*CHAPTER XI*

*THE BREAKING-UP*

"With trumping horn and juvenile huzzas,

At going home to spend their Christmas days,

And changing Learning's pains for Pleasure's toys."

TOM HOOD.

Out through the gateway of the National School, on one sultry afternoon

in late December, tumbled a pack of noisy boys and scarcely less noisy

girls; the while they kicked up a fine dust, yelling in an uproarious

fashion. Were you, a stranger, to ask the cause of this demonstration

of voice and capering limbs, you would be answered by a score of voices

in rousing chorus--

"Hip, hip, hurray for Christmas Day!

School's broke up, hip, hip, hurray!"

However strongly one might be disposed to question the quality of the

couplet as he listened to the trumpetings of this cluster of children,

he would cheerfully admit the gusto of the proceedings as the juveniles

issued pell-mell.

If truth be told, the master was no less pleased than the youngsters

when the actual moment of dismissal came. Like all schools, this

particular one was infected for weeks previously with a spirit of

restlessness, which made it well-nigh impossible to secure the undivided

attention of the children. There was no disposition for serious study,

and Simpson, who was a wise teacher, attempted no coercive measures.

Natural history was presented in its most attractive forms. Grammar and

arithmetic were for the most part tabooed, and instead of puzzling

refractory brains with arithmetical and grammatical abstractions, the

children lived in the jungles of India, crossed Sahara, took a trip to

the Booties, wandered into Arctic circles, or, what was equally

exciting, made transcontinental trips in company with Sturt, Burke and

Wills, Leichhardt, and other great Australian explorers.

Many were the schemes unfolded and plans laid by the boys during the

last schooldays. The holidays would not be an undiluted playtime to any

one of the boys. Many of the lads would work hard on the farms; their

parents, bearing in mind the old adage of Satan and idle hands, will

take good care to anticipate the sinister designs of that interfering

old gentleman. The wood pile stood as an unfailing object of labour.

Sheds were awaiting the whitewash brush. Fowl houses loomed expectant.

Fences demanded attention. These, and many other duties about house and

farm, were put off till the "holidays."

There were other anticipations, however, far more highly coloured and

bewitching than these. Charm the schoolboy never so wisely, his

thoughts, with a dogged obstinacy or triumphant breakaway, return to the

delectable things of the groves, streams, mountains, and plains. Horse,

gun, dog, rod, bat, duck, quail, pigeon; perch, bream, mullet; kangaroo,

wallaby, dingo, brumby, scrubber! These are the sources and instruments

of pleasure; things that people the imagination, and make an earthly

paradise.

Sobering down, after an unusual indulgence in larks to mark the

auspicious event, Joe, Tom, and Sandy, separating from the others,

sauntered to the slip-rail entrance of the school horse-paddock. Joe

and Tom, at the express request of Mrs. M'Intyre, are to spend the

holidays with Sandy on the station. Here all kinds of fun and alluring

adventure are promised the lads. How well that promise was redeemed let

the sequel bear witness.

"Now then, you fellows, don't forget that you are to be at Bullaroi on

the morning of Christmas Eve without fail."

"I say, ole boss, what does eve mean?"

"Eve! Why, a--er--short for evening, I s'pose. What makes you ask,

Joe?"

"Well, if Christmas Eve is evening, how can we be there in the

mornin'?--you savee?"

"You're mighty smart, Blain, but did you ever know an evening that

didn't have a morning to it?"

"Oh--ah--yes, I see. We're to come out on the morning of the evening.

Sure it's an Irishie ye ought to be instead of a Scotchie."

"Scotchie or no Scotchie," replied Sandy, who was the essence of

good-humour, "ye're not to be later than ten o'clock of the forenoon of

the day before Christmas. There! Will that fit you, you pumpkin-headed

son of a bald-bellied turnip?"

"Thanks, M'Intyre; I'm sure my father'll be delighted when I tell him

the respectful titles you've given him," returned Joe, with mock

sarcasm.

"He'll no dispute the title of his son's head, anyhow," flung back the

Scotch lad, as, bridle in hand, he strolled on to round up his steed.

This parthian shot nettled Joe, but the answer he would have given

remained unuttered, for at this moment his eldest sister appeared and

beckoned to him in an emphatic manner, at the same time calling upon him

to hurry. So, contenting himself with levelling Midshipman Easy's

masonic sign at the retreating lad, he hurried along towards his sister.

"Father wants you to go down the river with him in the boat."

"Where's it to?"

"Down to Beacon Point. Tom Tyler's had a bad accident, and they've sent

for the doctor; but he's away. He was called out to a bad case at Dingo

Creek head station, and is not expected to be back till midday

to-morrow. So they've asked father to go down, and you've to hurry

along. Father's waiting down at the boat for you."

Mr. Blain was waiting at the boat with everything that was required for

the trip. As soon as the lad was in, he pushed off, and, taking the

stern oar, with Joe at the bow, father and son started on their

twelve-mile pull.

In answer to the boy's question the minister gave some details of the

accident, and, further, informed the lad that it was his intention to

call at Mrs. Robinson's, distant about five miles from Tareela.

They had now settled down to a steady stroke, and as the sun was on its

westering wheel, and the sting out of its slanting rays, the row became

enjoyable. Mr. Blain was a sort of newsletter to the settlers, and in

his trips up-stream and down-stream was frequently hailed and made the

target of questioning from the riverbank.

Robinsons' was reached a little before sunset, where they were made

abundantly welcome. Some years previously Mr. Robinson met his death by

one of those accidents all too common in new settlements. Felling scrub

timber is a risky performance. It so happened that in felling a stout

fig tree, Robinson failed to notice some lawyer vines that, hanging from

the high branches, had attached themselves to the bare limbs of an

adjacent dead tree.

Standing at the base and watching the toppling fig tree, as it slowly

swayed preparatory to its final crash, he was unaware that the

cable-like vines were retarding its progress. Gathering way, however,

the falling tree brought a strain upon the vine, and tore away a heavy

limb of the dead tree. This falling upon the axe-man, killed him

instantly.

The widow was blest with a family of boys and girls who were true grit.

Misfortune breaks some people--it makes others. The latter was the

truth in this case.

In all the trying times Mrs. Robinson underwent, the minister was her

friend and counsellor.

*CHAPTER XII*

*DOWN THE RIVER*

"When the full moon flirts with the perigee tide,

On a track of silver away we ride,--

Oh, glorious times we have together,

My boat and I in the summer weather."

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

The boat was sighted from Robinsons' some time before its nose grated on

the shingle at the landing-place.

Isaac, the younger son, a giant in stature and a prime favourite with

Joe, was at the landing-stage. Seizing the bow what time it touched

land, he half lifted, half dragged the boat two-thirds of her length out

of the water, and made her fast to an old stump.

"Mother's so glad you've come, sir. She wants to talk with you about

that boy of Maguire's, who's bin givin' us a lot of trouble."

"Won't be able to stay long, Ike. We've got to be at Beacon Point to

night. We just put in for a cup of tea and a bite. Mother's inside, I

suppose? I'll go in and have a chat with her."

"You'll find her in the kitchen, sir. When we saw you roundin'

Piccaniny Point we knew you'd be here for tea, and mother's lookin'

after things."

"I hope she won't go to any trouble. A mouthful is all we want."

"Well, you know mother, sir. She feels that nothin' is near good

enough."

"Any pancakes for tea, Ike?"

"Pancakes! Why, of course. That's what mother's makin' now. She knew

that'd be the first thing you'd be askin' fur, Joe."

"Rather, Ike!" said Joe, pursing his mouth and drawing in his breath

with the peculiar, half-whistling, unwriteable sound which boys

instinctively make when visions of goodies arise. More especially when

such goodies come within measurable distance of consumption.

Master Joe had a healthy boy's appetite. The rowing exercise gave

additional spice to his hunger. Pancake was at that moment the gate of

entry to the boy's very material heaven.

"Tea won't be ready fur a few minutes, Joe. Let's go down to the barn.

I was just goin' to rub some more mixture inter the skins when I seen

your boat roundin' the point. Sorry you're goin' on, my son. When I

seen you on the river I ses to meself, ses I, 'By George! Joey an' I'll

have a great night at the 'possums.' I wish to goodness you'd been

stayin'. There'll be a grand moon ter night, an it's very temptin'."

"By gum, ain't it just! It'd be simply, rippin'. 'Member last time I

was down? That was a grand bit of sport we had. Forty-seven was it, or

forty-nine? I know it took a dashed long time to skin 'em."

"Forty-seven it was. We'd do over fifty to-night."

"Well, as mother says, 'What can't be cured must be endured.' By dad!

that's a grand wallaby skin! Where'd you get it?"

"Got it larst night." Ike had the Colonial drawl to perfection. "I was

up at the top end of the scrub cultivation paddick, mooseying around

after some cockatoos that'd bin skinnin' the corn. It was just about

dusk, an' I was waitin' in the corner for the cockies, as I knew they'd

soon be leavin' fur their roosts, an' my bes' charnse at 'em was on the

wing. They're so 'tarnal cute, yer know, yer carn't git 'em on the

corn."

"I know. Didn't I try my best to stalk 'em the last time I was down,

Ike! I got three altogether, you 'member, an' you said it'd be a crest

apiece to take home to the girls."

"Waal, as I was sayin', I'd sarcumvented the ole boss cockie, which was

keeping watch in the dead gum-tree that stood in the middle of the

patch, an' was posted in the middle of the corner expectin' them ter fly

over every minit. But ole Pincher, who was chevyin' about, starts this

ere boss outer the pumpkin vines; they're death on pumpkins, yer know.

The dorg made a dash at 'im, an', by jings! he did streak. Greased

lightnin' wasn't in it with 'im. I tried to draw a bead on 'im, but,

what with the dusk an' the bushes an' stumps, I couldn't get a good

line. I banged away one barril, but was yards off, I reckon.

"Pincher, he disappeared in a brace of shakes, an' I made sure the

vermin ud get through a 'ole in the fence. I was makin' for 'ome, 'cause

the cockies, yer know, 'ad all gone. All of a suddent I heers a yelp,

an' knew ole Pinch 'ad somehow 'eaded 'im. Reckon 'e missed the 'ole,

or the dorg'd never got near 'im. Anyhow, 'e was a-streakin' a bit now,

an' Pinch at 'is 'eels. He was makin' fur the maize agen. I lined 'im

this time all right, though it was a longish shot; about sixty-five I

reckon; an' dropped 'im clean at the very edge."

"It's a prime pelt, anyway."

"Yaas, 'e was a grand ole buck fur a wally; about the biggest I've got

this season."

"How many skins have you taken, Ike?"

"Two more'n I'd 'ave six dozen."

"Gettin' a good price for 'em?"

"Waal, Jack Croft, 'e offered me nine shillin' a dozen fur 'em. There

are about twenty kangaroos among 'em. Jack reckoned it was a stiff

price, an' 'e sed 'e'd not offer anythin' near it but fur the kangaroo

skins, which 'e 'ad a fancy fur."

"Old Jack can put it on, you know."

"Oh, I know Jack all right! Me an' 'im's 'ad dealin' afore. Jacky's

not too bad, but 'e knows 'ow to draw the long bow. Anyway, ole Eb

Dowse's boat'll be along nex' week. He's sent word ter say as 'e'd do a

deal with me fur 'em."

"Better wait an' see what Eb'll shell out for 'em, Ike, I reckon.

German Harry, up the river, says he can always knock a shillin' a dozen

more out of Eb than Jack."

"I ain't hurryin', Joe."

Just then the welcome supper cooee reached their ears. The boys lost no

time in getting to the supper-table. Joe instinctively eyed the

contents. Cold streaky bacon; a big dish of fried pumpkin and potatoes;

a mountain of home-made bread, sliced; a basin of prime butter; Cape

gooseberry jam galore, and amber-tinted honey in the comb. What more

could any hungry lad desire?

Mary Robinson, a great tease, caught Joe's glance, and said, with an

amused smile, "No pancakes to-night, Joe."

Joe was abashed for the fraction of a second. Quickly rallying, he

laughingly said, "Tell another, Mary, while your mouth's hot."

"Very well, my boy! If you don't believe me ask our black tom-cat. He

chased a mouse into the batter and upset the bowl; so there!"

"Mary, Mary!" remonstrated Mrs. Robinson. "There's only a grain of

truth in the pound of fiction she's giving you, Joe. The cat, it is

true, did chase a mouse; but it did not jump into the batter, nor was

the bowl upset. The pancakes are cooked, with currans in 'em; just the

sort you like; and they're keeping hot by the fire."

