ON THE TRACK
A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—
Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the
skin.
—_V. J. Daley._
THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock belonging
to a station Mr. Linton knew well.
“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he said.
“It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first
day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of good
water in the creek over yonder.”
So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and across the
long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time of the
year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The horses were
short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was pitched quickly.
The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near which
the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for bathing—a
deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over a sunken log
at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply planned to stand on
while you were drying. Most Australian creeks are unkind in this
respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or the few available
places are so muddy that the difficulty after a bathe is to keep clean.
“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the hole
hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much mistaken.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t leave
any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”
“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim
grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and there’s
really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why don’t you
take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”
“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the lady referred to,
longingly.
“Don’t they appreciate you? I’m like that!” Wally said. “I often think
I’ll die without any one finding out my true worth.”
“Jolly good job for you if they don’t, old man!” quoth Jim, retreating
hastily, and cannoning with violence into his father as he dodged round
a gum tree. Explanations ensued, and the party settled down to fish,
soon catching enough to make tea a memorable meal. Then they lay about
on the grass and talked until it was bedtime—a period which came early,
though no one would admit any sense of fatigue.
It was a still, hot night—so hot that the girls slept with the tent
flap tied back, and were openly envious of the men of the party, who
disdained to erect a “wurley,” and slept bushman fashion out in the
open, with their blankets spread in a soft spot, and their saddles for
pillows. Black Billy disappeared along the creek, camping in some select
nook after his blackfellow heart. Then silence fell upon the camp, and
all that could be heard was a mopoke, steadily calling in a dead tree,
throughout the night.
Norah was the first to awaken. It was daylight, but only faintly;
looking through the opening of the tent she could see the sun coming
slowly over the edge of the horizon, flushing all the eastern sky with
gleams of pink and gold. A little breeze blew gently. She slipped
quietly from her bunk, put on a light overcoat and went out barefooted
into the sweetness of the morning.
There was an old moss-grown log near the tent, and she sat down upon it.
Just beyond the belt of trees that marked the creek, the yellow paddock
stretched away, unbroken by any fence, so far as her eye could reach.
She could see grazing cattle here and there, and a few half-grown steers
were standing in a little knot and staring towards the camp with
curious, half-frightened eyes. From further down the bank came the chink
of hobbles, and the chime of the bell on old Bung Eye’s neck. Near the
tent her father lay sleeping; a few yards away were Jim and Wally, far
off in the land of dreams. The clean bush scent lay over everything; the
scent of tree and leaf and rich black earth, where the night-dew still
lingers. Just below her the creek rippled softly, and the splash of a
leaping fish sent a swirl across the wide pool. Norah sighed from very
joy of the place, and the beauty of the morning, and the certainty of a
happy day ahead.
Then she became aware that some one was awake—in the curious way in
which we become conscious that the thoughts of another have entered into
our solitary places. She looked round, and beheld one intent eye
regarding her from the end of the roll of blankets that represented
Wally. For a moment the eye and Norah continued to watch each other; at
which point Norah suddenly realized that it was faintly possible that
Wally might feel a shade of embarrassment, and modestly withdrew her
gaze. She did Mr. Meadows great injustice. He yawned widely, sat up, and
wriggled out of his blankets. Then, discovering that Jim’s mouth was
slightly open, he proceeded to place within it three dandelions, which
accomplished, he fled while his unconscious victim was waking up and
spluttering. Wally sat down on the log beside Norah, with a face like an
unusually lean cherub.
“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing. “Dandelions taste
abominably—at least that milky stuff in them does.”
“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny things you seem to have lived
on!”
“Poor old Jimmy!” said Norah, disregarding this insinuation, and bending
a glance of pity on Jim, who was coughing violently, and evidently
prepared for battle. Mr. Linton had wakened, and was regarding his son
with curiosity.
“It’s a pneumonia cough, I should say, sir,” explained Wally,
considerately, from the log. “Nasty lungy sound, hasn’t it. Shall I get
you some water, my poor dear?” At this point the outraged Jim arose and
hurled himself upon his tormentor, who dodged him round a bush until Jim
managed to pick up a thorn with his foot, when he retired to a log for
purposes of investigation.
“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!” he growled.
“Not too many larks,” commanded Mr. Linton, who had also cast off his
blankets. “We’ve got to get away as early as we can, so as to have a
long spell in the hottest part of the day.” He shook himself vigorously.
“I think I’m too old for sleeping without a mattress.”
“So am I,” said Wally, who was sitting cross-legged on Norah’s log.
“That bit of ground looked the softest I could see, but it found out
every bone I have before I’d been there an hour. It would be a
tremendous advantage to be fat! I was afraid at last that my hip bone
would come right through, so I got up and scraped a little hole for it.
Then I was much more comfortable, except when I wriggled in my sleep and
failed to hit the hole.”
“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah averred.
“I should think so—sleeping in the lap of gilded luxury—at least in a
beautiful sacking bunk!” said Wally, indignantly. “Then you get up at
your elegant leisure and jeer at those whose lodging was on the cold,
cold ground! Women were ever thus!” He choked, dramatically, and rose.
“James, if you’ve finished operating, are you ready to come and bathe?”
