OF A CHESTNUT BABY.
“DO you know where Mr. Jim is, Murty?”
David Linton had just ridden into the stable-yard. It was midday, and
though the night had been frosty, the sun was so warm that the master of
Billabong was in his shirt-sleeves, his coat laid across the saddle
before him. He swung himself to the ground as the head stockman came
across to take his horse.
“At the stockyard, he is,” said Murty O’Toole. “Miss Norah and Mr. Wally
too, sir; they’re handling the new chestnut colt, and it’s the fun of
the world he’s been giving them. Mr. Jim had to lasso him before he
could so much as lay a hand on him, but he’s goin’ nice and aisy now.
Still in all, Mr. Jim’ll have his own troubles when he comes to ride
that one; sure, he’d kick the eye out of a mosquito.”
“Has he saddled him yet?”
“Oh, yes; he’s been under the saddle these three hours,” Murty answered.
“Mr. Jim hasn’t been on him, of course; he believes in walkin’ a young
one round quiet and pleasant, to let him get used to the feel of the
leather. ’Twas as good as a circus to see him when they girthed him up;
he went to market good and plenty, and did his level best to buck
himself clean out of the saddle. He’s the cheerfullest colt ever I
seen.” Mr. O’Toole grinned at the recollection. “But he’s got his aiqual
in Mr. Jim.”
“I’ll go down and have a look at them,” the squatter said. “Put Monarch
in a loose-box and give him a feed, Murty; I may want him again.” He
slipped on his coat and strode out of the yard as the stockman led the
great black horse into the cool dimness of the stables.
The stockyards of an Australian station form a very important part of
its working establishment. A big “run” may have several sets of yards to
save the trouble of driving stock far on any direction; but the main
yards are always near the homestead—sometimes, indeed, a great deal too
near. The yards at Billabong, however, did not err in this respect,
being planned in a secluded corner whence they opened upon two paddocks.
A belt of dwarfed gum-trees surrounded and shaded them; and beyond this
shelter a little lucerne-field led to the kitchen-garden and orchard, so
that the house itself was screened completely, and no dust could drift
to it, even when, on a big mustering day, the bullocks had trodden every
inch of the earth of the yards into fine powder.
To an unaccustomed eye they presented a somewhat bewildering array of
fencing. They were completely surrounded by a very high fence of red-gum
slabs, laid horizontally and very close together, and finished at the
top by a heavy, rounded cap of wood, bolted to the top of the massive
posts, and forming an unbroken ring. This fence was calculated to
withstand the rush of the maddest bullock, infuriated by the indignities
of mustering; and at the same time, being easily climbed, formed a
refuge in case of an animal charging a man on foot. The cap, broad and
smooth, formed a pleasant place from which to watch the exciting
manœuvres below; Norah had spent many a cheerful hour perched upon it.
Within the great ring-fence the space was divided into many enclosures,
large and small; from the big general yard, capable of holding a mob of
bullocks, to small calf-yards, where newly-branded babies were wont to
bleat distressfully for their anxious mothers—little dreaming that
within a very few days they would have forgotten all about them, in the
joy of a wide run, new grass and youthful light-heartedness. A long
race, just wide enough for a single bullock, led from the main enclosure
to the drafting-yards. A gate at its further end worked on a pivot;
Norah loved to watch her father stand at it as the big-horned cattle
came down the narrow lane in single file, turning the gate with a
movement of his supple wrist so that some bullocks were ushered into one
yard and some into another, according to their class. A man needed a
quick eye and hand, and keen judgment, to be able to work the
drafting-gate when the bullocks were stringing quickly down the race,
the nose of one beast almost touching the tail of the one in front of
him. Sometimes two or three of a kind came down in succession, all bound
for the same yard, and then the task seemed easy; but often they
alternated, and the gate had to go backwards and forwards so quickly
that either the tail of the yarded bullock or the nose of his successor
was apt to suffer. Branding was done through the rails fencing the race;
a brick oven was built beside it, for heating the irons. But this was
one of the details at which Norah did not preside. On branding days she
preferred to mount her special pony, Bosun, and go for long solitary
rides along the bends of the river, or across plains where an occasional
hare gave excuse for a gallop.