"Thanks awfully, Mrs. Robinson; I believe _you_ anyway. As for Mary,

she's like Sandy M'Intyre's old, toothless sheep-dog."

"How's that, Joe?" interjected Ike.

"Bark's worse than her bite."

"My stars! what originality, what refinement! Sandy's razor is not in it

with master Joe Blain for sharpness. I'll remember this, though, the

next time you ask me to go out to the scrub with you for passion fruit.

Anyhow, there's no resemblance between you and Sandy's wonderful

barker."

"_Indeed!_"

"No; your bark's noisy enough, but your bite's a hundred times

worse--especially when pancakes are about."

With this "Roland" Mary ran out to the kitchen to get the teapot.

Joe made a royal repast, topping off with the hot pancakes at a rate

which caused his father to dryly remark: "Too much pancake won't help

the boat along, my boy."

Tea finished, the visitors prepare to continue their voyage. With Ike's

powerful assistance the boat is shoved into the water, and her nose

pointed down-stream. In due time Beacon Point is reached.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*OFF FOR THE HOLIDAYS!*

"Boyhood is the natural time for abundant play and laughter, without

which rarely does high health touch young cheeks with its rose-bloom, or

knit bones strongly for the fighting and the toiling that awaits

them."--JOSEPH H. FLETCHER.

"Now then, Norah, look slippy with breakfast! It's half-past six, an'

Sandy's to be here at seven. Said he'd leave the station at five with

the spare horse for me."

"Begorrah! at the rate breakfast's cookin' it'll be midnight before it's

ready. 'Tis the bastliest wood that niwer was."

"Time the fish was fryin', Norah."

"Fish, bedad! For two pins ye wuddent have anny fish. The thrubble

Oi've had wid thim! Phwat for did youse lave thim in the bag all night?

If ye'd put thim out on the dish, ye spalpeen, Oi'd have seen thim and

claned thim long ba-fore Oi wint to bed. 'Sted of which it's tuk me two

morchial hours to scale the brutes, they was that dry and hard. Be

Saint Pathrick, they scales was loike porky-pine's pricklies!"

"Sorry, Norah; my fault as usual," remarked Joe good-humouredly.

"Father called out to turn the horse from the lucerne just as I reached

the back door. So I threw the bag down on the steps to chase the moke,

an' clean forgot 'em when I came back."

"Well, Oi'll forgive ye wanst more, which makes about a million

tousandth toime; but, moind ye, 'tis----"

"All serene, Norah! Oh, I say, Norry, I'd nearly forgotten it! Paddy

Lacey asked me yesterday to tell you that they want you to go to the

Hibernian picnic on Boxing Day. They've chartered the _Firefly_, an'

are goin' down to the Bar."

"God's truth! 'tis only gammoning me ye are, Masther Joe. It's a young

thrick ye be, indade, with yure Hayburnion picnacs."

"It's as true as true, Norah. No make-up this time. An' oh! I say,

d'you know what Jimmy Flynn tole Tom Hawkins?"

"Nawthin' good, bedad!"

"Ain't it! Well, opinions differ. At any rate he was goin' to set a

line on Friday night, an' as he was roundin' the point he hears

somewheres ahead of him a noise between a smack an' a crack. Then comes

a bit of a squeal, an' a woman's voice sings out: 'Don't, stop it!'

Then there was another smack-crack, an' just as he got round the corner

he sees a couple, for all the world like you and Paddy, sittin' on a

log. No, 'twas Paddy that was on the log, an' you were on Paddy's----"

"Ye loi-in spalpeen! Oi'll pull yure tongue from betune yure teeth,"

screamed Norah, as, blushing furiously, she chased the nimble Joe out of

the kitchen right into the arms of Sandy M'Intyre, as he was coming up

the back doorstep.

"Hello, Sandy!"

"Hello, Joe! What's row inside? Norah givin' you the rounds of the

kitchen as usual, eh?"

"Only jiggin' her about Paddy Lacey, an' got her _paddy_ up a bit.

You're up to time, Sandy, ole man. By jing! I see you've brought Curlew

in. Am I to ride him? My word! it is good of your governor to let me.

I thought you'd a brought the piebald."

"So I intended, but he was limpin' when he was run into the stockyard;

so father says, 'Take Curlew.'"

Curlew was Mr. M'Intyre's favourite horse, and Joe was highly honoured

in being allowed to ride this mettlesome but lovely paced steed.

Just then breakfast appeared. After a substantial meal Joe brought out

his father's valise and strapped it to the saddle.

"All ready, Sandy? Good-bye, mother. Good-bye, father. Good-bye,

girls!"

And so, with kisses and cautions from the family, the boys mounted their

steeds and cantered down the street to the punt, on their way to

Bullaroi, as Mr. M'Intyre's station was called.

Across the river the boys were joined by Tom Hawkins, who was to

accompany them. Tom, who was mounted on a brisk pony, greeted them with

a cheery cry as the punt reached the shore. A jollier trio of young

Australians could not be found than this chattering, capering band, who

on that brilliant morning raced along the bush track.

Plans of fun and frolic were projected during the ride, including

astounding adventures that would have taken half a year to carry out.

In anticipation the lads were already having tip-top fun. Tom's riotous

imagination, especially, made the spoils of the gun, the rod, and the

chase to assume brobdingnagian proportions.

In due course they pulled up at the slip-rails marking the Bullaroi

boundary line. Thence to the white gate seen in the distance, and which

fronted the homestead, a mad race ensued. In this Curlew was first, the

rest nowhere. Indeed, Curlew became so excited by the gallop and the

shrill shoutings of the riders that Joe, who had made no attempt to pull

him till the horse was almost on the gate, found it impossible to stop

his steed, which was full of running. Before the boy fully realised it,

Curlew was soaring through the air, clearing the gate by at least a

couple of feet. Joe, parting from the "pigskin," was sailing through

space on his own account, leaving a foot or two between his sit-down and

the saddle seat.

Joe, though a fair rider, was not a practised steeple-chaser. He was

not a horseman, as were Sandy and Tom, who were to the manner born.

Little wonder, then, that his heart rose with the horse and his rider,

and for some brief moments palpitated furiously in his mouth. That

mysterious and natural law of the universe called gravitation was on

hand, however, and saved the situation.

Curlew's hoofs struck the ground on the descending curve as lightly as a

cat. Joe's legs, which in this aerial flight had assumed the shape of

an inverted V, came plop into the saddle at the right moment. But his

body was thrown forward, his hands clutching frantically at the horse's

neck and mane. In this condition, unable to recover his equilibrium,

with but the loss of his hat, the rider is carried over the intervening

distance to the stables, amid loud laughter from the station people, who

had been attracted by the shouting of the boys.

Sandy cleared the gate in pursuit of Joe, but failed to catch him. Tom

was obliged to haul up and open the gates, as the jump was too high for

his pony. Thus the rider of Curlew came in a winner, and all three

dismounted amid laughter and teasings.

"Weel, Joseph, my lad," said Mr. M'Intyre, who possessed a pawky humour,

"Johnny Gilpin couldna hae done the trick better. You kep' up wi'

Curlew, anyway. I thocht he was goin' to leave ye behind. Ma certie

it's deeficult to say which is the winner, you or the horse. We'll juist

ca' it neck an' neck."

"Take no heed to him, Joe," said Mrs. M'Intyre. She saw through the

lad's apparent good-humour a sense of humiliation at his unhorsemanlike

entry. "You did well to stick to him, not knowing his intention. But

come away in, boys; ye'll be ready for something to eat after that ride.

We're right glad to see you. Sandy was so excited last night at the

prospect of your coming that I am sure he didn't sleep a wink. Why, he

had the horses saddled at dawn, and was off without a bite if I hadn't

stopped him and made him drink a cup of coffee."

The day was a busy one on the station. Every one was engaged in

finishing off jobs and cleaning up. For during Christmas week, and

until after New Year's Day, only that which was absolutely necessary in

the way of work was expected.

During the previous week drafting and mustering had been the all

absorbing work on the run. That finished, and a mob of "fats"

despatched overland to Maitland to catch the Christmas market, the last

few days were occupied in culling "boilers" and in branding calves. On

this particular day all the available hands were engaged in tidying up;

the whitewash bucket being in great request.

Willy and Jacky, the aboriginal boys, together with an Irish

lad,--Norah's brother, in fact,--were enrolled as whitewash artists.

Their special work consisted in converting dingy looking hen-roosts,

dog-kennels, pigsties, milking sheds, and the like into a brilliant

white. Meanwhile two of the men, with rough brooms made of stiff

brushes, were sweeping the ground within a fair radius of the house.

Inside, the housework was prosecuted with great vigour. Two gins were

set to work with the scrubbing brush; while in the kitchen, where Mrs.

Mac and the two elder daughters were domiciled, Christmas cooking went

on apace. There was, indeed, such a weighing of flour and raisins, such

a slicing of candied peel, such a dressing of flesh and fowl as to make

Ah Fat, the cook, fairly amazed, and to wonder how in the name of

Confucius the oven was to stand the cooking strain that was being

brought upon it. While from the kitchen an odoriferous perfume was

wafted across the yard, assaulting all noses, and breeding high

anticipation, most pleasurable from the standpoint of creature comforts.

Mr. M'Intyre, no patron of idleness either in man or boy, took the lads

early in the day into the harness room, and set them to the task of

cleaning the saddle and harness ware. Saddles, girths, bridles, various

sets of light and heavy harness, required attention. All leather was to

be well cleaned and oiled, stirrups and bits to be burnished, and broken

straps to be repaired.

The pals threw themselves, _con amore_, into the work. It was hard to

say which moved the more briskly, tongues or hands. The afternoon was

well advanced before the last piece of steel and electro silver was

polished, the last girth and surcingle refitted, and the whole placed on

their respective brackets. This task finished, the boys felt that they

had earned the promised reward--a glorious swim. Within a couple of

hours of sunset the whole of the outside work was accomplished, and, for

the time being, each employe was a free agent.

The homestead faced a large affluent of the river, which was known as

Crocodile Creek. Why the creek was so named was a sort of a mystery.

No species of the saurian tribe was ever known to infest its waters.

The name may have been given to it through some fancied resemblance in

its course to the aforesaid reptile.

Crocodile Creek formed a fine frontage to Bullaroi run, being distant

from the homestead about a quarter of a mile. Immediately opposite, the

creek widened out into a fine sheet of water some three miles long, and

varying in width from one hundred to one hundred and fifty yards. There

was a particular spot which stood about seven or eight feet above the

water. Here Mr. M'Intyre had a spring-board constructed. The water was

fully twelve feet deep at the jump off, and, added to other advantages,

formed an ideal spot for bathing purposes.

Having finished their allotted tasks, the lads came bounding out of the

harness-room and across the yard to the house, shouting, as they

capered, "Who's for a swim?" The stockmen certainly looked, and no

doubt felt, that the one thing above all others necessary for their ease

and comfort after the stable and the house-yard cleaning operations was

a plunge into the cool, sweet waters of the creek. If they were

semi-black by reason of their employment, it was no less true that the

black boys, Willy and Jacky, were semi-white.

Dennis Kineavy, the Irish lad, was the "broth of a bhoy," and all three

were cram full of impishness. No sooner were the finishing touches of

whitewash decoration given, than Denny, sneaking up behind Willy and

Jacky, who stood off a little from the hen-roost admiring their artistic

handicraft--with capacious brush well charged with the sediment of his

bucket--smote them in quick succession across the bare shoulders and

breech, and then, with an Irish yell, darted round the stable.

Surprised for the moment, but nothing loath, the black boys snatched

their buckets, wielded their brushes, and, shouting their native

war-cry, dashed off in hot pursuit; Denny dodged them successfully for a

while, but was at length outflanked, and then ensued a battle royal

which only ceased when the supplies of ammunition (whitewash) were

exhausted.

It was at the tail-end of the fray that Sandy and his mates came racing

along with the cry of, "Swim O! Swim O!"

Boys and men, black and white, were all ready and willing, nay, eager,

for a jolly bogey.[#] There was a rush by the whites for towels; then,

in quick procession, the motley band made for the water.

[#] "Bogey," native name for bathe.

After a plunge and a short swim to get rid of the dust and muck, an

impromptu carnival was arranged. First of all came the long dive. This

meant a run along the spring-board and a dive straight out. The diver

in each case, when reaching the surface, had to tread water, keeping as

nearly as possible to the spot of emergence.

Tom Hawkins led off, the others followed in order at twenty seconds'

interval. The blacks, by reason of their native abilities in this

direction, were made to do the dive with arms interlocked, Siamese twin

fashion. The darkies were the whippers-in of this diving procession.

Tom, who led off, faltered in his stride when leaving the spring-board.

