THE CUNJEE CONCERT
And stirrup to stirrup we’ll sing as we ride,
To the lights of the township that glimmer and guide.
—_W. H. Ogilvie._
“THEY should be home, Murty,” said David Linton.
“They shud,” said Mr. O’Toole, with conviction. He removed an
exceedingly black pipe from his mouth and stared at it, pressing the
tobacco down in the bowl with a broad thumb. “Will I be saddlin’ up a
horse, do ye think, an’ takin’ afther them?”
“Not a bit of good,” said the squatter. “They may come home by any of
three or four roads. I’d go myself if I were sure.” He knitted his brow,
staring down the twilit track. “I don’t understand it—Mr. Jim is never
late.”
“Sure, they’re young,” said Murty, and propped his long form comfortably
against a tree. “Ye can’t never be tellin’ what the young’ll be afther
whin they gets out wid a loose leg, like. An’ Mr. Jim’s level-headed
enough. I wud not be worryin’.”
“Mr. Jim should know better than to be away so late,” said Jim’s father,
sharply. “It’s nearly nine o’clock—and they should have been in for
dinner at half-past six. Wonder do they think a woman has nothing to do
but keep dinner hot for them! At any rate, I’ve told Mrs. Brown she’s
not to keep anything. They can manage with bread and cheese if they
can’t be in in decent time!”
“Niver did I see the ould man in such a tear!” confided Murty, a little
later, to Mrs. Brown—who, in flagrant defiance of instructions, was
brooding over preparations for a large and satisfactory supper for the
absentees. “Him that aisy-goin’ as a rule, an’ niver lettin’ a cross
word out of him—an’ he’s walkin’ up an’ down like a caged elephint,
fairly rampin’. ’Tis anxious he is—that’s the throuble.”
“Well may he be,” said Mrs. Brown, tearfully. “That new pony of Miss
Norah’s is that flighty and excitable—an’ he’s big an’ strong, too, an’
I know for two pins he’d buck! See him when they went off this
mornin’—fit to jump out of his skin, an’ dancin’ little jigs all the
way down the track. It’s enough to make anybody anxious.”
“P——f!” said Murty, with great scorn. “Miss Norah can manage Bosun as
aisy as shellin’ peas. There’s no vice in him, nayther; he’s as kind a
pony as iver I throwed a leg over. Ye’d not have the little misthress
ridin’ an old crock?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said poor Brownie. “I never could make meself
feel ’eroic where Miss Norah’s concerned. All very well to be proud of
her ridin’ an’ all that—an’ you men are fair foolish over that sort of
thing—but give me the contented mind as is a continual feast! An’ I
would feel contenteder if she rode something a little less like a
jumpin’-jack than Bosun.”
“That pony do be suitin’ Miss Norah down to the ground,” averted Murty.
“Sure, ’twas something to see her face whin she caught sight of him
first; an’ she’s that proud of him already. I did not think anny pony
would ever do as well for her as poor ould Bobs, but——”
“Miss Norah’ll never love a pony like she loved Bobs,” Brownie said,
belligerently.
“No—maybe not. But Bosun’ll run him close, an’ he’ll carry her real
well until she’s growed up,” Murty answered. “Sure, he’s not far off
fifteen hands, for all they call him a pony. An’ as for worryin’ about
her ridin’ him, Mrs. Brown, ma’am—well, ye may as well save y’r own
feelin’s.”
“Well, I wish they were all home, that’s all,” said Brownie. “It
mightn’t be Miss Norah—there’s Miss Jean, too.”
“Sure, that one can take care of herself,” Murty said, laughing. “She
ain’t one of them as talks; but I guess she won’t go fallin’ off on us,
for all that. An’ Nan is as safe a mare as there is on Billabong.”
“Now, I heard you say Nan could shy!” retorted Brownie, whose soul
refused to be led in ways of comfort.
“I’d not give y’ a ha’penny for the horse that couldn’t,” said Murty,
unblushingly. “Wud ye have them all rockin’ horses? But Miss Jean can
ride her all right. Now, wud ye be afther suggestin’ that it’s Garryowen
as’ll sling Mr. Jim, or ould Warder that’s goin’ to market wid Mr.
Wally? Ye pays y’r money an’ takes y’r choice!”