Altogether, the Billabong yards were the pride of its stockmen, and the
cause of deep envy in men from neighbouring stations. Too often, yards
are make-shift erections, hastily run up out of any timber that may be
handiest, and generally awaiting a day of re-planning and re-building
that never comes. But David Linton believed in perfecting the working
details of his run; and his yards were well and solidly built, planned
on a generous scale that gave accommodation for every class of cattle,
and equipped with gates which, despite their massive strength, were so
excellently hung that a touch closed them, and only another touch was
needed to send home a solid catch. Once the owner of Billabong had seen
a man killed, through a gate too stiff to shut quickly before a maddened
bullock’s charge; and as he helped to rescue the poor, broken body he
had vowed that no man of his own should ever run a needless risk through
neglect on his part.
Black Billy was cutting lucerne for fodder as the squatter passed
through the little paddock. He turned on him a dusky face full of
ludicrous unhappiness. The black fellow of Australia takes kindly to no
work that does not include horses; it was gall and wormwood to Billy to
be chained to an uncongenial task almost within a stone’s throw of the
breaking-yard, through the high fence of which he could catch glimpses
of a chestnut coat and hear voices raised in quick interest. He hewed
viciously at the tough lucerne stems.
“That pfeller him buck plenty, mine thinkit,” he vouchsafed to his
employer.
“Master Jim bin ride him, Billy?”
“Baal—not yet. Lucerne plenty enough cut, eh, boss?”
David Linton laughed outright at the wistful face.
“If I say it’s enough, what’s the next job, Billy.”
“Mine thinkit Master Jim him pretty likely want a hand with that pfeller
chestnut,” said Billy eagerly.
“Oh, do you?—I thought so,” said his master. “All right, Billy—cut
along; but don’t get in Master Jim’s way. He’ll call you if he wants
you.”
“Plenty!” said Billy, thankfully, and fled towards the yards like a
black comet. He was already perched on the cap, a grinning vision of
joy, when Mr. Linton arrived on the scene, and swung himself up beside
Norah.
The big mustering yard was empty save for Jim and his pupil—a beautiful
chestnut colt, rather dark in colour, and with no mark save a white
star. He was fully saddled and bridled, with the stirrups removed from
the saddle and the reins tied loosely back, while in addition to the
bit, bore a pair of long driving reins by which Jim was guiding him
round and round the yard. It was evident that the colt was not happy.
His rough coat was streaked with dark sweat and flecked with foam, and,
though he went quietly enough his eye was wild, and showed more than a
glimpse of white.
“Hallo, Dad!” sang out Jim cheerfully. The colt executed a nervous bound
and broke jerkily into a canter.
“Steady there, you old stupid,” said Jim, affectionately, bringing his
pupil back to a walk with a gentle strain on the bit. “He has a curious
dislike to the human voice if it’s raised, Dad; and as we can’t expect
everyone to whisper for his benefit, the sooner he gets over it, the
better. What do you think of him?”
“He’ll make a good horse,” said his father, surveying the colt
critically. “A bit leggy now, but he’ll mend of that. How is he going,
Jim?”
“Oh, he’s quiet enough; a bit nervous, but I don’t think there’s any
vice in him,” Jim answered. “At present he is exactly like a frightened
kid, but he’s calming down. I drove him, without a saddle on, most of
yesterday, and he graduated to the saddle this morning—and at first I
think he thought it was the end of the world. He’ll make a topping good
hack, Dad.”
“Better than Garryowen?” came from Norah.
“Better than your grandmother!” retorted Jim, to whom his own steed
represented all that was perfection in horseflesh. “Better than your old
crock, Bosun, if you like!” Which insult, Norah, who knew his private
opinion of her pony, received with a tilted nose and otherwise unruffled
calm.
“When do you think of riding him?” asked Mr. Linton.