He rose to the surface at about thirty feet from the bank. Joe, who

followed, dived a good ten feet farther out than Tom. Sandy, however,

when he shot up through the water, was fully fifty feet from the shore.

Both of the stockmen beat Joe, but were behind Sandy.

Then came the blacks, side by side. With an even, measured, and springy

stride they raced down the board, which was wide enough to admit of this

manoeuvre. They took the water without a splash, like a pair of frogs,

leaving scarce a ripple. It was naturally thought that by being coupled

in this way matters would be evened. It was the general opinion that

they would fail to reach Sandy's limit, and probably not get beyond

Joe's. The boys eagerly awaited their reappearance, watching the water

closely for some sign. After what appeared to be an interminable period

they were startled by a double cooee, and, lo! the twins, so to speak,

had risen at least twenty feet beyond Sandy, or seventy feet from the

shore.

Somersault diving followed the long distance trial. In thia Harry the

stockman, who had been a circus rider and acrobat in his youthful days,

outshone all the others.

Then came the exciting game of "catch the devil." Willy was chosen

devil. It was his business to dive off the spring-board and run the

gauntlet, the others being scattered in the water. To catch the

aboriginal seemed a comparatively easy matter, all things considered.

He was, however, a superb swimmer and trickster, diving and dodging like

a cormorant. A dozen times surrounded, he marvellously eluded his

pursuers. The game was at its height, and there was no knowing how long

the "devil" would remain at large, when the station bell rang out a

lusty summons to supper.

This brought the carnival to an instant conclusion. And now each swimmer

scrambled for the shore, and soon the whole company, with clean bodies

and healthy appetites, were hieing along the track. When the boys

reached home they found a new arrival in the person of a young

Englishman. This gentleman was out on a business tour, and, being

anxious to see something of station life, was recommended to Mr.

M'Intyre by a mutual friend. Mrs. M'Intyre's hospitality was proverbial,

and Neville, for such was the "new chum's" name, was heartily made

welcome.

The day had been a long one, and, supper ended, the boys were quite

resigned to go to bed, or at least to the bedroom. The noises

therefrom, after their retirement, were very suggestive of prime larks,

and continued long after lights were out. The pals were domiciled, to

their great delight, in a big spare room, which contained a double bed

and a single one. Joe and Tom shared the former, while Sandy camped on

the latter, which was, indeed, his stretcher brought in for the

occasion.

Silence reigned supreme at length within, and without was broken only by

the hoarse croaking of the frogs, an occasional call from a night owl,

and the weird wail of the curlew.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*CHRISTMAS FUN AND FROLIC*

"It was the time when geese despond

And turkeys make their wills;

The time when Christians to a man

Forgive each other's bills.

It was the time when Christmas glee

The heart of childhood fills."

BRUNTON STEPHENS.

Daylight had barely broken. The only stir in the household is that

produced by Joe, whose slumber had been disturbed by the persistent

crawling of flies across his face.

There are three things in animated nature which run each other very

closely for the supremacy in downright tenacity to purposeful

cussedness. Pig, Hen, Fly--these three! And of the three, the

cussedest and most exasperatingly tenacious to its rooted purpose of

squeezing in between one's eyelids, sinking a well in the corner of

one's eye, or climbing the inside walls of one's nose, is the Australian

species of the common house-fly.

It is possible at times to circumvent the "gintilman wot pays the rint,"

and persuade him to return through the same hole in the fence which gave

him escape, by appearing to be anxious to drive him out on to the plain.

That is pig strategy; or rather, strategy with a pig. He is beaten, so

to speak, by the law of contrairy. When all resources fail in

persuading the hen that the flour-bin, or the linen basket, is not

specially constructed to suit her convenience in the daily duty of egg

producing, one can at the last resort requisition the services of Madame

la Guillotine.

But neither strategy nor tactics, neither force nor fraud, avail

anything when the early fly, with recruited energies and fiendish

intent, starts on her mission of seeking whom and what she may annoy.

She--it is quite safe to put the insect in the feminine gender--can be

neither coaxed, persuaded, shoo'd, deceived, frightened, nor driven from

her prey. The fly always wins--in the end.

Driven from Blanket Bay on this eventful Christinas morning by the

incorrigible fly, Joe proceeded at once to reverse the Golden Rule, and

promptly made war upon his mates on that morning which, of all the days

in the year, makes for peace and goodwill among men.

Tom had sought refuge from the fly in the bed-clothes, and muffled nasal

monotones made a sonorous chorale. On the other hand, Sandy, impervious

to all impious fly assaults, lay on his back, mouth wide open, breathing

heavily and steadily. Sandy was of the pachydermatous order. Neither

mosquito nor fly troubled him. The flies evidently found his eyes to be

a dry patch, while they were unable to obtain a permanent foothold at

his nostrils owing to the intermittent, horse-like snorts which blew

them as from the mouth of a blunderbuss. But they heavily fringed his

mouth, eating with manifest relish their bacilli breakfast.

In a jiffy the bed-clothes are whipped off the slumbering lads, and in

less than no time the latter, pillows in hand, make common cause against

the aggressor. Joe puts up a gallant fight, but the odds are too much

for him; he is driven into a corner at last and unmercifully pelted.

This prelude to the day's enjoyment concluded, the pals jump into their

clothes and proceed to execute the second item on the day's programme,

namely, a horseback scamper through the bush before breakfast.

Oh, the glory of it! Out from the confines of four walls into the open

spaces of the world when night is merging into day; to move in the dawn

of a new day; to stand enwrapped in its pearl-grey mantle ere the

mounting sun has turned its soft shades to rosy brilliance; to inhale

the spicy breeze which, during the night watches, having extracted the

perfumes of the forest flowers, comes heavily freighted o'er gully and

range, and diffuses the sweet odours as the reward of the early riser.

And then--to watch the daily miracle of sunrise!

"See! the dapple-grey coursers of the morn

Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs

And chase it through the sky."

Sandy, on old Rufus, kept for that work, soon rounds-up and yards

several steeds from the horse-paddock. From these three are picked and

saddled; and ere the rising sun has walked "o'er the dew of yon high

eastern hills," the lads are scampering through bush and brake, o'er

dale and hill. They chivy the silent kangaroo through the lush grass;

have a glorious burst after a belated dingo; rouse screaming parrots and

paroquets from their matutinal meal off the honey blossoms of box and

apple trees; pulling up at last on the summit of a dome-shaped, treeless

hill, from whence, with the bloom of the morning still upon it, the

landscape extends in a vast stretch of undulation, broken at irregular

intervals by silver ribbons of creek and river.

Belts of scrub and forest, rich pasturages and arable lands, are dotted

here and there, with minute spots from which rise slender threads of

smoke indicating settlers' houses; while away in the background are the

purple hills and the blue mountains.

Boys are not usually considered to be impressionable creatures on the

aesthetic side of things. Herein we wrong them. They may not

attitudinise, nor spout poetry when under the supreme touches of nature,

for the boy is too natural to be theatrical. But, without doubt, the

morning and evening glories of dear old mother earth do touch their

sense of beauty; and though these impressions may seem to be effaced by

other and more sordid things, nevertheless they linger through the long

years, called up from time to time in sweet association with days that

are no more.

The lads, while they rested their steeds, stood in silent and wondering

gaze, broken at last by Tom, who, pointing across the intervening spaces

to the broadest of the many silver threads, exclaimed, "Tender's

Tareela!" Many miles away, as the crow flies, lay the river village, a

small cluster of dots, a few of which glistened in the sunlight. These

shining spots indicated the "superior" houses that sported corrugated

iron roofs, new in those days. For the most part the "roof-trees" were

shingle or bark.

And now, homeward bound, the horsemen slither down the hillside, plunge

into a pine scrub, to emerge therefrom on the border of a small plain,

and chase a mob of brumbies grazing thereon. They, with snorting

nostrils and waving manes, headed by a notorious grey stallion--of whom

more anon--dash up a ravine into the fastnesses of the scrub, and,

though followed some distance by the reckless riders, vanish from sight

with a celerity possible only to wild bush-horses.

Skirting now the banks of the Crocodile, they disturb flocks of teal,

widgeon, water-hen, and other aquatic birds. At length they give a view

halloo, for the old homestead is in sight. This scares a flock of

cockatoos that are camping in the river gums, after an early morning's

poaching expedition to the adjacent maize-fields, and brings out the

station dogs with a babble of barking, as they pound up the track with a

final spurt.

"Breakfast ready, Ah Fat?" sings out Sandy, as the boys come rushing

into the kitchen from the stables.

"Leddy? Tes, allee globble upee! Missee say no kleep anyling for bad

boy. Lockee allee glub." Ah Fat's twinkling, humorous eyes redeemed

his hatchet face and stolid countenance.

"It's all right, fellows. He's only pokin' borak at us," said Sandy,

giving the Celestial a familiar slap. "Come along, I'm as hungry as a

hunter. They've only started, I know."

The family were seated, heads were bent, and Mr. M'Intyre was saying the

long Scotch grace, when the boys burst into the room with a fine

clatter. The rude intrusion brought a severe remonstrance from that

gentleman when the exercise was concluded. Mrs. M'Intyre--always ready

to defend the boys and to champion them, to condone their faults and to

extol their virtues, in which she was wise or otherwise, as the reader

may decide--broke in with a Christmas greeting. For a minute there was a

fusillade of "Merry Christmas to you and many of them!"

"Now, boys, take your seats before breakfast's cold."

On proceeding to their places the boys stood stock still, for there,

resting against their respective chairs, stood three brand-new,

double-barrel shot-guns.

"Weel, bairns!" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre, with quiet amusement, surveying

the amazed boys as they gazed at the weapons. "What are ye frichtened

at? Is it snakes y're lukin' upon? Why dinna ye sit doon to yure

food?"

"Oh, father! mother!" cried Sandy at last, picking up his gun, pleasure

beaming from his face. "This is what Harry meant when he said last

night he'd brought out a parcel from the town that'd come by steamer."

Then with a rush, Joe and Tom at his heels, he danced round the abashed

Scotchman, and gave him a hug, repeating the dose with interest on Mrs.

M'Intyre. It was hard for the boys to settle down to breakfast and

dislodge their eyes from the weapons. What their souls coveted most was

a gun. The clamant claims of hunger, however, are not to be

disregarded; so, stacking their guns in a corner, the boys did ample

justice to a generous meal.

"Did you have a pleasant ride this morning, boys?" inquired Mrs.

M'Intyre. "You've not been out on the run before, Tom, have you?"

"No, ma'am. We'd a good time, though!"

"How far did you go, Sandy?"

"To the top of Bald Hummock, mother."

"Splendid view from the top, is it not, Joe?"

"Not bad, Mrs. M'Intyre."

"That's a negative descreeption o' ane o' the graundest sichts the hale

deestric' can boast," said Mr. M'Intyre, with emphasis.

Joe became conscious of the banality.

"An' why did ye no' tak' Mr. Neville wi' you, boys? Ye did wrang no' to

invite him to ride wi' you. I think ye owe him an apologee, Saundy."

"I'm very sorry," said the lad, turning in some confusion to Mr.

Neville. "If I'd thought----"

"Oh, I shouldn't have dreamed of going out at such an early hour, my

lad," replied Neville loftily. He had a somewhat affected accent and a

superior air. "I nevvah exert myself before breakfast. Besides, I am

not sure that I should find a safe escort in a parcel

of--er--schoolboys. With the young ladies, now," he continued, fixing

his monocle and bestowing a patronising stare upon Sandy's sisters,

Maggie and Jessie, "I--I--should be delighted to go for a bush ride, as

I think these equestrian expeditions are called in Awestralia, in the

cool of the afternoon."

"We don't call them even bush rides out here, Mr. Neville," answered

Jessie saucily. She resented patronage. "We call 'em spins. Boys, I

vote we all go for a spin this afternoon. Let's ride as far as Ben

Bolt's cave. It'll be something interesting to show Mr. Neville. Ben

Bolt's a famous bushranger hereabouts, you know, and the cave is a

favourite rendezvous for his gang, as well as a safe hiding-place. At

least, it was so until a few months ago, when the police and black

trackers discovered it, and nearly nabbed him. Fancy having a

bushranger's camp on the Bullaroi boundary! But Ben never uses it now.

So let's ride out to it. Are you game, boys?"

"Game!" snorted Sandy. "What's to be game about? The main thing is,

will Mr. Neville care for an eighteen-mile spin? If not, we could go

for a short ride down the Crocodile."