“I must wake Jean,” said Norah, disappearing within the tent. Then they
scattered up and down the creek for their swim—not a matter to be
dawdled over, for even in the summer morning the water was very cold.
Jim returned, fresh and glowing, before the girls were ready to vacate
the tent, and proceeded to loosen its fastenings in a way that caused
them great anguish of mind, since it threatened to collapse bodily upon
them. The last stages of their toilet were performed hastily, and
without dignity.
“Can’t be helped,” said Jim, imperturbably, as they emerged, wrathful.
“Got to strike camp, and this is my job.” He brought the tent to earth
with a quick movement. “Help me to fold this up, Nor.”
“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.
“I left him diving for the soap,” Jim grinned. “He was pretty cold, and
didn’t seem exactly happy; but I couldn’t wait. Here he comes. Did you
get it, Wal.?”
“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still inclined
to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue. “He’s just
the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly dry, out on
the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness; and the brute
actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive for it: fact is, I
believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in again after it!”
“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.
“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He proceeded to
roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.
Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was over the
pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled through
country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire fence bounded
each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit for wheeled
traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big station properties,
on which the homesteads were far back; so that they scarcely saw a house
throughout the day, except when now and then they passed through sleepy
little townships, where dogs barked furiously at them and children ran
out to stare at the riders. They were typical bush children, who
scarcely ever saw a stranger—lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and
shy as hares, and quite incapable of giving an answer when addressed.
They paused in one township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post
office to send a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were
safe.
The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered in the
light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark of
distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a little,
ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally falling
to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide, through
which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the township contained
any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how they contrived to
transact their postal business. It was very certain that Brownie could
not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic pressure had been
applied to her.
Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a small
shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic simplicity
was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-doorway, after
Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.
“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall,
freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her
“fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is, I
was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just
corkin’!”
“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard, please.”
“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request. She
propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for
conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as nature
or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair ringers! That
big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa ridin’
him?”
“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”
“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty workmanlike,
don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair question?”
“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want——”
“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”
“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”
“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up there,”
said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will y’, do
y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what people
’ll do for fun!”
“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me have a
postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.
“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without removing
her face from the little window she fished in an unseen receptacle and
extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.
“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating. “Can I
have one—and some ink?”
“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the
office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This
one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided
skirts comf’table to ride in?”
Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.
“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the
postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me father
won’t let me get a pattron an’ try an’ make one. Yours don’t seem to
mind.”
“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said Norah, writing busily.
“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the postmistress. “Never know
where you have them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”
Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal to detailed explanation.
“Thought so. An’ you’re re’ly goin’ to try old Ben Athol! Wonder if
you’ll ever get there,” the postmistress pondered. Her freckled face
suddenly widened to a smile. “Look at that blackfeller, now! Well, if he
ain’t a trick!”
Billy was jogging up the street on old Bung Eye, smoking vigorously.
Behind him, taking the fullest advantage of a long halter, the packhorse
led, very bored by Life. The township children shouted and ran, but
nothing affected Billy’s serenity. He passed out of sight, and the
Postmistress, oblivious of further possible wishes on the part of her
customer, quitted her little office and rushed outside to gaze after
him. In this pleasurable occupation she was not alone, since three parts
of the township was hanging over its front fence, gazing likewise.
From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third time—this time with
something peremptory in its note.
“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her card into the slit marked
“Letters,” and ran out, receiving voluble farewells from the
postmistress as she fled.
“Good-bye!” Norah called. She swung herself upon Bosun’s back, and
trotted down the street with Jim. Already the others were some distance
ahead.
The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust of their going died
away.
“Wonder who they were?” she pondered. “Well, at least, there’s the
postcard!” She opened the letter box, and drew out the documentary
evidence, receiving not much information from Norah’s hastily-scrawled
lines. She turned the card over.
“Well, I’m blessed!” she gasped. Keen disappointment was in her voice.
She pondered for a moment and then hurried out, locking the office door
firmly, and affixing to it a battered notice, which read: “Closed for
dinner.” The fact that she had already dined did not trouble the free
and independent soul of the postmistress.
Half an hour later the sound of galloping hoofs on the road behind them
made the Billabong party look round. A cloud of dust resolved itself
into the vision of the postmistress, mounted on a raking chestnut, and
somewhat bulky in appearance, by reason of the fact that she had slipped
on a habit skirt over her other apparel.
“She’s waving,” said Norah, much puzzled. “Let’s pull up.”
They waited. The postmistress arrived with a wide and friendly smile.
“Thought I’d never catch you up!” she panted. “Blessed if you didn’t
forget to put any address on that postcard you wrote!” She produced the
card, a good deal crumpled by the vicissitudes of travel.
“Well, I am a duffer!” ejaculated Norah. “But how awfully good of you to
come after us!”
“It was indeed,” said Mr. Linton, warmly. He produced a pencil, and
Norah scribbled the address and handed the card back. “Uncommonly kind
and thoughtful. We’re very much obliged to you. I hope it didn’t give
you very much trouble?”
“Not a bit!” said the postmistress, genially. She read the address with
care, and tucked the card into her bodice. “Fact is,” she said, “I was
just dead keen to know it meself! Well, I must be gettin’ back—me
office is shut up, an’ the coach is nearly due. So long!” She wheeled
the chestnut, galloping back to the township.