“Oh, I’ll get on him this afternoon,” Jim answered. “It’s getting near
lunch-time; and it won’t do him any harm to have another hour or so
getting used to the feel of the leather, and the creak thereof—which is
the part he dislikes. I’m not anxious to scare him by mounting him too
soon. At present he is gradually realising that I’m a friendly beast;
for a good while he was certain I meant to kill him.”
Mr. Linton nodded.
“Quite right—I don’t believe in hurrying a nervous young horse,” he
said. “Scare him at first and he is apt to remain scared. I’m glad
you’re taking him quietly. He will be up to my weight when he fills out,
Jim, don’t you think?”
“Oh, easily,” Jim answered. “When we get back from England you’ll find
him just about right; we’ll get Murty to keep him for his own use while
we’re away. I don’t want him hacked about by any man who chooses; he is
quite the best of this year’s lot.” He shook the reins very gently, and
addressed the colt in friendly fashion. “Get on, old man.”
The chestnut broke into an uneasy jog, which his driver had some little
difficulty in reducing to a sober walk. He went with sidling steps,
hugging the fence as much as possible, as if longing for the space and
freedom of the paddocks outside. The corners of the yard had been
rounded off, so that he could not indulge his evident inclination to put
himself as far as possible into one and dream of his lost youth. It was
just a little hard on him—last week all he had known of life was the
wild bush paddocks on the outer fringe of Billabong run, where there was
good galloping ground for him and his mates on the rough plains, and
deep belts of timber to shelter them from the hot noonday sun or the
frosty nights of winter. Then had come a time of mad excitement. Men and
dogs had invaded their peaceful solitudes, and the hills had echoed all
day to shouts and barking and the clear cracks of stockwhips, that ran
round the hills like a fusillade of rifle shots. It was all very
alarming and disturbing. At first the young horses had been inclined to
treat it as a joke, but they soon found that for them it had a more
serious meaning, that gradually they were being surrounded and edged out
of the timber to the open plain, that they had not even time to eat, and
that the deepest recesses of the hills and creeks formed no secure
hiding-place from their pursuers.
Then they grew afraid for the first time. They galloped hither and
thither wildly, to the great annoyance of the men, who had no wish to
see valuable young horses hurt or blemished by running into a tree or
under a low-growing limb, in these wild rushes through the scrub. They
tried to drive them as quietly as possible; but the horses thought they
knew far too much for that, and before they were finally mustered there
had been racing and chasing that had brought much secret and unlawful
joy to Jim and Norah and Wally, but no little anxiety to the owner of
the run. No great damage, however, had been done; gradually all the wild
youngsters had been driven out of the timbered country, hustled through
the gate that effectually barred them from such shelter in the future,
and brought to the homestead through a succession of peaceful paddocks,
peopled with sleek cattle almost too lazy to move aside for the drove of
uneasy horses. The home paddock had received them at last; and then
every day saw them driven up to the yards, where they were left for a
few hours so that they might grow accustomed to being close to
civilisation, and to the sound of the human voice. One by one they
dropped out; a youngster would be edged away from his mates into a
little yard, presently to find himself alone when the main mob was let
out to go galloping down the hill to freedom. Then real education began;
education that meant bit and bridle and saddle, and the knowledge that
the strange new creature called Man was master and meant to remain so.
Jim had kept the chestnut colt for his own tuition. Mick Shanahan, chief
horsebreaker of Billabong for many a year, had gone to the war; and
though every man on the station had a settled conviction of his own
ability to break horses, Jim and his father did not, in every instance,
share the belief. The chestnut was too good to be given to any
chance-comer to handle. Most of the youngsters were destined for use as
stock-horses, and might as well be handed over to the men who were to
ride them in their work; but not this well-bred baby “with the spirit of
fire and of dew,” and with all his nerves jangling from the indignity of
being made a prisoner. Jim had been carefully trained in Mick Shanahan’s
methods; besides which, he had a natural comprehension of horses, and a
rooted dislike of rough-and-ready ways of breaking-in. There was
something in the strong gentleness of the big fellow that soothed a
young horse unconsciously.
