A BILLABONG DAY.
ONE of the men had found an injured wallaby in an outlying paddock. It
had caught in a sagging fence-wire, and broken its leg; the man, engaged
in restoring the fence to tautness, had found it lying helpless and
starving in a hollow. He was Murty O’Toole, and so he did not knock the
soft-eyed little beast on the head, as most stockmen would have done.
Murty had an Irishman’s tender heart. Besides, he knew Norah.
“Poor little baste!” he said, picking up the wallaby gently. It made no
resistance, but its great eyes were terrified, and he could feel the
thumping of its heart. He whistled over it. “Well, well—the treachery
of that barbed-wire! Broken, is it then; and me with never a thing to
mend ye! Well, Miss Norah ’ll be glad of the chance; she an’ Mr. Jim ’ll
make a job of ye, an’ they afther learnin’ first-aid, near as good as
doctors. Come along home now, an’ get fixed up.”
Norah had welcomed the invalid with enthusiasm. She had always kept tame
wallaby, which make one of the best Bush pets; and this one was a very
pretty specimen, the more attractive because of its helplessness and
pain. Jim set the broken leg deftly, and Norah took over the care of the
patient, which soon grew quite fearless and healed with the clean
thoroughness characteristic of wild animals. Before long it could hop
about the sheltered enclosure where it lived, never failing to limp to
meet her when she came to feed it.
The wallaby’s midday dinner was late to-day, since a job of mustering in
an outlying paddock had kept everyone out far beyond the usual luncheon
hour. Norah had hurried through the meal, excusing herself before the
others had finished, so that she might go to her patient. She was coming
back through the sunny garden, swinging her empty milk-tin, when a
curious sight met her gaze.
On the first verandah were two revolving figures; one immensely fat, the
other so thin that he seemed lost in the capacious embrace of the first.
As she came nearer, looking with puzzled eyes, it was evident that they
were Mrs. Brown and Wally; and that Mrs. Brown was not, indeed, the
embracer, but the most unwillingly embraced. From the open window of the
smoking-room came the voice of the gramophone, playing a waltz in time
more suited to an Irish jig; to which melody Wally was endeavouring to
tune his laggard partner’s footsteps. The unfortunate Brownie, purple of
face, did her best; but, for a lady weighing seventeen stone, the task
of emulating Wally would not have been easy at any time—and just now
Wally appeared to be compounded of quicksilver and electricity. His long
legs fairly twinkled; he gambolled and caracoled rather than danced.
Glimpses of his countenance, seen over Brownie’s shoulder as he twirled,
showed a vision of delirious joy. At the window behind him was Jim’s
face, scarcely less joyous. Mr. Linton, grinning broadly, was in a
doorway.
“Oh, Wally, aren’t you an ass?” Norah ejaculated, helpless with
laughter. “Brownie, dear, don’t let him kill you!”
“If she dies, it will be in a good cause,” Wally returned.
“Nevertheless, a substitute will do, and you’re a light-weight, Norah.
Thank you, ma’am”—to Mrs. Brown, whom he deposited in a chair, where
she subsided gaspingly. “Come along, Norah—let her go, Jim!” He seized
his hostess, and they spun up the verandah in a mad waltz, the wallaby’s
milk-can, which she had not had time to drop, banging cheerful time.
The gramophone having come to the end of its tether, ended in a
scratching howl, and Jim disappeared precipitately from the window.
Wally came to a standstill regretfully.
“I could have gone on for quite a while,” he uttered. “Bother you,
Jimmy—why couldn’t you keep her wound? Before we begin again, Norah, do
you mind laying aside that tin? It’s full of corners.”
“I’m not going to begin again,” said Norah, firmly, “so don’t delude
yourself. Now will you tell me why you’ve suddenly gone mad?” Then her
eye caught a leather bag lying open on the floor, and her face suddenly
flushed with delight. “Oh, Wally, it’s the mail—and you can go!”
“Of course it is,” Wally said, almost indignantly. “Do you think any
other cause could have induced me to waltz with Brownie at this hour of
day, no matter how much she wanted it?” There came a protesting gurgle
from Brownie, to which no one lent hearing.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” Norah caught Wally’s hand, and they pumped each other
enthusiastically. “I knew it must be all right, all the time, of
course—but it’s lovely to be sure. Were they nice, Wally?”
“Sweet as old pie,” said Wally, happily. “Mr. Dimsdale had waited to
communicate with Edward—and Edward was infesting a sugar mill somewhere
in the cane districts, and appeared to have taken special precautions to
dodge letters. However, he telegraphed to Mr. Dimsdale as soon as he did
hear—and he’s sent me an awfully jolly letter, and one to your father.