"Please don't question my ability, boy!" retorted the new chum, who

resented the implication contained in Sandy's remark. "I find,"

continued he, addressing his host, "you good people out heah seem to

think that Awestralia is the only place where horseback riding is

indulged in----"

"We ride steers also, an' billies too," slyly interjected Joe, with a

wink at the girls.

"And we read that they ride donkeys and--er--hobby-horses in England,"

chipped in Jessie, whose eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Good for you, ole Jess! Let 'em bring out their English fox-hunters

an' steeple-chasers that they brag so much about, and we'll give 'em a

dingo run, or a go at cutting out scrubbers,[#] an' see how they'd be

with their pretty coats an' breeches, at the tail of the hunt!"

[#] Wild, unbranded cattle, frequenting scrub country,

"Are ye addressing the English nation or oor guest, Saundy?"

M'Intyre could be caustic when he willed. He had no liking for

Australian blow, and hit at it as he would hit at a snake, whenever

occasion arose. He now turned the laugh against his son, Jess laughing

loudest of all.

"It's settled, then, that we ride out to the cave this afternoon?" said

Maggie, with an inquiring eye on Neville.

"I'm shore 'twill be a pleasant jaunt, Miss M'Intyre," replied the

Englishman. "I shall have pleasure in acting as your escort. But

this--er--famous--er--notorious--er--highwayman, is it--er--safe? I

mean--er--I'm thinking of the--er--ladies, you know."

"What's to be afraid of?" quoth Jessie. To her, risk meant spice, an

added zest. Her whole heart went out to the life of the open air and

the pleasures of the chase. Her greatest delight was in a mad scamper

through the bush behind the dogs, in the kangaroo hunt.

"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Neville; Mag and I'll protect you should

the--er--famous--notorious--bushranger--highwayman turn up," went on the

audacious minx. "I'd dearly love to see Ben Bolt. I think he's a lot

better than many who run him down. Oh my! wouldn't it be fun if we

surprised him in the cave? I'd----"

"Stop, Jess; cease your blether!" said Mr. M'Intyre sternly. "The mon

may no' be as black as he's pented, but he's no' an honest mon.

Misguided he may be to an extent, and no' a'thegither answerable for

some of the steps in his doonward career, but a creeminal for a' that,

whom the country were weel rid o'. But as for the reesk, there's na

reesk in ridin' to the cave. The Sub-Inspector telt me a few days ago

that Ben Bolt's gone o'er the border. News is to hand to the effect

that he stuck up a Chinaman on the Brisbane road. So the cave's safe

enough."

"That's settled, then," broke in Maggie. "If we leave here about four

o'clock 'twill be early enough, and will give us plenty of time to get

back by dark."

"Maidie, my pet," said Mrs. M'Intyre to her little three-year-old, a

dainty, precocious miss, "what are you staring at? It's rude to stare

at any one like that."

"Oh, muzzer!" exclaimed the child, turning her bright eyes mother-wards

for a moment and then fixing them with a fascinated gaze upon the

Englishman.

"What is it that interests you, little girl?" remarked Neville in a

patronising tone. "Is it the colour of my tie?"

Maidie shook her curly head, and, without removing her eyes from Mr.

Neville's face, leaned towards Jessie, who sat next to her, and

whispered, "The genkilmun's got somesin' on his fevvers."

Suspended from the tip of one of Neville's incipient moustaches was a

yellow string of egg-yolk. Jess had observed this for some time, with a

tendency to hilarity whenever it caught her eye. Maidie's comical

description added fuel to the fire of the girl's merriment, sending her

into convulsive laughter. She answered looks of interrogation by

pointing to the dangling egg thread, and saying as well as circumstances

permitted, "Maidie says--ha--ha--ha!--that Mr. Fevv--he--he--he!--Mr.

Neville's got egg on his--fev--feathers." This explanatory and

ludicrous mixture created a general explosion among the young folk. The

situation, however, was promptly ended by Mrs. M'Intyre, who discreetly

rose on seeing that the guest did not join in the general laugh.

There was nothing much for the men-folk to do; but the boys were burning

to try their new fowling-pieces, The squatter, seeing their intent,

directed them to use their skill on the cockatoos and king parrots that

were devastating the maize crop.

These birds, especially the former, proved wily customers, so that not

many opportunities offered for testing the guns. Enough was done,

though, to prove that the guns were no "slouches," and great things were

predicted when the lads should "know" their respective weapons.

"Whatyer think of the new chum, Joe?" said Sandy to Blain, as they sat

on a log under a low-spreading wattle tree, on the look out for a flying

shot.

"Goes thirteen to the dozen, ole man, don't he? Knows a lot more'n us,

he reckons, and can't help showin' it."

"Yes, he can't stand us chaps at no price. By George! Jess's got his

measure, and Mag too, for that matter. They'll take his nibs down a peg

or two before he goes, I bet tuppence."

"Little Maidie fitted him all right," chipped in Tom.

"Fevvers--ha--ha!--yes, goose feathers."

It was evident that the visitor was not in favour with the young people.

He had struck a false note. No one can be quicker than boys to detect

superciliousness and to resent it. The patronising air is to them the

unforgivable sin. Henceforth Neville went by the name of "Fevvers"

among the boys, to the great amusement of the girls, who, unfortunately

for the Englishman, had assigned him a place in prig-dom.

Neville, it must be confessed, was a bit of a prig; but at heart he was

not at all a bad fellow, and there came a time not far ahead when

respect supplanted contempt in the pals, and the ridiculous nickname was

dropped; while he on his part discontinued the use of the irritating

comparison, "the way we do things in England," which at the beginning he

was for ever introducing.

The household was enjoying a siesta after the typical Christmas dinner

which was partaken of at midday. Stillness reigned within the house,

save the cracking of house timbers under the influence of the heat.

This seductive calm and the sweet sleep of the girls was at length

rudely broken by Sandy, who in the exercise of a brother's privilege

shook the door violently as he shouted, "Now then, lazies, get up and

dress! It's half-past three."

"Bother you, Sandy, you _are_ a nuisance!" sleepily complained Jessie.

"I--I--was having _such_ a lovely dream. Neptune was just on the heels

of a blue flyer,[#] and I was galloping alongside him. The chase led us

to Blind-fall Gully, and we three took the jump together, and were

almost landed on the other side when you thumped the door. I thought at

first it was the thud of Kangie's tail, but no! there she was flying

through----"

[#] Maiden kangaroo, a very fast runner.

"That comes of eating too much plum-duff an' mince-pie, my girl. But I

say, you two, look slippy, or you'll be too late. I told Jacky to

saddle Nigger for you, Jess. What'll you take, Mag? Rainbow or Sultan?

They're both up."

"Don't care, Sandy. I'll take Sultan, I think. No, I'll take Rainbow.

Wait a moment, p'r'aps----"

"Oh! stop your silly nonsense. I'll put the saddle on Sultan," shouted

the impatient boy, as he made off through the house to the stockyard.

"Say, Sandy!" cried out Jess, who was now wide awake. "Have you roused

Mr.--er--Fevvers yet?"

"'Ssh! mother'll hear you," exclaimed the boy warningly, as he returned

to the door. "He didn't have a snooze. Says it's unbusinesslike to

sleep in the daytime. Says they never do that in England. England be

blowed, say I. An' whatyer think? Harry offered him the loan of his

leggin's, but he wouldn't have 'em. Says they smell of the stockyard,

ha--ha! Says they don't wear 'em in England. Listen! He's got on a

pair of white duck britches, an' my crikey! they won't be white any

longer. He asked Harry for his fourteen-foot stockwhip. Says he was

told an 'Awestralian' horse would never budge without one. Only dad was

there I'd 'a' put his saddle on Dick Swiveller, an' by jing! we'd 'a'

had some sport. We'll knock fun out of him as it is, I reckon. But look

alive, girls, or y'll be left behind."

*CHAPTER XV*

*A BUSH RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES*

"Then hey for boot and horse, lad!

And round the world away;

Young blood will have its course, lad!

And every dog his day."

KINGSLEY.

The weather in Australia at Christmas is not ideal for riding parties.

Midsummer heat and dust, together with hordes of flies, largely

countervail the delights of the saddle.

The enthusiastic party that cantered along the tracks leading from the

Bullaroi homestead on this particular Christmas, with one exception,

made small bones about either dust or heat. Neville, however, was

irritated by the dust which the horses' feet knocked up. Nor would he

seek alleviation as did the others by leaving the track at every

opportunity. The victim of prejudice and conventionality, expressed in

terms of cussedness, he obstinately stuck to the dusty track. The boys

and Jessie frisked here and there, making short cuts, jumping gullies

and logs, and generally enjoying themselves. They raised, it is true,

clouds of dust, to the annoyance of the new chum, as they pounded along

the track on their return to the others, after having forged ahead some

distance; behaving, in short, like gambolling dogs. Mag would have

dearly loved the frolic, but hospitality's demands made it imperative

that she--the eldest--should partner the guest.

Neville was no rider. His knowledge of the ways of the horse was of the

most elementary kind. Had he had the common sense to have admitted that

palpable fact, many of his painful experiences, and indeed tortures,

would have been minimised, if not altogether avoided.

Like all inexperienced riders, he responded to every movement of the

horse. He had no sense of balance. He held the reins shoulder high, and

was for ever jerking them. When his body was not stiffly straight it

inclined forward. The inevitable result was made abundantly manifest in

chafed limbs and aching bones. With Neville, as with most new-chum

riders, the trousers legs _would_ work up from the bottom, displaying a

section of calf, to the great amusement of the boys, who baa'd most

vehemently at such times.

This, however, must be reckoned for grace in Neville: he made no

complaint, nor admitted any discomfort. He was forward in his

criticisms of the boys' style of riding: their seats were un-English and

cowboy.

No greater contrast between the riders could well be imagined than that

which the new chum and the pals presented. Theirs was to the manner

born, to be confounded neither with cowboy nor military. While there is

an utter absence of stiffness in the Australian style, there is at the

same time nothing bordering on the truculent as affected by the cowboy.

The movements are willowy and rhythmic. Horse and man are one and

indivisible. This means to both the minimum of work with the maximum of

ease.

How far removed from this attainment was poor Neville! His figure was

of the ramrod pattern for the first few miles--ultra military, so to

speak. His feet, well through the stirrups, inclined outwards at a

sharp angle; his left arm, held at right angle as rigid as a semaphore,

gripped the reins; while his right clutched the stockwhip with tenacious

grasp. The steed, a fair pacer in experienced hands, in his became a

veritable jogger. He rose and fell in springless fashion with every

motion of the horse.

It was not in Neville's power to maintain that iron rigidity, and so he

gradually inclined forward. His back became bowed, and his nose at

times was in imminent danger of the horse's head. His arms, too, hung

listlessly at either side, until at last his appearance resembled

nothing so much as a doubled-up Guy Fawkes perched on a rail. Yet his

dogged spirit, essentially British, half courage, half cussedness, bore

him up.

Nearing the caves, the party, with the exception of Neville and his

companion, raced ahead, and by the time that the latter arrived were

cooling off beneath the shade of some coolibahs.

And now disaster of such a character as to shake from him the last

remains of superiority and propriety, overwhelming him in the depths of

humiliation, overtook poor Neville. These mortifying results were

brought about by his attempted gallantry.

The selected camp, as related, was beneath the grateful shade of a

cluster of coolibah[#] trees that grew on the banks of a mountain

stream, close to the mouth of the caves. Seeing that Maggie was about

to dismount unassisted, the youth exclaimed in eager tones, "Wait a

moment, Miss M'Intyre!" and so saying, threw himself from his horse in

order to do the gallant by helping his companion down, "as they do in

England."

[#] Water gum trees.

Sad to say, however, so cramped and stiff were his limbs, especially his

nether extremities, that the instant he touched ground his legs doubled

in a powerless condition, and he fell prone to the earth.

Unfortunately, the ground at the spot where he tumbled down began to

slope towards the creek. In his frantic efforts to rise quickly to his

feet he overbalanced himself, and began to roll down the incline. He

saved himself for a second, and the impending disaster might have been

averted but for the confounded stockwhip, which led to his undoing in a

most effectual way. This weapon, which he still held in his clenched

right hand, got entangled with his legs by some means, lasso fashion,

bringing him smartly to the ground again in a fresh attempt to rise.

The sloping bank at this point became almost precipitous: with a rapid

turn over-and-over, he rolled down the steep gradient, crashed through

an undergrowth of bushes and bracken that fringed the perpendicular bank

of the creek, and shot out into its clear, deep waters.

This unrehearsed performance, taking less time to act than to relate,

brought a powerful shriek from Maggie, who, arrested in her intention to

dismount unaided by Neville's proffered aid, beheld from her horse the

undignified collapse of her escort, with its quickly succeeding acts of

comedy and tragedy.