He pulled up the chestnut after a few turns round the yard, and
proceeded, as he said, to talk to him, speaking in a low voice while he
handled him quietly, stroking him all over. The colt, nervous for a
moment, soon settled down under the gentle voice and hand; and so found
the bit which he had champed indignantly all the morning, slipped out of
his mouth, and an easy-fitting halter on his head. Then came Norah, at
whom he was inclined to start back, until he remembered that he had met
her twice before, that she also was a person who moved quietly and had
an understanding touch, and that she always carried a milk-thistle—an
article delicious at all times, but especially soothing to a tired
mouth, hot and sore after even the broad, easy bit Jim always used.
Norah said pleasant things to him and stroked his nose while he munched
the cool, juicy thistle; and then he was led to a bucket, in itself a
very alarming object, until he found that it held water which tasted
just as good as creek water. After that he was tied up to the fence and
left to his own reflections, while the humans who were causing him so
much uneasiness of mind went away, apparently that they might seek
milk-thistles on their own account.
It was nearly a week since the momentous decision to go to England; and
while the life of the station had apparently pursued its ordinary
course, in reality preparations had gone forward swiftly. To Brownie the
news had been broken gently, with the result that for twenty-four hours
the poor old woman had been thrown into a condition of stupefied dismay;
then, rallying herself, with caustic remarks directed inwardly on “women
who hadn’t no more sense than a black-beetle,” she set herself to
overhaul the various wardrobes of the family with a view to the
exigencies of foreign travel. Brownie’s ideas as to what was necessary
for a long voyage were remarkably vast, and included detailed
preparations for every phase of climate, from Antarctic to Equatorial.
Mr. Linton had finally interfered at a stage when it appeared probable
that it would be needful to charter a whole ship to convey the family
baggage, and had referred the question of Norah’s outfit to an aunt in
Melbourne who was well skilled in providing for damsels of fifteen.
Wally had written slightly delirious letters to his guardian and his
brothers in far-off Queensland, and was impatiently awaiting replies, in
much agony of mind lest these should not come in time to prevent his
going back to school. The end of the holidays was fast approaching;
unless within a very few days permission came for him to accompany Mr.
Linton’s party to England he must pack up and return meekly to
class-room and playground—a hard prospect for a boy whose head fairly
seethed with war, while his pockets bulged with drill-books. His
ordinary sunny temperament had almost vanished as he wavered from day to
day between hope and despair. To go back would be bad enough in any
case; but to go back when his one chum was about to gain their hearts’
desire, taking away with him all that meant real home to the orphan lad,
was a sentence worse than banishment. Jim and Norah, themselves torn
with anxiety as to his fate, endeavoured to cheer him by every means in
their power; but Wally watched for the mails anxiously, and refused
comfort.
The question of a suitable ship was causing Mr. Linton no small
perplexity. He disliked the heat of the Suez Canal route, and wished to
go by South Africa; but although it was possible to decide upon a ship,
and even to engage cabins, embarking was quite another matter, since any
vessel was liable to Government seizure as a transport for troops. No
firm of agents could guarantee the sailing of a ship. The Government was
hard-pressed to find transports for the thousands of men and horses that
Australia was hastily preparing to despatch to the mother-country’s aid;
and many a big “floating hotel” was commandeered within a very short
time of her sailing and transformed by a horde of carpenters into a
troopship—losing her name and identity and becoming a mere number. No
one grumbled; it was war, and war meant business. But undoubtedly it
increased the difficulty of going to England, and daily Mr. Linton
knitted his brows over worried letters from shipping agents extremely
anxious to have the conveyance of so large a party to England, but quite
unable to offer a sailing date.
Jim, meanwhile, was preparing methodically for a long absence. Under
Murty O’Toole the work of the station could be trusted to go steadily
forward, agents being entrusted with the buying and selling of stock.
But there were a hundred threads that Jim kept ordinarily in his own
hands and which, it was necessary to adjust carefully before he gave up
his work. It had been the boy’s ambition to be indispensable to his
father. From the day he had left school he had worked for that end,
succeeding so far that David Linton, understanding and appreciating his
efforts, had gradually put more and more responsibility into his hands,
discussing the management of the run with him, and treating him in all
ways more as a man of his own age than as a boy newly released from
school. Jim was not new to the work, and he loved it; instinctively he
fell into step with his father, profiting by his experience, and
learning every day. “Mr. Jim’s put his mark on Billabong,” Murty said,
ruefully to Mrs. Brown. “’Twill not be an aisy matter to rub out that
same.”