And old Dimmy’s written in his best style, giving me his blessing. And
they’ve sent word to school—won’t the Head kick! And they’ve fixed up
money. And everything’s glorious. Have another waltz, Brownie?”
“No, indeed, thank you kindly,” said Brownie, hastily, grasping the arms
of her chair in the manner affected by those about to have a tooth
pulled. “Me figure’s against it, Mr. Wally, my dear, and it isn’t hardly
fair. If the day ever comes when you’re seventeen stone, you’ll
know—not as it seems likely, but you can’t be sure, and I was thin once
meself. Came on me like a blush—and me that active! Ah, well, I’ll be
thin enough with worry by the time you’re all safe home again.”
“Rubbish, Brownie,” said Jim, and smiled at her affectionately. “You and
Murty will be so busy managing the place that you won’t have time to
think of worry.”
“And there’ll be letters every week,” Norah added. “We’ll have such
heaps to tell you. And you’ll have to write to us.”
“Me!” said Brownie, visibly shuddering at the prospect. “Gettin’
letters’ll be all we’ll have to look forward to, Miss Norah, my
dear—but when it comes to writing them, it’s another thing. I never was
’andy at the pen, as you know. In my day our mothers thought a sight
more of making us ’andy about the house and with a cooking-stove. Girls
is very different nowadays. Even Mary and Sarah, though goodness knows
I’ve done me best with them.”
“Oh, they’re quite good girls,” said Mr. Linton. “They should be, too,
after the years you’ve trained them.”
“And they’ll write and say all you want if you’re tired, Brownie
darling,” Norah put in.
“I dunno,” said Brownie, despondently, “I’m stupid enough writing
myself, but I’d be stupider yet dealing with a—what is it, Mr. Jim
dear, when it’s someone as writes for you? Something about ham.”
“Amanuensis?” hazarded Jim.
“Yes, that’s it. No, I’ll have to do my own letters, an’ they’ll be bad
enough. You’ll have to excuse them, dearie.”
“The only thing I wouldn’t excuse would be not getting them,” Norah
answered. “I’ve had them whenever I was away at school, and you know I
can’t do without them, Brownie. Why, you tell me things no one else even
thinks of. And I’ll want home letters more than ever when I’m really
away from Australia. It was bad enough when I was at school; but to be
as far away from Billabong as England——” Norah stopped expressively.
“You’ll have all I can send you, my precious,” said Brownie tearfully.
“I s’pose it’s no good for me to make up a hamper now and then? Me
plum-cakes’ll keep a year!”
“I only wish it were,” said Jim. “Your hampers have brightened my life
from my youth up, Brownie—not that I ever gave one of your cakes a
chance to keep three days! But I expect we’ll have to wait until we come
home again. One thing’s quite certain, we’ll all be ready for your
cooking when we come back.”
“Bless his heart!” said Brownie. It was plain that comforting visions of
a culinary orgie of welcome were already materialising in her mind.
“It’ll be a great day for the station when we get you all again—and be
sure you bring Mr. Wally too. I’ll have pikelets ready for you, Mr.
Wally!”
“I’ll think of them, Brownie,” said Wally, his voice very kindly. “And
anyhow, one of the best things about getting back will be to see your
old face again. There now, I’ve made a sentimental speech. Take me away
Jim, and give me some work.”
“Haven’t any,” Jim answered, lazily. “You forget I’ve been out since
daylight, old man—at an hour when I believe you were snoring musically,
I was giving the chestnut an early morning lesson. He went jolly well
too; easy as a rocking-chair. Now it’s three o’clock and I’m thinking of
claiming the eight-hours-day of the honest Australian working-man.”
“Well, it’s not often you limit yourself to it,” his father said.
“Don’t encourage him, sir,” Wally remarked. “Family affection doubtless
blinds you to the idleness which has so long grieved me in your son’s
character——”
“Losh!” said Jim, in astonishment. He rose, and fell upon the hapless
Mr. Meadows, conveying him to the lawn, where they rolled over together
like a pair of St. Bernard puppies. Finally Jim, somewhat dishevelled,
sat up on the prostrate form of his friend.
“I don’t mind your maligning me at all,” he said. “But when you take to
talking like a copy-book, it’s time someone dealt with you, young
Wally.” He shifted his position, thereby eliciting a smothered howl from
the victim. “You needn’t think that because you’re going to the war you
can make orations. Not here, anyhow.”
“Take him off, somebody—Norah!” came from the earth, in a voice much
impeded by grass.