“You get out!” said Brownie gloomily. “All very well for you to stand
there grinnin’ at me like a Cheshire cheese—but the master’s as anxious
as I am, an’ it’s no wonder! An’ I would bet sixpence, Murty, me fine
lad, that down inside you you’re pretty anxious too!”
“Bosh!” said Murty, looking slightly confused. The sounds of hoofs saved
him from further defence. He turned to the kitchen doorway with
sufficient quickness to justify Brownie’s accusation.
“’Tis the Boss,” he said, in tones of disappointment. “I’d thought ’twas
thim young ones comin’ up the thrack. Tare an’ ages! he’s lettin’ ould
Monarch out! Why wudn’t he be lettin’ me go, whin I asked him, I wonder?
Well——” He pondered a moment, and strolled away. Five minutes later
Brownie, looking out hurriedly at hearing again the sound of hoofs on
the gravel of the track, saw him cantering off in the wake of his
master.
“Why on earth am I seventeen stone?” queried Brownie, desperately, of
the ambient air. Receiving no adequate response, she retreated to the
kitchen and wept a little into her apron; then, realizing the futility
of grief, roused herself to action and made scones of a lightness almost
ephemeral. It was some relief to her surcharged feelings.
Christmas had come and gone, and it was New Year’s eve. Summer was
ruling in earnest; day after day saw the sun rise like a golden disc, to
be molten brass during the long, breathless day, and finally sink into a
lurid sky, a ball of liquid fire. The grass dried rapidly; paddocks that
had been green when Norah and Jean came from Melbourne were now waving
expanses of yellow. Rumours of bush fires all over the country districts
filled the newspapers.
Despite the heat, Billabong was doing its best for its visitors. Wally’s
adventure was almost forgotten by the victim himself, since he had
suffered no further effects from the snake bite than a rather sore
hand—due, Jim said, to poor carving. No one seemed to mind the
temperature much. When the thermometer was trying to eclipse all
previous records, the house was always a cool refuge; or there was the
lagoon, where the boat rocked sleepily in the shade of the willows; or
the tree-fringed banks of the creek, where no intrusive sun rays ever
penetrated. Besides, there was so much to do that there really seemed
little time to think of the weather; long days out in the paddocks with
the cattle, mustering, or drafting, or cutting out; boundary riding, to
make sure that fences were in good order and gates secure; fishing
expeditions, rides to neighbouring stations, and long, delicious bathes
in the lagoon, which in themselves made the heat seem worth while. Jim
had established a jumping ground during his year at home—a paddock near
the homestead, where a couple of log fences and some brush hurdles made
an excellent training ground for the horses. Brownie used to stand on
the balcony, torn betwixt pride and anxiety, watching the four riders
sailing over the jumps—with sometimes a fifth, when Mr. Linton could
persuaded to add Monarch, his black thoroughbred, to the starters. The
boys entertained visions of a general hurdle race, for which the entries
should include Lee Wing, the Chinese gardener, on an ancient piebald
mare entitled Bung Eye, and Hogg, his sworn foe, on a lean mule that was
popularly supposed to be capable of kicking the eye out of a mosquito.
They even planned to enter Mrs. Brown, and declared their intention of
training her on Blossom, a Clydesdale mare of great antiquity. In this
ambition it is perhaps unnecessary to state that they had not the
support of Mrs. Brown.
To-day the quartette had ridden into Cunjee, somewhat against their
inclination. As a rule the township made small appeal to them; they
greatly preferred the freedom of the paddocks and the wide
galloping-places of the plains. On the station, where play included work
and responsibility, there was never any dullness; the interests of each
day claimed them, giving even the girls a definite share in the daily
business. It was the life to which Norah had always been accustomed, and
which she loved with every fibre of her energetic being. That Jim and
Wally should care for it was a matter of course; to them also it was a
part of life. It had been added joy to find that Jean took to it with a
zest little, if anything, inferior to her own. Nothing was wanting, in
Norah’s eyes, to complete the perfection of holidays and Billabong.
The necessity of despatching a telegram had caused the expedition to
Cunjee; somewhat deplored by the boys, since they were reluctantly
compelled to don coats, to which they strenuously objected in the hot
weather, and to find hats of a more respectable appearance than the
battered felt head gear they habitually wore. They rode away after an
early lunch; four cheery figures, alike in white linen coats and Panama
hats, the brims turned down to keep the sun glare from their eyes;
turning at the bend in the track to wave farewell to Mr. Linton, who
stood at the gate to watch them go.