For Norah the days went by like a dream. The even current of her life,
that had known no break but school, was suddenly rudely disturbed. A
prospect was opening before her, so vast that she was almost afraid of
it. To every Australian whose parents are British-born, the old land
overseas is always “home.” From childhood the desire grows to see it—to
go back over the old tracks our parents trod, to visit the spots they
knew, and to enjoy the share that belongs to us, as atoms of Empire, of
its beauty and its tradition. It is ours, even though we be born at the
other side of the world; “home”—and one day we shall go to see it. But
when the day comes, even if we are older than Norah, we are very often a
little afraid.
Norah was torn in more than one way. To go to England! that was
beautiful, and wonderful, and mysterious; to go with Dad and Jim, and
possibly Wally, who was almost as good as Jim, made the prospect in some
way an unmixed delight. There would be the voyage, itself a storehouse
of marvels to the little girl from the Bush; strange ports, queer people
such as she had never seen, famous sights of which she had heard all her
life, scarcely realising that she would ever see them. A voyage, too,
with a spice of danger; there were German cruisers in the way, only too
anxious to sink a fat Australian liner. It was easier to realise the
excitement than the risk, at all events for people under twenty; and
Norah and Jim were not quite certain that the appearance of a hostile
warship might not add the last pleasing touch of exhilaration.
There was, however, another side to the picture. There was War, grim and
terrible, and scarcely to be comprehended; it threatened to grip Jim and
take him away, to unknown and dreadful dangers. But War was very far
off, and that Jim should not come through it safely was simply not a
thing to be imagined; besides which, many people thought it would be all
over in a very few months—an idea which caused Jim and Wally acute
uneasiness. They had no desire for “the show” to be finished before they
arrived to take a hand.
Then there was Billabong; and at the thought of leaving that dearest
place in the world, Norah’s heart used to sink within her. Each time she
caught sight of Brownie’s face unawares a fresh pang smote her. Brownie
was playing the game manfully, and wore in public an air of laboured
cheerfulness that would not have deceived a baby; but when she fancied
no eye was upon her, the mask slipped off, and her old face grew haggard
with the knowledge of all that the coming parting meant to her. Norah
had never known her mother. Brownie had taken her, a helpless mite, from
the arms that were too weak to hold her any more; and since that day she
had striven that the baby the little mistress had left to her care
should never realise all she had lost.
Norah did not realise it at all. Her life had not led her much among
girls with mothers, though she knew instinctively that they were lucky
girls, it was beyond her power to think herself unlucky. For she had
always had Billabong, and Jim, and Dad: Dad, who was splendid above all
people, being father, and mother, and mate in one. She did not miss
anything, because she did not fully understand. Brownie had been always
at hand to supply a kind of mothering that had seemed to Norah very
effective; and Norah paid her back with a wealth of hearty young
affection that made the old woman’s chief joy on earth. Now her nursling
was going out of her life, so far that her imagination could not follow
her, and unknown dangers would be in her path. They were hard days for
Brownie; and Norah, knowing just how hard they were, was heavy-hearted
herself at the sight of the brave old face.
Nor was it easy to leave Billabong itself, seeing that no place could
possibly be so good in Norah’s eyes. Home had always spelt perfection to
her; and its simple, free life—the outdoor life of the Bush, with dogs
and horses a part of one’s daily existence, the work of the station
better than any game ever invented, and always the sense that one was
helping—surely there could be nothing better. If there were, it was
beyond the imagination of the daughter of the Bush. So, notwithstanding
the fascination of their future plans, Norah clung to each day that was
left to her of Billabong, and tried to act as though England were as dim
and misty a prospect as it had always been.