The others, who were witnesses of this performance, hugely enjoyed it,

giving a loud hurrah as the new chum splashed into the creek. There was

one exception. Sandy, who was on his way to the creek with the billy

can, and who realised in a moment that the discomfited Englishman had

fallen into a deep pool,--the very spot where he had often fished for

big perch,--threw away the billy and rushed to the spot where the

unfortunate man had fallen in. Only that day had Neville declared that

"my water exercises have been confined to the house bath."

Beyond the agitated surface there were no signs of their visitor in the

water. Without pause, the lad took a header to the bottom, which was at

least ten feet from the top, discerned the sunken man kicking and

clawing, hauled him to the surface, and towed him to the bank. Here

willing hands were ready to grip the victim of this misadventure and

pull him to land.

As soon as he was dragged to safety, the cause of his abject

helplessness in the water was revealed. The stockwhip had so encircled

his legs as to prevent the free use of them, besides which the shock of

the whole accident had to an extent numbed his senses.

In sooth he was a sorry sight as he lay on the turf. The immersion did

not cover more than half a minute; it was long enough, though, to take

him to the verge of unconsciousness and to fill his lungs and stomach

with water. The boys speedily unwound the whip, and subjected Neville

to some rough but wholesome treatment, during which process the water

was rapidly ejected from his interior regions.

The girls, as soon as Neville was landed, discreetly withdrew.

Merriment had dissolved into pity.

"Poor Mr. Neville! I'm _so_ sorry. Isn't it a shame, Mag?"

"Seems like a dream; it all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. I'm

afraid father'll be very angry about it. The poor fellow was going to be

so gallant, too. 'Permit me to assist you,' he said, and the next

moment----"

Here the whole scene comes up so vividly and comically that, strive as

she may, Maggie cannot withhold laughter of a somewhat hysterical kind.

And so, between laughter and tears, the two girls superintended the

billy-boiling and tea-making business.

Meanwhile the lads, stripping Neville under the lee of the bank, wrung

his clothes, and then re-dressed him, bringing him up to the fire little

the worse for his cold douche. The girls quickly recognised the finer

qualities of Neville's character, which broke through the crust of his

artificiality in the hour of adversity.

"I'm very sorry to have caused this trouble, Miss M'Intyre. No one's to

blame but myself. Your brother and his mates have been exceedingly kind

to me. Indeed, I owe a debt to your brother that I can never repay, for

without doubt he saved my life. I was utterly helpless with that

wretched whip curled around me."

Indeed, it was true. The accident might easily have had a fatal

termination, and the thought of it (for all that Neville cut such a

grotesque figure in his shrunken clothes) drove the last remains of

latent hilarity away. Maggie assured the forlorn-looking youth that no

thanks were due to any one; that all deplored the accident, and were

thankful that the finale inclined rather to the comic than the tragic.

"Take this pannikin of hot tea, Mr. Neville. Father says that whisky's

not in it with tea for recruiting one's jaded energies."

As there was no need for starting on the return ride awhile, the three

boys, leaving the girls and Neville at the camp, proceeded to the caves.

The caves, three in number, were connected with one another by narrow

entrances. The outermost one had an inlet through a narrow crevice.

This opening was concealed from the casual eye by a sentinel-like

boulder which stood directly opposite, and about eighteen inches in

advance of the wall of rock. It was a squeeze for any one above the

average size to get through.

Before its occupation by the bushrangers the outer cave, by evident

signs, formed a favourite wallaby haunt. These had been disturbed and

hunted by the bushrangers, who from time to time, according to police

report, used it as a hiding-place. They had often lain there when the

district was filled with troopers. On one occasion, as was afterwards

known, Ben Bolt and his mate, a youth of eighteen years, lay concealed

for weeks. The boy had been badly wounded in the thigh during a brush

with the police in the New England ranges. Ben Bolt, who was

passionately attached to him, by incredible labour and consummate

skill--for the pursuing police were on their tracks all the

time--brought his wounded mate to the caves in order that he might lie

in safety until his sores were healed.

Sandy was the only one of the lads who knew anything about the caves.

In company with his father he had visited them a few weeks previously.

He therefore acted as a guide to the party.

The fissure, a mere crack in the limestone rock, extended in tortuous

fashion for some distance. Lengthening out and making a curve, it

suddenly broadened into a chamber of respectable dimensions. At the

entrance of the crevice Sandy had lit a candle, one being sufficient for

the cramped passage. Before entering the cave proper, all three candles

brought for that purpose were lit.

The cave was bat-inhabited. Large numbers of these uncanny creatures,

which were clinging to the roof and sides, disturbed and dazzled by the

light, flew about in aimless fashion, often striking the boys in their

uncertain flight. Numbers of them fastened on to their clothes and

limbs with their claw-like pinions.

Joe and Tom, to whom this was a new experience, were uneasy and a good

bit scared. Their nervousness increased when the fluttering nocturnals

more than once extinguished the lights.

"You must do as I do, boys!" sang out Sandy, who was in advance, as they

walked cautiously over the uneven and stone-littered floor. Sandy had

removed his hat and held it over the candle. This, while it darkened

all above, gave ample light on the floor space, and protected the candle

from the nocturnals. The others thereupon followed suit, and soon

reached the opening on the opposite side that led to the second chamber.

This narrow passage made a stiff ascent for some yards, inclining to the

left, and then extending like a funnel. Sandy was proceeding very

cautiously, for the opening into the interior cave was made at about ten

feet from its floor. A rough ladder of lawyer vines hung from the

opening in the wall to the basement. Down this the boys speedily

slipped, and found themselves in a dome-like space, bigger by far than

any room, barn, or church that they had seen. The atmosphere was very

chill, and the continual drip of falling water made a monotonous sound.

A narrow, clear stream of running water flowed along one side,

disappearing in a floor crack near the far corner.

Contrary to what one would have expected, the lime crystals were few,

and for the most part small; not to be mentioned in the same breath with

the matchless statuary of the far-famed Jenolan Caves. On the ground,

however, were some interesting stalagmites, whose grotesque figures

highly amused the boys. At the first sight, though, a fearsome feeling

possessed them. They were children of the sun, and this new and cryptic

experience in the cold, dark, vaulted chamber quickened their pulses and

shortened their breaths.

Everything seemed to have a ghostly appearance to the pals. It was a

fitting abode for spectral creatures, and they had a feeling that at any

moment such might appear. This sensation, however, was of short

duration. A few minutes' familiarity with their surroundings dissipated

it, and the lads moved freely in their investigations.

"Didn't you say there was another cave adjoining this, Sandy?"

"Yes, I'll show it to you in a few minutes."

While the question was being asked and answered, Sandy was peering into

a crevice immediately behind a huge stalagmite, and in a dark corner of

the cave.

"This looks as if it might open out somewhere, but the opening's jammed

with a big limestone boulder."

"Let's have a pull at it," said Tom, as he leaned forward to take hold

of a projecting point.

"No go, Tom. Look at its weight! See how tightly it's wedged! You'll

never budge that. It'll need a crowbar to shift it. Come along, boys,

and we'll take a peep at the other cave, just to say we've seen it; then

we must make tracks back."

Sandy, however, bore in mind this sealed chamber which was destined

later to yield important and far-reaching results. He made for a low,

narrow aperture in the wall, at a far corner, which opened directly into

a vault-like ceil--a small bedroom or pantry, as the case might be.

"Here's where the rangers camped," said Sandy, when the boys had

struggled through. "Here's their beds, an' there's where they had their

fire."

A couple of sheets of stringy-bark, placed stretcher-fashion on crossed

sapling frames, formed the sleeping-bunks of the outlaws. On these were

placed a quantity of bracken which made a comfortable resting-place for

men who more often than not slept upon the ground.

"I say, Sandy," remarked Joe, after standing a moment in deep thought,

"this is an all-right place for hidin' in, but where'd they keep the

mokes? That's what beats me."

"It beats more'n you. It beats father. It beats the police. Yes, they

can't get a clue. Must have had the horses handy, too; for when the

police got into the cave the time they tracked 'em here, the rangers

couldn't have been gone more'n a few minutes, 'cause a fire was still

burning in Ben Bolt's room, as they call it. The bobbies have searched

inside and outside and all over the ridge for another opening, but can't

find it."

"They've clean bunged the p'lice, the cute beggars!" exclaimed Tom, with

a grin. "Wonder if they'll ever come back again. Ole Ben's a game un.

They say he wears a reversible suit of different colours. An' sometimes

he straps up a leg an' fastens a wooden peg on it an' stumps along, led

by a dog on a string like a blind beggar."

"He's always bluffin' the police, anyway," said Joe. "The Sub-Inspector

was at our place about a month ago, telling father how he an' the others

were fooled not so long ago."

"Tell us, Joe."

"Well, 'twas like this. A bushman on a piebald horse rode up to the

police camp out Kean's swamp way, bearing a note from Sub-Inspector

Garvie, ordering them to cross the ranges an' get into Walcha secretly,

as he possessed reliable information to the effect that Ben Bolt

intended to stick up the bank two days later.

"It appears this same man called at the Sub's quarters earlier in the

day, who was laid up with a sprained leg. This chap told how he'd been

in Ben Bolt's company two nights previously. The ranger and his

mate--the same boy as was wounded--came upon him as he lay by his fire

in the evening, and asked permission to camp alongside. They pretended

to be stockmen in search of strayed heifers, and made out that they had

come across their tracks just at nightfall. As it was a goodish way to

the station, they would be glad to sleep by his fire and get after the

cattle at dawn.

"The man said that as soon as he spotted 'em he knew 'em, but he was too

frightened to let on. He gave 'em some grub, an' then lay down in his

blanket. As soon as they had scoffed the prog they lay down too, on the

off side of the fire.

"The man didn't go to sleep, though he pretended to. By an' by the two

men began to talk in low tones. He could hear 'em, though, pretty well,

and found out that they were goin' to stick up the Walcha bank. The

date they named was four days from that night. Although the chap lay as

if he were dead he didn't sleep a wink. Just before daylight the coves

saddled their horses, which had been short-hobbled, and singing out,

'So-long,' they galloped off.

"'And what prompted you to bring this information?' said the Sub.

"'Well, if you cop the rangers,' he answered, 'I shall expect something

substantial for supplying these particulars.'

"'As for that, you'll get your share. And now you can do something

further that'll help you in the matter of reward. Take this note to

Sergeant Henessey, who is camping with four police and a tracker in the

foothills, at the head of Kean's swamp.'

"The Sub-Inspector, who had hastily written a note of instruction to the

Sergeant, handed it to the man, who said his name was Sam Kelly. Sam

promised to deliver it by daybreak; which he did. As soon as the

Sergeant read it, he roused up the men, and after a hasty meal it was

'Saddle up.' A few minutes later the troopers were on their way to cop

the rangers. Now listen: that very day, towards evening, the Port

Macquarie mail was stuck up!"

"My eye!" said Sandy, "weren't the p'lice sold! Fancy ole Ben goin'

into the lion's den with his information an' then takin' the letter out

to the camp, an' none of 'em cute enough to twig 'im! He's a downy cove

is Ben. Ain't he, Joe?"

"They say," concluded Joe, "that the piebald he rode was his favourite

horse, the blood-bay he calls Samson."

"But how was it he turned him piebald?"

"_Painted patches of pipeclay on him!_"

"Now, then," exclaimed Sandy, pulling out his watch, "we've only a few

minutes left, an' we mustn't be late, as Mr. Neville won't be able to

ride fast."

"Poor old Fevvers!" exclaimed Tom reminiscently. "This hasn't been much

of a treat for him."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE DINGO RAID*

"What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick,

And your eager eyeballs glisten.

'Tis the wild dog's note, in the tea-tree thick,

By the river to which you listen.

* * * * *

Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best;

In this world there's room enough

For him and you and me and the rest,

And the country is awful rough."

ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.

"Here's a fine how-d'ye-do!" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre wrathfully, as he

strode into the house, one hot morning shortly after the events recorded

in the previous chapter. "Why sic rubbish were ever created passes

understanding!"

The irate squatter, contrary to his usual habit, clattered through the

hall and out on to the front verandah, slamming the door most vigorously

as he made his exit.

"Whatever's stung dad this morning, Jess?" remarked Maggie to her

sister, as their excited parent made his noisy intrusion.

"Something bad, you may be sure, to cause dad to parade in that fashion.

I expect the blacks have been performing. They madden father at times

by their 'want o' intellect,' as he calls it."

"I'll--I'll cut the livers out o' them, the sneakin' hounds! Rot 'em,

I'll pizen every faither's son o' the dirty vermin!"