Cunjee was found gasping with heat, and only mildly consoled by the fact
that no such temperatures had been recorded in the memory of man.
“Now, I always think that’s quite a help,” Jean said. “Once it’s 100° in
the shade you feel almost as bad as you’re going to feel—and you might
just as well have the satisfaction of knowing you had every excuse for
being hot, because it was 114°. That makes it so interesting that you
forget to be sorry for yourself!”
“I like to hear you, New Zealand!” quoth Wally, with fine scorn. “Didn’t
know you ever worked up much of a temperature in those Antarctic islands
of yours!”
“Well, we aren’t exactly singed into chips, like the Queenslanders!”
said Jean, mildly, amidst mirth on the part of Norah and Jim—while
Wally, who hailed from the vicinity of the Gulf of Carpentaria, looked
modestly unconscious. “But we can be just as warm as we want to be.”
“Well, Cunjee is warmer than I appreciate,” Jim said. “Let’s leave the
horses at the hotel to get a feed, and we’ll go and beg afternoon tea
from Mrs. Anderson.”
Mrs. Anderson greeted the invasion enthusiastically.
“So lovely of you to come,” she said. “I’ve been feeling ever so dull.
And now you’ve come, you must stay. The doctor has had to go to Mulgoa,
and may not be back to-night; and I want an escort for the concert.”
“Is there a concert?” Norah asked.
“Didn’t you know? Ah, well, I suppose you irresponsible people don’t
read the local paper,” said their hostess, pouring out tea. “Cream,
Wally? No? How ridiculous of you, and you so thin! Yes, we’re to have a
tremendous concert. I forget what it’s in aid of, but it’s mainly local
talent, and so it’s bound to be exciting. And I can’t go by myself, and
it’s quite too hot to go out and find a companion. Personally, I think
Providence has delivered you into my hands!”
“Afraid we can’t, thanks very much, Mrs. Anderson,” Jim told her. “We
didn’t say we’d be away.”
“Pooh! They would know at home that you would be all right,” said Mrs.
Anderson. “You station folk never seem to worry about times and seasons,
and I always think it’s so delightful! Your father would know the others
were quite safe in your care, Jim.”
“I hope you children are taking note of that speech,” said Jim,
laughing. “I wish I could feel as confident about it as you do, Mrs.
Anderson—but, unfortunately, my years don’t seem to convince Dad of my
common sense. I’m afraid he’d be worried if we didn’t turn up for
dinner.”
“Rubbish!” said Mrs. Anderson. “He would know you stayed for something
or other; probably he reads the local paper, if you don’t, and is
acquainted with the dissipated intentions of Cunjee. I’m certainly not
going to let you escape now that I have you all!”
“What do you think, Nor.?” Jim asked his sister.
“Why, I don’t suppose he’d mind,” Norah answered. “It always seems much
the same to be out with you as with him, though it’s very imprudent of
me to let you know it.”
“He wouldn’t mind if he knew,” Jim said, doubtfully. “Still——”
“Oh, risk it,” said Mrs. Anderson, laughing. “Consider the claims of a
woman in distress—you can’t leave me to face a Cunjee audience alone.
Your clothes don’t matter a bit—in fact, Cunjee will probably consider
you clad as the lilies of the field.” So Jim, against his better
judgment, stayed.
Dinner at the Andersons’ was a cheerful occasion, to which variety was
lent by the Anderson baby, who insisted on sitting on Norah’s knee, and
drummed happily on the cloth with her dessert-spoon, while Norah ate on
the catch-as-catch-can principle. Then, the baby being with difficulty
severed from the object of his adoration, they hurried to the Mechanics’
Institute, outside which the local brass band was performing prodigies
of harmony, somewhat impeded by the fact that the euphonium was three
tones flat.