Wally ate his lunch with a sober air that sat queerly on his usually
merry face. The mail, to which he had been eagerly looking forward, had
not arrived; but there was a telephone message from the newspaper office
in Cunjee, the nearest township, giving more particulars of the fierce
fighting of the early days of the war, and of Great Britain’s insistent
call for recruits. The first Australian contingent of twenty thousand
men was reported ready to go; there were rumours more or less vague, of
warships, British, Japanese, and French, waiting at various ports in
each state, to convoy the troopships; but these were only rumours, for
the newspapers were not allowed to publish any information that might
possibly be utilised by German spies—one of whom was said to have been
caught at his pretty seaside home, near Port Phillip Heads, with an
excellently equipped wireless in action. Every one was on the watch, and
suspicious characters found themselves of unpleasant interest to the
police. Small boys in the cities constituted themselves detectives and
“shadowed” unfortunate and inoffensive people whose names chanced to
sound “foreign,” on the principle that anything foreign might be German,
and anything German was to be severely dealt with. Altogether, there was
much excitement; and the station book-keeper, who had taken the
telephone message, declared his intention of enlisting.
“Another item to be replaced before I can go,” said Mr. Linton, a trifle
ruefully. “And Green knows his work, which is more than one can say for
most book-keepers. Still, I’m glad he’s going. He’s young and strong,
and has no ties; and no man with those qualifications has any right to
be rounding his shoulders over station ledgers nowadays.”
“He can’t ride for nuts,” said Wally, despondently, “and as for
shooting—well, did you ever see him try? It’s awfully risky for anyone
who goes out with him, but very safe for the game.”
“Oh, he’ll learn,” Mr. Linton said. “He needn’t ride—and shooting can
be taught. Why this sudden outburst against poor Green, Wally?”
Wally looked abashed.
“I didn’t mean to run Green down,” he explained. “He’ll be all right,
sir, of course. I only meant it was hard luck to think they’ll take him,
and they won’t take me—and I’m partly trained, at any rate. Silly
asses! I’ve been wondering if I got a false moustache—a very little
one, of course—would I pass for twenty, do you think?”
The Linton family shouted with joy.
“Oh, do, Wally!” Norah begged. “It would drop off in the riding tests,
and everyone would be so interested.”
“Great idea,” Jim said. “But why a little one, old man? You might as
well have one with a good curl—and a pair of side whiskers of the
drooping variety. They’d lend a heap of dignity to your expression.”
“Get out!” said the victim, sheepishly. “All very well for you to
jibe—you’re certain of going just because you’re older. And goodness
knows you haven’t half as much sense!”—modestly. “Wait till you get
into a regiment at home and they give you a platoon to handle, and see
you tie it into knots!”
“Well, you’ll be somewhere handy to take some of the colonel’s wrath,”
said Jim, comfortably.
“Wish I were sure of it,” Wally answered, his face falling. “I can’t
make out why they don’t write; Edward may be up country, but there’s
been quite time to get an answer from that blessed old slowcoach, Mr.
Dimsdale. He said he was sorry I couldn’t get into the contingent, but
he’s quite likely to change his mind now that I’ve really a chance.
Guardians are like that!” And Wally, whose chief experience of his
guardian had been occasional glimpses of a benevolent old gentleman who
paid his bills promptly and tipped him twice a year, sighed as though
his youth had been one long persecution.
“Oh, he’ll be quite meek, you’ll see,” said Jim. “Give them
time—Queensland is a long way from Billabong. We’re not going without
you, if we have to kidnap you, old man.” He rose from the table. “I must
get back to my patient; I expect he thinks he’s had enough
post-and-rails by now.”
The chestnut colt was looking sleepy, as though a post-and-rail diet had
a sedative effect. He backed and snorted as Jim came up to him, and Jim
stopped and talked to him soothingly until he was quiet enough not to
resent a caressing hand on his neck, and presently the bridle slipped on
so gently that he scarcely noticed it.
“Good lad,” said Jim. “Come and hold his head, Wally, while I tighten up
the girths.”
Wally came, and the broad, soft leather girth was adjusted deftly, the
colt making no further protest than to walk round several times. Jim ran
his eye over him.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Take care, old man, in case he goes to
market.”