“Indeed, I won’t—you have me pained, as Murty says,” replied Norah
callously. “He never did anything to you that you should talk in that
awful way. You might be your own grandmother!”
“You’re not a nice family!” said Wally, gaspingly. He achieved a violent
convulsion, and Jim, taken off his guard, lost his balance and fell
over—of which his adversary was not slow to take advantage. The battle
that followed was interrupted by the hasty arrival of Billy, his ebony
countenance showing unusual signs of excitement. The tangled mass of
arms and legs on the lawn resolved itself into its original parts, and
Jim endeavoured to appear the manager of Billabong, even with much grass
in his hair.
“What is it, Billy?”
“Murty him send me,” Billy explained. “Big pfeller shorthorn bullock him
bogged in swamp—baal us get him out. Want rope an’ horses.”
“Where?”
“Far Plain. That pfeller silly-fool bullock—him just walk in boggy
place. Big one—nearly fat.”
Jim whistled.
“Nice game getting him out will be. Well, you’ve got your job, Wally,
old man, and if you take my advice, you’ll borrow some of my dungarees
to tackle it. There’ll be much mud. Billy, you run up old Nugget and put
a collar and trace chains on him, and lead him out. Take some
bags—we’ll bring ropes. Tell one of the boys to saddle our
horses—they’re in the stable.”
“Can I come, Jim?” Norah asked.
“Yes, of course; but you can’t very well help, so your habit will be all
right; good thing you hadn’t got out of it,” said Jim casting a glance
at his sister’s neat divided skirt and blue serge coat. “You might cut
along, if you’re ready, and hurry up the horses; Wally and I must go and
change.” The boys clattered into the hall and up the stairs.
Mr. Linton, who had retreated to his office, came out at the noise.
“Anything the matter, Norah?”
Norah explained briefly, securing her felt hat the while.
“H’m,” said her father. “No, I won’t come out, I think Jim and Murty can
manage without me; and Green and I are up to our eyes in the books. Take
care of yourself, my daughter.” He returned to the society of the
warlike Green, while Norah raced across to the stables.
A rather small lad of sixteen, a newcomer whom Murty was endeavouring to
train in the place of one of the enlisted stockmen, was trying to saddle
Jim’s big bay, Garryowen—an attempt easily defeated by Garryowen by the
simple process of walking round and round him. Norah came to his
assistance, and the horses were ready by the time Jim and Wally, clad in
suits of blue dungaree, ran over from the house.
“Good girl,” said Jim, well understanding that the new boy would not
have finished the task unaided. He dashed into the harness-room,
returning with two coils of strong rope, which he tied firmly to his
saddle. Norah and Wally were already mounted and out of the stable-yard.
There was a keen westerly wind in their faces as they cantered steadily
across the paddocks. Billabong was looking its worst; the drought had
laid heavy hands upon it, and its beauty had vanished. On every side the
plains stretched away, broken here and there by belts of timber or by
the long, grey, snake-like lines of fencing. The trees were the only
green thing visible, since Australian forest trees do not shed their
leaves; but they looked old and faded, and here and there a dead one
stood grey and lonely, like a gaunt sentinel. Grey too were the plains;
their withered grass merged into the one dull colour. It was sparse and
dry; even though the season was winter, a little cloud of dust followed
the riders’ track.
They crossed the river by a rough log bridge, built by Mr. Linton and
his men from trees felled by the stream. The dry logs clattered under
the horses’ feet. Looking up and down stream the water showed only a
shrunken remnant of its usual width, with boggy patches of half-dried
mud between the thin trickle and the dusty banks, where withered docks
reared gaunt brown stems. Even the riverside was dull and lifeless. But
the wattle-trees, bravely defying the drought, already showed among
their dark-green masses of foliage the buds that hinted at the
spring-time shower of gold.
“This time last year,” said Jim, “the river came down in flood, and all
but washed this bridge away.”
“It doesn’t look much like a flood now,” Wally remarked, surveying the
apology for a river with disfavour.
“No—it’s hard to imagine that it was over the banks and half across
these paddocks. By Jove, we had a busy time!” Jim said, reminiscently.
“It came down quite suddenly; it was pretty high to begin with, and then
a big storm brought a lot of snow off the mountains, and whish! down
came the old river. We had sheep in these paddocks, and saving them
wasn’t an easy job. Sheep are such fools.”
“Sheep and turkey-hens,” said Norah, “have between them an extraordinary
amount of idiocy.”
“They have,” agreed her brother. “Our blessed old Shrops. decided that
they would like to die—so, instead of clearing out on the rises at the
far side of the paddocks, they camped on little hills near the river;
and, of course, the water came all round them, and there they were,
stranded on chilly little islands, surrounded by a healthy brown flood.