"Oh, father!" cried Jessie, "you surely are not going to poison the poor

things?"

"Pizen 'em, that am I! Pizen's ower guid for them, thieving brutes that

they are! 'Puir things,' as you ca' the wretches," continued he

sarcastically, "I'll hae the life o' the hale o' them, if it tak's a'

the pizen in Tareela!" barked the exasperated man.

"Then you're no father of mine!" blazed out Jessie. "What have the poor

boys done that you should threaten such dreadful----"

"W-h-a-t!"

"Why, poor Willy and Jacky: what have they done that you should----"

"What on earth is the lassie haverin' aboot?" roared Mr. M'Intyre to

Maggie.

"The blacks, father. Didn't you say that you were going to poison them?

But I don't believe it for a----"

"The blacks! Wha's talkin' o' blacks? It's the reds, the blessed

dingoes, wha've been playin' havoc wi' the calves. The blacks? Ma

certie!" continued he, as the humour of the situation seized him,

forcing a smile. Turning to his daughter, he exclaimed, "Ye're a fine

bairn, I maun say, to be accusin' yer ain faither o' _black_ murder!"

"Forgive me, dad!" cried the impulsive girl, as she threw her arms round

his neck; "I never thought of the dingoes. I--I--I made sure the black

boys had been up to tricks, and never dreamed----"

"There, there, that's enough, my lassie! It's a case of

'misunderconstumbling,' as Denny Kineavy would say. But it's enough to

make ane feel wild and gingery. Eleeven fine yearlin's killed! It's

the wantonness mair than the actual loss that vexes me: though the

latter is bad enough, for some o' the best, of course, are sacrificeed

to their slaughterin' instincts."

That evening, in conference with his chief stockman, Mr. M'Intyre laid

his plans for the extermination of the pack of dingoes which had just

given an exhibition of their destructive powers. In this particular

instance the brutes had driven a number of yearling calves, weaners,

into a blind gully. Having boxed them up in this _cul de sac_, the

rapacious dogs found them an easy prey.

The Australian wild dog is a combination of several very excellent

qualities--from the canine standpoint, that is. He possesses more

sagacity than any other wild thing of the bush. Keen of sight, quick at

scent, subtle of wit, noiseless in tread and bark, tenacious to rooted

purpose, he pursues and stalks his quarry, whether bird or beast, with

all the odds in his favour.

There he stands, this indigenous dog, with a great, broad forehead, his

eyes narrowing in sinister expression; well set in body, showing big

sinews and a good muscular development; strong jaws, with teeth like

ivory needles; white in paw and tail-tip, bright yellow everywhere else,

save the chocolate-coloured streak running along the spine from neck to

tail. There he stands: but that is a figure of speech, for a more

restless animal than this same dog does not exist.

Australian cattle-dogs have a world reputation, and the very best are

they which by crossing inherit a strain of dingo nature. That which

makes the dingo so hated by stock owners--who pursue him

relentlessly--is the killing lust which possesses him. Were he to

simply kill for food, and be satisfied with a victim that would furnish

enough for present needs, settlers would be far more tolerant of him.

The plain truth about him is that his predatory instinct is so strong as

to practically intoxicate him. The sight of a flock of sheep or a bunch

of calves makes him "see red," and then he simply runs amok. One

snap--he does not bite in the ordinary sense--of his steel-like jaws is

enough. The mouthful of flesh and muscle is torn out in an instant, and

the victim invariably dies of shock. One dingo in a sheepfold will kill

fifty sheep in a few minutes.

These dogs are more troublesome in bad than in good seasons. When the

cattle get low in condition and weak, they become a comparatively easy

prey, then the cunning of the dingoes becomes manifest. They will

select their victim and drive it towards a water-hole or swamp. In dry

times these are mere puddles and exceedingly boggy. The object of the

canine drovers is to reduce the bullock to helplessness by bogging it.

The drive will sometimes take hours, and no experienced drover could do

the work more cleverly. Finally, when their quarry is down in the mire

and practically helpless, he is tackled and bitten to death. In good

seasons, when the cattle are strong, Mr. Dingo, save for an occasional

foray on the calves, has to content himself with his natural

diet--kangaroos, 'possums, and emus.

Fortunately, there was at the station at this time an eccentric bushman

who combined the work of horse-breaking and dingo-trapping. Nosey

George was reputed to have a sense of smell equal to that of the dingo

itself. Certainly, his slouching gait made it often appear as if he were

"nosing" the tracks of the game. But in truth he owed his prowess as a

trapper to a pair of eyes that knew no dimness. At first sight of

Nosey, one saw nothing but his nose. But when you noticed his eyes you

forgot the nose, and lived in the presence of a pair of eyes that

sparkled like diamonds, or as searchlights that permitted nothing to

escape their scrutiny.

Nosey's feats of tracking were really marvellous. On one occasion he

got on to the trail of a dingo bitch which had raided his hen-roost, and

followed it for twelve miles, mostly through scrubby and rocky country

that was criss-crossed with innumerable tracks of bush vermin. For all

that, this human sleuth-hound tracked Mrs. Dingo to a cave in the

mountains where she had five pups, and returned with six scalps.

The dingo trapper rode out early the next morning in company with Harry

the stockman and the boys to the scene of the slaughter, there to devise

means, for which he had received _carte blanche_ from Mr. M'Intyre, for

the capture of the raiders.

The weaners' paddock was about three miles from the house, and had an

area of five thousand acres. Most of the enclosure consisted of plain,

but a corner of it contained a belt of scrub; and it was in this corner,

where the weaners camped for warmth in the night-time, that the drive

and slaughter had been made. The beasts, most of them, lay huddled,

showing evidence of mangling; others had struggled out of the gully into

the scrub. After gazing awhile at the slain, Tom Hawkins broke the

silence--

"I say, Nosey, ain't this a go? Poor brutes!"

"Here, you kid," cried the trapper, turning sharply on Tom, "who gave

you leave to call me names? Like yer blessed cheek! How'd yer like me

ter call yer monkey-face? If yer had a decent nose, I'd tweak it fer

yer."

Nosey, who was very sensitive on this question of nickname, and had had

many a fight over the same, made such a menacing move towards Tom that

the lad shrank back in fear.

"That'll do, George," said Sandy. "Leave the boy alone. He didn't mean

anything. It's what everybody calls you."

"I'm not goin' to let brats of boys miscall me, anyhow. Don't know why

the boss sent you blokes, for all the good y'are!" growled the grumpy,

cross-grained, but not really bad-hearted old man. "Youse better be

keepin' quiet, anyways, till me an' Harry has a look round."

"Let him be," whispered Harry. "If you get his dander up he's as likely

as not to chuck the whole blame thing. He always jibs at that name;

carn't stand it from kids nohow."

Nosey, or to be respectful, George, now proceeded to examine the

surroundings of the carcasses. Bending forward until his protuberant

nose almost touched the earth, the trapper moved his eyes swiftly, now

concentrating on twig or grass-blades, now wildly roving and

all-comprehensive. The rest of the party were following at his heels,

when he turned round and fiercely waved them back.

"All right, Nos--George!" sang out Joe. "I see; you want to keep the

tracks clear. We'll stay here till you've finished."

Drawing on one side, the group watched the proceedings with great

interest. The ground was hard and stony; quite unimpressionable and

barren of sign to the pals' untutored sight, yet to this man of the

woods, who was ignorant of the alphabet, the rough earth surface was

all-revealing, and made known to him in unmistakable characters the

story of the attack.

Having at length concluded his investigations, the trapper straightened

his back and moved to where the others stood. Producing his knife and a

plug of tobacco, he began to shred a pipeful, making no remark to the

expectant onlookers.

"Reckon we'll have to drag it out o' the old un," said Harry to Joe in a

low tone. Then raising his voice, the stockman began to question the

man.

"Had a good look round, George?"

Nod.

"Ain't missed anything worth seeing, I bet?"

Head-shake.

"Whatyer make of it?"

"Razorback pack," replied the old man of frugal speech, as he cleaned

out his pipe.

"Razorback pack? You surely don't mean it! Why, that is a matter of

twelve mile or so!"

"Suppose it is; what of that?"

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Harry dubiously, yet not wishful to offend the

old man's susceptibilities. "Of course you know best, George. How many

of 'em do you consider they'd be?"

"Five dorgs an' two bitches."

"Good gracious, Nosey!" cried Tom the unlucky, the next moment beating a

rapid retreat as the dog-trapper made a vicious dart at his caudal

appendage, finally coming to grief over a fallen log which lay in the

line of retreat. The pursuing foe, even, had to stop and join in the

laugh raised at the ludicrous figure which Tom cut as he lay, head down,

heels up.

"Beg pardon, George!" he cried breathlessly the next moment, as he

recovered his original position. "It slipped out, old fellow. I--I

didn't mean it."

"Come, now, George, that's handsome. You must accept the apology,"

interjected Joe.

The trapper nodded assent, and the incident passed.

"How _do_ you know what pack it is, George? Blest if I can understand

how you find out all these things! First you tell us the sex an' then

where they come from."

"Tell it by their paws."

"By their paws! How on earth can you tell they've come all the way from

Razorback by their paw marks? Mightn't it be the turkey scrub lot?"

"It carn't be, an' isn't, 'cause I knows the pack."

"How's that?"

"Got two of the vermin in the traps six months ago over at the

mountains, an' a cove wot got away left two toe nails of his near

hind-foot in the trap."

"Too fly for poison, eh?"

"'Twould be a waste of good strychnine over the rubbage," replied the

trapper, waxing more communicative. "They know a bait better than a

Christun. 'Sides, I tried them over at Razorback. Got plenty o' cats,

gohanners, an' crows; an', be gosh! laid out one of my own cattle

puppies, but ne'er a dingo."

"The traps'll fetch 'em, won't they, George?"

George returned no answer, but "smoled" a cryptic smile. Mounting their

steeds, the party turned in the direction of home. Mr. M'Intyre

received the trapper's report without interruption, and then consulted

as to the best way to work their destruction.

"Hunting them is out of the question," said the squatter in reply to a

remark of his son that it would be grand sport hunting them. "We'd only

ruin the horses in that country and miss most o' the dingoes. Na! the

traps are the best an' safest. If ony ane can catch 'em in that

fashion, George is the mon. I leave the hale matter in his hands. He

kens best what to do to circumvent the brutes; so go your own way to

work, George. What aboot traps? Have ye enough?"

"Got seven or eight, dunno for sure. Ought to have a dozen."

"Varra weel; ane o' the laddies will ride to Tareela and get ither

fower."

Accordingly, Joe and Tom mounted their horses and rode into the store

for the additional traps.

A dog-trap, it should be explained, is simply an enlarged spring

rat-trap, with extra strong jaws and saw-like teeth. These instruments

of capture weigh about ten pounds, and are planted in likely spots. The

native dog is an exceedingly suspicious animal. His reasoning faculty

is large. A mere glance at his head will convince one as to his

capacity, and those who have had to do with him count him as the

slimmest of the slim. Hence, only by outmatching him in cunning may his

adversary succeed. In this Nosey George was an adept, and Mr. M'Intyre

did not overstate the facts when he declared no one to be capable of

matching the dog-trapper in the art of setting lures.

The pals readily obtained leave to accompany the trapper next morning to

watch the proceedings, on the understanding that they were in no way to

interfere with him. Each lad had a pair of traps slung across his

horse's withers, and George carried the balance on the neck and croup of

his steed. They made their way to the weaners' paddock, and after a

brief inspection of the carrion the trapper declared that there had been

no return of the dogs.

"I didn't expect them larst night," remarked George. "They're like the

blacks, can eat enough at one meal to do 'em fur days. A gorge is

Chrismus to 'em."

"What do you intend doing with the dead beasts, George?"

"Leave 'em be, o' course. They'll help me more than anythin' else.

Dogs'll come again to get another feed or two; an' as boss's took the

weaners away to a safe paddock, they'll go fur these dead uns like

winkie--likes 'em a bit high, in fact. Supposin' we burn these

wretches, the vermin'll keep about their own haunts. They're out of

their beat when they come over here, while they knows every stick an'

stone of their run. Consequently, it gives me a better charnse with 'em

on unfamiliar ground."

So saying, the cunning hunter proceeded to carry out his plan. The

dingo has a well-defined method of carving his veal, so to speak. The

hide of the animal is not uniformly thick. The softest and tenderest

part is that underneath and between the thighs. The ravager, therefore,

attacks this tenderest and most susceptible part. He tears a big hole

through the skin and into the flesh in a short time, and literally eats

his way into the body; until, when he and his fellow-feasters have

finally finished, and cleaned paws and jaws with that self-provided

serviette the tongue, nothing of the animal remains but the skin and

bones--always providing that no foe appears to stay proceedings against

the gourmands. This finish, of course, entails several feasts when the

course happens to be a bullock, or, as in the present case, toothsome

veal.