Suddenly, quickly, but quietly, he was in the saddle, and his feet home
in the stirrups. The colt stood stock-still, apparently petrified with
astonishment. Wally took himself unobtrusively out of the way, joining
Mr. Linton and Norah on the cap of the fence.
Jim leaned forward, patting the colt.
“Go on, stupid.” He touched the chestnut neck gently with the rein, and
the colt took a few uncertain steps forward, coming to a standstill in
bewilderment. The watchers on the fence were very quiet. Behind Jim two
new faces appeared, as Murty O’Toole and Black Billy climbed to good
positions.
“Baal that pfeller him goin’ to buck, mine thinkit,” said Billy, in low
tones of disappointment. “Him get walk about too much.”
“You let Mr. Jim alone, you black image of a haythen,” said Mr. O’Toole,
affably. “Think you can teach him how to break in a horse?”
“Not much,” said Billy, accepting the epithet and the criticism
cheerfully. “But mine like ’em buck—plenty! Wish Master Jim him wear
spurs.”
“Spurs—on that chestnut baby!” ejaculated Murty, in subdued accents of
horror. “Is it to butcher him ye’d like, then? Sure ye think every horse
needs as much encouragement as y’r old Bung-Eye. Sorra the horse I’d
give you to break, barring it was a camel; I’m told them needs
persuasion.”
“That pfeller mare Bung-Eye no good,” said Billy, scornfully—the
ancient piebald mare on which many of his duties were carried out, was
the chief bitterness of his life. “Mine thinkit she bin fall down—die,
plenty soon.”
“Not she!” chuckled Murty. “Don’t you hope it, me lad. Boss bin tell me
’tis Bung-Eye for you until you learn to ride a bit—if you ever do, an’
that’s no certainty, I’m thinking.” Then, as the outraged aborigine
turned his eyes upon him in speechless wrath, Murty grinned in friendly
fashion. “Never mind—there’s a quiet old pony mare running down in the
Far Plain, and we’ll see if you can’t have a thrifle of a turn on her,
if you’re good.”
Billy spluttered.
“Boss him bin say I could ride one of the young ones,” he protested.
Whatever Billy could or could not do, he could sit any horse that had
ever been handled. He had a wild, primeval desire to smite the broad,
good-humoured face grinning at him.
“The Boss said that, do ye say? Me poor lad, ye’ve misunderstood
him—‘twas to lead one about he meant!” Murty’s tone changed suddenly
and his smile faded. “Yerra now—look at that one!” he uttered.
The chestnut colt had made several unquiet attempts at progressing round
the yard. The weight on his back troubled him; there was a feeling
pervading him that he was being mastered, although he could no longer
see his conqueror. When he tried to break into a jog-trot there came on
his mouth a steady strain, gentle but quite determined, bringing him
instantly to a puzzled standstill. Then came a hint that more movement
was required of him—that he was expected to walk. But his mind was far
too excited for him to think of walking; he wanted to jog, to trot—to
break into a wild gallop that would rid him for ever of this strange,
perplexing Presence on his back. He came to a halt again, snorting.
“Go on, old chap!” Jim’s unspurred heel touched his side gently.
A sudden wild impulse came upon the colt. He flung himself forward,
plunging violently—snatched at the restraining bit, felt the strain on
his mouth and the pressure on his sides as Jim stiffened a little in his
seat; and then, quivering with one mad desire to be free, his head went
down and he bucked furiously. To the onlookers he seemed like a
ball—his head and tail tucked between his legs, his back humped until
the rider seemed perched upon the very apex. To and fro he went in one
paroxysm after another; writhing, twisting, pounding across yard until
brought up by the fence; coming to a standstill with a jerk after a wild
fit of bucking and then flinging himself into another yet more wild. Jim
sat him easily, his supple body giving a little to each furious bound,
but never shifting in the saddle. The five on the fence-cap watched him
breathlessly; however secure the rider may be there is a never-failing
excitement in watching a determined buck-jumper. And the chestnut was
bucking with a determination worthy of his good breeding.