Jim did not enjoy the concert. A shade of anxiety hung over his mind,
with the conviction that it was quite possible that their absence was
causing anxiety at the station. Thus the antics of the Cunjee comedian
who, in private life, kept a somewhat disreputable bicycle-repairing
establishment, fell flat; albeit the comedian aforesaid had bedecked
himself in spurious red whiskers and a kilt compounded of a red table
cloth, with a whitewash brush as sporran, and sang Scotch ditties with a
violent Australian twang—a combination truly awe inspiring. They
suffered from the familiar soprano, who trilled strange trills in a key
very much too high, and from the confident young baritone, who warbled a
ditty of the type more generally reserved for tenors, and took an encore
on the echo of the first faint clap. The band master played a long solo
upon the cornet, than which there is no more lonely instrument when
unsupported; and on the heels of its wailing came a young lady who
recited harrowing particulars of the death of “my chee-ild,” whom she
indicated as lying in its coffin immediately before her. She knelt by
it, and apostrophized the deceased in moving terms. She wrung her hands
over it; in fact, she pointed it out so definitely that to Norah, whose
imagination was unfortunately vivid, it assumed actual reality, and she
with difficulty restrained a cry when, in the last verse, the
elocutionist forgot her previous actions, and in the anguish of her
mood, stepped right into the coffin! At this point Norah decided
definitely that she did not like recitations. It pained her greatly to
see the young lady smirk and stroll off the stage, oblivious of her
heart-rending actions.
Then the Shire President came forward and thanked everybody in impartial
terms, and the concert was over. Jim hurried his party out of the hall,
and as soon as possible they had said good-night to Mrs. Anderson,
resisting her offers of supper; and were in the saddle, cantering along
the homeward track.
Five miles out of Cunjee a shadow loomed up out of the gloom, and
Garryowen gave a sudden whinney. Mr. Linton’s voice followed it.
“Is that you, Jim?”
Under his breath Jim uttered a low whistle.
“Great Scott! It’s Dad!” he said. He raised his voice. “Right-oh, Dad!
Is anything wrong?”
“There’s nothing wrong at home,” said David Linton, wheeling Monarch
beside Garryowen. “What has kept you?”
“Went to a concert,” said Jim, briefly, feeling suddenly very small and
young.
“We never thought you’d be anxious, Dad!” Norah said.
“Not anxious!” said her father, explosively. Then he shot a glance at
Jean and Wally, uncomfortably silent.
“You’ve given us a pleasant evening,” was all he said. But Jim winced as
if he had been struck, and the blood surged into his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said curtly.
“It was my fault, just as much, Dad,” Norah began. But her father
stopped her.
“Jim was in charge,” he said. “There isn’t any more to be said about it.
We’d better hurry. Mrs. Brown is picturing all sorts of things.” He put
Monarch into a canter, and they rode on in silence. Two miles further on
a dim figure at the roadside turned his horse beside Wally.
“Is it all right, ye are, all of ye?” asked Murty in a hoarse whisper.
“Some one else out hunting the lost sheep?” Wally asked. “Yes, we’re all
right.”
“Thin I’ll not let on to himself that I kem out,” said the Irishman.
“Wisha! he was wild!” He dropped behind the riders, vanishing into the
gloom.
Billabong was slow in appearing; to the silent riders the miles had
never seemed longer. At last the lights came into view with Brownie’s
massive figure silhouetted against the light of the doorway.
“Run in, you and Jean, and tell Brownie you’re all right,” Mr. Linton
said to Norah, as they pulled up. “We’ll see to the horses.”
In the harness room, while Wally took off bridles outside, Jim’s eyes
met his father’s. Both had been thinking.
“I’m sorry we made you anxious,” said the boy, stiffly.
“You made me very anxious,” said David Linton. “Still——” He hesitated,
memories of his own early manhood coming back to him as the big fellow
faced him. “Perhaps I forget that you’re not a child any longer,” he
said, with an effort. “If I hurt you, Jim, I’m——”
“Don’t!” Jim’s hand went out quickly. “I deserved a jolly sight more
than I got. But I’m sorry, Dad.” They shook hands on it, gravely.
“Bring in those bridles, young Wally, and be quick!” sang out Mr.
Linton—and Wally appeared, his face comically relieved at the tone.
They walked over to the house—a laugh from Jim at some futile remark of
his chum’s coming to Norah’s ears as they neared the verandah, and
greatly relieving that distressed damsel, to whom it had appeared that
the skies had fallen.
Later, when supper had been discussed cheerfully, and the household had
scattered, David Linton smoked a last pipe on the balcony, thinking.
A slender figure in blue pyjamas came softly to him.
“Dad—I’m sorry!” said Norah.
“Right, mate!” said her father. He saw the quick lift of her head, but
she hesitated.
David Linton laughed, kissing her.
“And Jim’s all right,” he said. “Off to bed with you!”