The trapper proceeded to lay a trap facing the torn portion of each

carcass--that, of course, being the place of attack on each occasion of

the canines' visits. After a careful consideration of the ground

surrounding each beast, he dug a hole in the earth and then placed a

trap in it. He next produced some sheets of the inner bark of the ti

tree, which is as flexible as paper and softer. A sheet of this is laid

over the gaping jaws of the trap, which is, of course, properly set.

The "jaws" are now level with the ground. Over this fine earth is

sprinkled until all appearance of the trap is hidden. The superfluous

soil is now removed with care, and the surroundings are made to look as

natural as possible. This in itself is a work of art; for the slightest

appearance of disturbance or make-up alarms the wary dingo, and

nullifies the trapper's design.

There is one thing, however, that Nosey George had not reckoned upon

when starting his operations--the number of carcasses to be treated. It

will be remembered that eleven animals were slaughtered in the dingo

raid. This would mean the use of eleven traps, were every animal to be

used as a lure. But it is contrary to the design of the trapper to use

up all his traps in the vicinity of the beasts. Some are to be set

along the line of approach. A number of carcasses, therefore, must be

removed. With the help of the boys, five of the beasts are dragged

about two hundred yards away, put in a heap, covered with dry wood, and

then burned.

This left the trapper with several traps to use in other directions.

Having laid six traps in the vicinity of the calves, he proceeded to

follow up the tracks of the dogs. The first gin was laid in a soft patch

of ground directly in their footmarks. This he continued at intervals,

until the last one was placed at a spot about two miles distant.

"How many dingoes do you think you'll nab, George?" exclaimed Tom, as

the party rode homewards in the late afternoon.

"Tell you when I visit the traps termorrer, boy."

"I say three," judged the judicious Joe.

"I say one," opined the cautious Sandy.

"I say the whole bloomin' lot," loudly proclaimed the sanguine Tom.

"I say, wait," drily remarked the wise trapper.

The trapper's prophecy was justified; for, on a visit to the traps in

the early morning by the expectant and impatient boys, in the company of

Nosey George, to the surprise and disgust of these same youngsters, not

a trap was sprung.

The trapper, who while examining the ground had maintained a sphinx-like

attitude, broke silence at length under a fusillade of questions.

"Yees want ter know, does youse, why it is no dog's copp'd? Simple

enough. Dogs didn't come."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*DINGO *_*V.*_* EMU: A FIGHT TO A FINISH*

"Afar I mark the emu's run;

The bustard slow, in motley clad;

And, basking in his bath of sun,

The brown snake on the cattle-pad,

And the reddish black

Of a dingo's back

As he loit'ring slinks on my horse's track."

GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.

The next morning's visit told another tale.

The dingoes, having recovered from their surfeit, hunger-induced, made a

second nocturnal trip to the feeding-grounds. Cunning and wary as they

habitually are, they fell, some of them at least, before the wiles of

the trapper. Four of their number paid the death penalty. Two female

dogs were caught in the traps set about the calves. The trapped animals

had not moved any great space.

It should be said that the traps are not fastened to the spot whereon

they are laid; because, were they stationary, the dingo, especially the

dog dingo, in his frantic efforts to escape, and by reason of his great

strength, will frequently save his life at the expense of his paw. That

dog, it is safe to say, will never be trapped again; as on the principle

of, once bitten twice shy, he will ever eschew the most deftly

constructed device of man.

[Illustration: "The emu failed to elude the panther-like spring."--_See

p._ 134.]

On the other hand, should there be no fastening, a strong dog will carry

a trap for miles, especially if caught by the hind-leg. In order to

remedy this, a device, similar to that which sailors use, called a sea

anchor, is attached. A block of wood not too heavy is tied to the trap

by a chain or a piece of wire. This acts as a check to the animal,

besides leaving a broad trail that is easily followed up.

When the trapped dingoes were approached they set up a dismal howling,

which turned to a vigorous snapping with their teeth; the while they

tore the earth with their paws in vain efforts to escape.

"Put the poor wretches out of their pain," cried Sandy, after watching

the agonised efforts of the canines for a few seconds.

The trapper, armed with a heavy "nulla-nulla," dispatched the brutes,

and scalped them; for the district Stock Board, to induce their

extermination, gave L1 per scalp, and experienced trappers like Nosey

George did well at times. They concluded that there was at the least

one other victim; for while the bitches were snapping and howling,

answering howls of rage and sympathy could be heard in the distance

along the trail.

The next act was to cremate the slain, which was speedily done. After

this the group proceeded to follow the track along which the other

snares were secreted. The very first trap contained a dog. It was set

in the centre of a soft depression, at the edge of the scrub belt on the

farther side. The dog had dragged the trap about three hundred yards,

when the "anchor," fouling in some saplings, his retreat was stopped.

The beast was immediately brained and scalped, and the body flung into a

clump of bushes.

There was still another victim. The farthest out trap was gone.

Nothing was to be seen but the trap-hole. George, however, was soon upon

the trail. The country here was fairly open, and offered little

obstruction to the determined dog. The track led on and on with little

deviation until a course of three miles or so had been traversed. It

now curved outward and down toward a patch of scrub. Nosey suddenly

stopped and pointed to the ground.

"What's up, George?" exclaimed Joe, who stood nearest the trapper.

"Look an' see fur y'reself."

Bending over, Joe saw in a sandy patch the deep impress of the toes of a

large bird.

"I can't make it out. What in thunder is it? Far too big for a crow;

bigger even than an eagle or a bustard."

"As big as two eagles, young mutton-head," declared the old tough.

"Tell 'im, Sandy."

"Why, you greeney; that's an emu track!"

"Emu!" shouted Joe in great excitement. "It's the first time I ever saw

an emu track. What an enormous foot he must have."

"Ye'd know it, me boy, if ivver ye got a kick," grunted the trapper.

"I've seen them break a dog's leg like a carrot."

"Blest if I don't think he's follerin' up the dingo!" continued Joe.

"Just wot 'e _is_ a-doin' of," answered the man. "These 'ere emus is

more curious nor a woman."

Joe now remembered Sandy relating how his father used to lure the emu he

was stalking within shot of his fowling piece, by lying flat, and slowly

waving his handkerchief from the point of his ram-rod; or even doubling

his leg as he lay breast downward, and elevating his hat on the foot

thus raised. With slow and hesitating yet irresistible steps,

fascinated by the mysterious object, or a victim to curiosity, the bird

would approach to its undoing.

This particular emu was no stranger to the dingoes, nor they to him.

Never before, though, had he beheld a dingo with such an appendage, or

in such difficulties. The unwonted appearance of the canine furnishes

the bird with an unusual sensation, and queries in rapid succession flit

through its brain. "What on earth is the matter with the limping,

whimpering brute? What is that object trailing behind the horrid

creature? Let me draw near and behold this great sight!" Fate has

delivered his old-time enemy into his hands. That lolling, swollen

tongue, those blood-shot eyes, that painful whimper, the wild despairing

glances; all these loudly proclaim his downfall. "Well, what matter!

He's getting his punishment now. What is there to prevent me wiping out

old scores?"

And so, with cautious yet confident step the huge bird, second in size

only to the ostrich, strode on at a short distance behind his enemy; and

in a few minutes both are swallowed up in the scrub. The huntsmen

follow well on the heels of the animals.

"I wonder if the bird's still following?" asked Tom.

"Soon see," answered the trapper, carefully examining the ground. "Not

a quarter of an hour since he passed this spot: must be in the scrub

still."

A minute or so brought them to the edge of the scrub. Pushing along,

they were soon enwrapped in its gloom. Following the advice of George,

the boys tied their horses to saplings at the outskirts of the belt, and

proceeded on foot. Suddenly the trapper, who was leading, stopped dead

in his tracks, and uttered a warning note in a low voice. Motioning the

pals to remain where they were, he noiselessly moved forward, and was

soon lost in the thick foliage ahead.

"Wonder why ole Nosey made us stay back?" muttered Tom, after the lads

had stood silently awhile. "What can be in the air, now?"

"Hist!" exclaimed Sandy in a whisper; "he's returning."

At this moment the trapper reappeared.

"Follow as quiet as mice, an' ye'll see summat like wot ye've ne'er seed

afore." There was an unusual gleam in the man's eye as he made this

deliverance.

Cautiously and silently the party moved Indian fashion through the wood.

After going in this way a hundred paces or so the hunter stopped again,

and beckoned the boys, indicating a stealthy approach. Very gingerly

they trod until they were abreast the man. Following his muttered

directions and example, they quietly parted the intervening brushwood.

It was an unique sight on which their eyes fastened; one they would not

readily forget. Beyond them was a small natural clearing, such as often

occurs in the densest scrub.

It was circular in form, and about fifty yards in diameter. Here,

almost in the centre of the clearing, the bird had bailed up the beast.

Curiosity in the emu had grown into anger, and was at a white heat,

judging from the manner in which it pirouetted and menaced the dog,

keeping up the while an incessant gabble. The gabble, rightly

interpreted, declared that the time of vengeance was at hand. The fates

were thanked for being so kind as to furnish this fitting opportunity

for paying off old scores: "Here, you sneaking thief and flying

murderer, stop! It's you and I for it now; so, off with your coat and

roll up your sleeves!"

Nor was Master Dingo disinclined to accept the challenge thrown down by

the strutting bird. Weary as he was and full of pain, he was in no

humour to eat humble-pie, or to fly before another foe. His warring

instincts rose to the gage of his hereditary enemy. Many of his kind

were scarred with wounds from the terrible emu kick, or deep score made

by the horny toe of this formidable antagonist.

Nor could he retreat, if so inclined: behind him, to a certainty, was

the monstrous biped; far more to be feared than this animated piece of

impertinence, whose wicked eye squinted and winked in defiance.

Forgotten in a moment is all fear, whether of the visible bird or the

invisible pursuers. Handicapped as he is, and goaded by his pain and

shameful condition, the dingo fires the first shot, as it were, by

making a sudden jump at the emu's throat, narrowly missing it, and still

more narrowly missing the leg stroke of the bird as it made its

counter-stroke.

Both bird and beast are practised in all the arts and devices of animal

warfare. Each knows the tactics of the other. But for the disability

of the dog through the tenacious trap the chances would be in his

favour; but his exhaustion and encumbrance give the odds to the other.

Still, he makes a gallant fight, and the bird needs all its wits and

agility to escape his savage snaps, one of which, had he been able to

lay hold, would tear out the neck from throat to breast.

The combat was at its height between these gladiators when the pursuers

sighted them. The boys hold their breath in fair amazement as they

eagerly watch the two figures in the sunlit arena struggling for the

mastery. So engrossed are the combatants that the spectators may come

out into the open and surround them, for all the notice that will be

taken of them. As it is, the boys' astonishment is quickly transmuted

into animal excitement and battle-lust. They take sides, and cheer, now

the beast and now the bird.

But the end comes quickly and tragically enough. The pace of the

conflict tells terribly upon the dingo. He is now weakening fast; can

hardly see, so bloodshot are his eyes. Yes, he can hold out but little

longer. Realising this, he fights purely on the defence for breath.

Then, concentrating all his energies in one last irresistible stroke, he

springs, arrow-like, and this time strikes fair on the bullseye--the

neck of his adversary. The emu had failed to elude the panther-like

spring. But now the counter-stroke!

When the dingo's fangs close vice-like upon the emu's throat the bird's

fate is irrevocably sealed. The jugular vein is torn out with a

mouthful of flesh and muscle, and the skin is stripped to the bosom.

What time this savage and fatal stroke is given the vengeful bird, by

one terrific downward blow of its powerful leg and toes, disembowels the

hanging dog; and then with a lightning side-stroke, delivered full on

the forehead of the prone beast, smashes in its skull. A vain attempt

to crow a note of victory; a few short, uncertain, rotatory movements,

life-blood gushing the while from its severed jugular, then a collapse,

falling across the body of its slain adversary!

Which of the two is the victor?

The surprise of the boys, at the sudden and bloody termination of the

fight, may be better imagined than described. They stared aghast for

some moments at the spectacle, too dazed to move or speak. Even the

hardened bushman, George, was moved.

"Well, of all the fights I ever seed, this licks creation; it's better

nor cock-fightin'. Be gosh, 'twas a grand fight to a finish!"

The trapper now busies himself with the scalping-knife, and, as the boys

stand around, a feeling of sadness rises within as they contemplate the

slain.