He stopped suddenly, all four feet planted wide apart, panting heavily,
with nostrils dilated. For a moment it seemed as though he had enough.
Then his head went down again, he sprang into the air, bounding forward
with a sudden twist—the hardest buck of all to sit. It was too much for
the chestnut himself. As he landed he crossed his fore-feet, tripped,
and went headlong to the ground. A little cry broke from Norah, and
Wally drew in his breath sharply.
David Linton was off the fence almost before his son touched the earth.
Jim kicked his feet out of the stirrups as the colt tripped, and was
flung clear, not relinquishing his hold on the bridle. He landed easily,
and was up again as quickly as he had gone down, dusty but uninjured.
The chestnut lay on his side, panting, for a moment; then, with a
scramble, he came awkwardly to his feet. As he rose, Jim slipped into
the saddle. The whole incident was over so speedily that it seemed like
a trick of the imagination. David Linton gave an inaudible sigh of
relief, climbing back to his place on the cap of the rail.
The chestnut was beaten. He had done his worst, culminating in a display
that had shaken and alarmed him a good deal and had made his shoulder
ache badly; and the Presence on his back had not seemed disturbed at
all. It was evident that nothing could be done to annoy him; at the end
of a period which had been exceedingly trying for the colt himself, the
Presence was quite unruffled; not angry, not in any way moved, but
saying soothing things in his quiet voice, and patting his neck in the
same friendly way. The colt gave it up. Evidently it was prudent and
simpler to do as the Presence desired since in the long run it came to
the same thing, after much personal inconvenience if he resisted. The
fire died out of his wild eye, and the stiffness of his muscles relaxed.
In a moment he answered the rein meekly, and walked round the yard; and
when he found that he was expected to increase the pace to a trot, did
so awkwardly enough, but without any resistance.
Jim trotted him for a few minutes, pulled him up, and slipped to the
ground, talking to him, and patting the wet neck. Then he grinned up at
the trio on the fence.
“He’ll do now, I think,” he said. “That last outburst took all the
inquiring spirit out of him. You know, he hasn’t one little bit of vice;
he only wanted to know who was boss.”
“Did he hurt you, Jimmy?” Norah asked.
“Not a scrap, thanks. I’m awfully sorry the poor little chap came
down—it scared him. But he had to find out; and now we’ll be first-rate
friends—won’t we, old man?” This to the chestnut, who hung his head
meekly and looked comically like a naughty little boy released from the
corner. “Hope we didn’t give you a fright?”
“You were too quickly down and up for us to have much time for that,”
said his father, disguising the fact that in a moment of paternal
weakness he had moved with equal rapidity.
“There’s a lot of the tennis-ball in our Jimmy,” said Wally, bringing
his long legs over the fence and descending to earth. “Can’t keep him
down—what a nasty bit he’ll be for a solid, earnest German to tackle!
Going to rub him down, Jim?”
“Yes—bring me the things, Billy, and take this saddle,” Jim said,
addressing the dusky retainer, who hovered near, armed with cloths and
brushes. “No, I’ll do it myself, thanks; I want him to get thoroughly
used to me. Got a thistle for him, Norah?” And for the next quarter of
an hour the colt’s toilet proceeded with a thoroughness bent on
impressing the pupil with the knowledge that the human touch was really
a comforting thing and led to a tired chestnut baby ultimately feeling
good all over.
“There you are,” said Jim, giving him a final pat as he slipped off the
halter and watched him trot off into the freedom of the paddock. “When
you find out what to do with your legs and arrive at something
resembling a mouth, you’ll be worth riding. And now I’m going to give
myself a treat by getting on Garryowen and going to see how the fencers
are working in the new subdivision; they want a cheque on account, and I
want to see if they have earned it, before they get it. Who’s coming?”
“Me,” said Norah, with great and ungrammatical fervour.
“And me,” said Wally.
Jim looked at his father.
“Oh, well, we haven’t much more Billabong time left,” said David Linton,
smiling. “Me, too, I suppose.”
[Illustration: “Jim stiffened a little in his seat.”]
_From Billabong to London_] [_Page 62_