. I'm beginning to think I'm on a wild-goose chase.”