"Poor brutes!" said Sandy feelingly, "I've a notion, lads, that they

deserved a better fate."

"The boss wouldn't agree to that as fur as the dorgs is concerned. As

fer the emu, he's neither good nor bad," grunted the old man.

"Well, after all," broke in Joe, "it's their nature, as old Simpson is

always preaching to us in school. They're not to blame for following

their instincts. By jings! there's no coward's blood in these poor

brutes,--they're as brave as brave."

But such moralising was beyond Nosey George.

"Emus is sight enough in a way, an' only eats grass an' roots,--but

dingos! they're vermin, an' any death's good enough fur them. By the

hokey!" exclaimed he as he looked at the trap; "I'm blamed if here isn't

the blessed paw!"

It was true. The wretched beast's foot was evidently so lacerated and

broken by its efforts to escape, and in dragging the trap, that when it

made the last and fatal spring the imprisoned paw parted from the leg in

the very act, and that severance enabled it to reach the emu's neck.

Having secured the trap and the scalp, the group retraced their steps to

where they had hitched the horses.

The haul proved successful beyond measure. To secure four dingoes in

one scoop was a great stroke of luck. Not so much luck, on reflection,

as skilful management. An amateur might have set a hundred traps with

seeming skill and not have bagged a dog. No one save a trapper like

George could trap with any degree of certainty.

"I s'pose you'll bag the balance to-night," remarked Tom to the trapper

when they had remounted.

"No jolly fear! Never catch any more along this line."

"How's that?"

"Why, d'yer think a dingo's no sense? Be gosh! all the calves in

creation wuddent tempt what's left of the vermin to come along this

track again. Wish we'd a' got the old dog, though."

"What are you going to do next?" inquired Tom.

"Fust an' foremost thing is to collect the traps, then we'll burn the

weaners."

"Won't you try for the other dogs?"

"My oath, won't I?"

"Give us your programme, George, there's a good fellow."

"I'll try 'em about Razorback with the traps, as soon as they've

quietened down a bit. They've been scared out of their precious wits by

this 'ere business."

In due time the party arrived at the homestead. Mr. M'Intyre expressed

his gratification at the result of the trapper's work, and praised his

skill. He further bade George continue his work until the beasts were

exterminated, promising him a liberal reward should he achieve this end.

The boys related with great gusto, to an almost incredulous household,

the particulars of the fight to a finish.

The trapper fixed his camp in the hills, and employed his best

endeavours to trap the remaining dingoes with but partial success,

securing one only. The old dingo, which on a former occasion had left

two of his claws in a trap, and now had received this additional fright

through the ensnarement of his comrades, was not to be lured by any

device, however crafty. George, who knew their run intimately,

surrounded them with traps. 'Twas all in vain, set them never so

wisely.

This defiance and immunity irritated the old man beyond endurance, and

he swore by all the dignities to get their scalps, if it took him till

the crack of doom.

As he was camped on the ranges, in the vicinity of Razorback, his weekly

ration was taken out to him by the boys, who were keen on this matter.

They had been out twice with the rations, and now were being sent out

the third time. What befel them on that trip will be related in the

next chapter.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THE CHASE, AND ITS SEQUEL*

"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,

Proclaim a hunting morn;

Before the sun rises away we go,--

The sleep of the sluggard we scorn."

OLD SONG.

"Now then, sleepies,--up you get!" cried Sandy in the early morning, as

he performed his usual preliminary of whipping off the bed-clothes from

the sleepy-headed Joe and Tom.

"Sun's laughing at you through the windows. Come, Master Hawkins!"

cried he with a grin as he tumbled that grunting individual on to the

floor, piling the bed-clothes on top of him, and then seating himself on

the wriggling pile. "If soft measures won't avail I am prepared to

adopt severe ones."

Tom, now thoroughly aroused, and as peppery as you like, shouted and

yelled and writhed, getting his arm at last round his persecutor, the

laughing Sandy, and by a violent effort pulling him on to the broad of

his back, thus reversing their positions.

"You red-headed Scotchman, I'll teach you meddle with--" pommel--"me

again"--pommel, pommel.

Here a cold douche arrested the uplifted arm of the irate Tom, and took

his breath for a moment, as it descended upon the prone bodies,

accompanied by sundry "ouchs" and shrill yells. As the boys scrambled

to their feet they joined forces and rushed the dodging Joe, who, after

a few ineffectual dives, was caught and jolly well punched.

The usual early morning diversion ended, the lads, rosy with health and

brimming over with animal spirits--the essence of good nature for all

their rough play--dressed with haste and made for the stockyard, to pick

their steeds.

This occupied their time till the seven o'clock breakfast, after which

they secured from the storeman the rations for the trapper.

"Now Sandy, my boy, ye'll no forget to tell George what I named at

breakfast."

"M-yes, about the dingoes, father?"

"No, stupid. Didna I ask you to tell him that, dingoes or no dingoes,

he is to come next week at the latest, to handle the colts?"

"Oh yes, dad, I won't forget. I expect he'll growl a bit, as he's mad

on getting the dogs and the reward. He's quite cranky over it."

"He'll come richt enough if ye gie him my order."

The trapper's camp, as previously stated, was situated about eleven

miles from the homestead. Four miles or so from home the track

roughened, and became what is known as broken country, all hills and

gullies, for the most part very rocky, and heavily wooded in places.

The boys' progress was but slow, owing to the nature of the ground, and

it took them nearly three hours to reach the camp, which they found

unoccupied. After cooeeing in vain for the absentee, they proceeded to

light a fire in order to boil the billy, spreading the substantial lunch

which Mrs. M'Intyre had furnished them.

"Bother old Nosey; wish he'd turn up!" exclaimed Sandy, when the boys

had finished their repast. "We can't go till he comes. There'd be no

end of a row if we went home without delivering the message."

"Oh, he'll be here before long," interjected Joe. "I vote we do a camp

in the shade for an hour or two; it's hot enough to fry a steak."

This was good advice, and the boys made themselves as comfortable as

circumstances permitted under the shade of the trees. So the hours

passed without any sign of the trapper.

"Well, I declare," exclaimed Tom for the twentieth time in the course of

the last hour, "it's too bad of Nosey. I'm full up of waitin' here with

nothing to do. Can't you leave a message somehow for the ole cuss?"

"How is it to be done, Hawkins?"

"Oh bother! write a note, of course."

"Well, you are a greeney, Tom. Where's the pen, ink, and paper to come

from?"

"Why, hasn't ole Nosey----?"

"Old Nosey, be hanged! Of course he hasn't, any more than he's got a

dress suit and a toilet mirror."

"I've got a pencil," said Joe, feeling in his pocket.

"No good in the world; where's the paper to come from; an' supposin' we

had pens, ink, paper, blotting-pads, writing desks, and whatever else

you like to name in the scribbling line, what good 'ud it all be?"

"Meaning----?"

"Meanin' this, you dunderheads--it's got to be read."

"Well?"

"Well!--of all the thick-heads, muddle-pates, soft-uns, hodges, and

idiots that ever I came across----!"

"Here, draw it mild, young porridge-pot. There's two to one against

you: mind that, you red herring!"

"I'll _mind_ more than that, if I am the son of a Scot, which is no

great disgrace, after all," replied Sandy jeeringly. "But look here and

listen, chiels. I'll tell you a story--

"Once upon a time, when pigs were called swine an' monkeys chewed

tobacco, there lived a bully English captain, the commander of a man o'

war. This frigate, sailing up the channel on her return from foreign

parts, sighted a French ship, not more'n about twice her size. Instead

of closing with the Frenchy slap bang, an' givin' her what-for, she

turned tail an' showed her a clean pair of heels. This outrageous

proceeding on the part of a British sea-dog demanded instant

investigation, and so the jolly captain was promptly court-martialled.

After the case had been put by the prosecuting officer, and not denied

by the prisoner, he was asked by the president of the court why he did

not engage the enemy. The captain, in reply, said that he had ten

reasons. 'Name them,' says the boss officer. 'The first is: I had no

powder; it was all used up.' 'Enuf sed,' sings out the judge. 'We don't

want the other nine. You're discharged, my man, without a stain on your

character.'"

"Oh, that's all right for a yarn," cried Joe; "but I want to know what

it's got to do with your father's message to Nosey?"

"Just as much as it's got to do with the grass of a duck in a forty-acre

paddock," jeered Sandy.

"It's a story with a moral, boys; and as Captain Kettle--no, I mean

Cuttle, says in that book of Dickens, the moral of the story lies in the

application."

"Apply it, my wise man."

"Here then: old Nosey has ten reasons for not gettin' a written

message."

"Name the first!"

"He can't read."

"Now then, Joe," said Tom, turning to that worthy, "what's the verdict

of the court?"

"I s'pose we'll have to discharge the prisoner without a character,"

replied Joe with a wink.

"Blow these bally flies!" cried Tom, after an interval. "They're here in

millions. Faugh!--splutter--there's one down my jolly throat. Say,

Joe, what are you goin' to do?"

"Boil the billy," replied that youth laconically. "May as well do

something, an' kill time."

So the hours sped until the sun was well on its descending curve in the

late afternoon. Their patience was now thoroughly exhausted in waiting

for the trapper. They canvassed the reasons for his non-appearance,

until they were mortally sick of discussing the subject.

"Tell you what, boys, message or no message, Nosey or no Nosey," cried

Sandy at last, "we must make tracks for home. We are not to blame for

old George's absence. They'll be wondering what's become of us. It'll

take us all our time to get there before dark as it is. At the worst,

we'll have to come out to-morrow."

It took but a few minutes after this to secure the horses, saddle them,

call the dog which had accompanied them to heel, and set out on the

return journey.

After jogging briskly for a couple of miles or so the cattle dog, a

strong wiry hound and a noted warrior among his species, began to sniff

about, uttering a series of low, short barks.

"Hello, Brindle, what's up? Got 'possum scent? Bandicoot, I 'spect.

Fetch him, boy!"

Just at this moment Brindle made a dash forward, what time a big

dog-dingo started out from under an old log a hundred yards or so ahead.

The route taken by the chase lay up a long gully. This gully was, more

correctly speaking, a depression, lacking abrupt and precipitous sides,

and was comparatively free from rocks.

The boys hesitated a moment, but the temptation was too strong. Joe,

clapping his spurs to his steed's sides, started off with a clatter, the

others following pell-mell. The gully was long and winding, and to this,

for some reason, the dingo stuck. The hunters now began to gain a

little on the beast, and were in full sight, the cattle dog just holding

his distance. At length the gully petered out at the base of a ridge,

over which the quarry sped, the dog and boys in full chase. The other

side of the ridge was more precipitous, and covered with bracken and

stunted bushes. Down this the pursuit thundered, Joe in the lead and

well to the cattle dog's heels: the dingo leading by not more than

seventy yards. So absorbed was the boy in the hunt that he remained in

ignorance of a calamity that was even now happening to one of his mates.

Tom's horse, in bounding down the ridge, and when close to the bottom,

put his foot in a wombat's[#] hole that was hidden by bracken. Over

came horse and rider, Tom striking the ground on head and shoulder,

while Sandy, who was about a length behind, narrowly averted collision

with the fallen steed and boy. As quickly as possible he pulled up his

galloping animal, shouting out as he did so to Joe, who was too far away

and too much engrossed in the chase to hear the call.

[#] Wombat---a burrowing marsupial.

Returning to the collapsed pair, Sandy jumped off and lifted Tom's head,

for the lad lay stiff. His appearance frightened the boy as he lay

still and death-like. To his great joy, however, on feeling Tom's

wrist, Sandy detected a feeble pulse-beat. Laying his stricken mate

gently down in the bracken, he made a hasty examination of his head. It

bore no trace of wound, save some gravel scratches and a nasty bruise

under the left eye. The relieved boy hurried to the bottom of the

ridge, where by good hap was a rill of water. Filling his hat he

returned and laved the brow and wrists of his companion. After some

twenty minutes or so Tom began to stir, and quickly regained

consciousness. No bones were broken, but the boy was badly shaken, and

all thoughts of further pursuit were out of the question. The horse, by

a miracle, was without hurt.

"You're a lucky beggar, Tom," said Sandy, after a few minutes. "From

the way you crashed down I made sure every blessed bone in your body was

broken. How do you feel now, ole boss?"

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Tom feebly. "Shoulder's the worst. It's

not dislocated, but it pains a lot. Phew! but it does hurt when I move

it. I expect it felt the full force of the tumble. But--where's Joe?"

"Joe's ahead. Goodness only knows where he's got to by now. He hasn't

a ghost's show of getting the dingo if he makes for the hills."