Some slipped in and were drowned; the rest huddled together, and bleated
in an injured way, as if they hadn’t had a thing to do with getting
themselves into the fix.”
“Could you get them off?” Wally asked.
“Oh, most of them. Where the flood wasn’t very deep we just drove the
big cart in and loaded them into it. It was too deep in a lot of places,
and we had to get the old flat-bottomed boat from the lagoon near the
house and go paddling over the paddocks. That was all right, but the
stupid brutes wouldn’t let themselves be saved, if they could help it;
whether it was cart or boat they disliked it equally, and we had to swim
after half of them—they simply hurled themselves into the water rather
than be rescued. And when it comes to life-saving in pretty turbulent
flood-water, you can’t find anything much more unpleasantly awkward than
a big woolly Shropshire, very indignant at not being allowed to drown.”
“Jolly sort of job,” commented Wally. “Water cold?”
Jim gave a shiver of remembrance.
“Well, it was chiefly snow-water,” he answered “I don’t want to strike
anything much colder. We were in and out of it all day for three days
and the wonder was that some of us didn’t die—poor old Murty finished
up with a shocking bad cold. My share was earache, and that was bad
enough. But we had a job the week after that was nearly as exciting.”
“What was that?”
“Well, the flood-water went back, leaving a line of débris right across
the paddock—a solid belt of rubbish about six feet wide, made of reeds,
and sticks and leaves, and all the small stuff the water could gather up
as it came over the grass. Dry reeds were the basis of it—there must
have been tons of them. Then we had a few days of early spring
weather—you know those queer little bursts of almost hot days we get
sometimes. I was standing still on this layer of rubbish one morning,
looking at a bullock across the paddock when I felt something on my
leg—looked down, and it was a tiger-snake!”
“Whew-w!” whistled Wally.
“Only a little chap—but any tiger-snake is big enough to be nasty,” Jim
said. “It seemed puzzled by my leather gaiter; I kicked it off and
picked up a stick to kill it. And I nearly picked up another snake!”
“Some people are never satisfied,” Wally said, severely. “Were you
trying to qualify for a snake-charmer?”
“Not much—I can’t stand the brutes,” Jim answered. “I killed those two
and then went hunting among the rubbish—and do you know, it was simply
alive with snakes! The flood had brought them, I suppose, and the warm
sun had encouraged them to come out; anyhow, there they were, and a nice
job we had getting rid of them. I killed eight or ten more, and then it
struck me that the occupation was likely to last some time, so I went
home to lunch, and brought the men out afterwards. We had to turn over
every bit of that rubbish with forks—it was too damp to burn—and I
forget how many snakes we got altogether, but it was enough to stock a
menagerie a good many times over. Beastly game—we all saw snakes for a
week after it was finished, and I dreamed of them every night.”
“I should think you did,” Wally said, with sympathy. “Did any one get
bitten?”
“No—they were all pretty small and very sleepy. I daresay they thought
it was a little rough on them; after all, they hadn’t asked to be
brought from their happy homes and dumped out on the plain. But a
snake’s a snake,” finished Jim, emphatically. “It doesn’t pay you to
show mercy to one because he’s small.”
“It does not; he grows up, and bites you,” said Wally, grimly, referring
to a painful episode in his own career.
“Indeed, he doesn’t always wait until he grows up,” Norah put in. “Even
a baby tiger-snake can be venomous enough to be unpleasant. I don’t know
why snakes exist at all; they say everything has its uses, but I never
can see what use there is in the snake tribe.”
“Neither can I—unpleasant brutes!” Wally agreed. “You get used to them,
but you never learn to love them—unless you’re a freak. I knew an old
swagman in Queensland who made pets of them, though. He had a collection
of about a dozen, which he said were poisonous, but I believe, myself,
he’d taken out their fangs.”
“If he hadn’t, it’s the sort of thing nobody waits to prove,” Jim said.
“You have to investigate a snake pretty closely before you find out if
he has fangs or not; and if he has, the enquiry is apt to be unhealthy
for you.”
“That’s so,” agreed Wally. “No one ever waited to investigate old
Moriarty’s serpents. He made them pay very well; he would run up a good
big bill at a hotel, and borrow as much money as he could from men who
were there, drinking; and then he would pull out his snakes in a casual
way in a crowded bar-room. Well, it used to work like a charm—most men
can tackle a snake or two in a room, but when it comes to seeing a dozen
squirming in different ways, people are likely to get rattled. Old
Moriarty could clear out a room in quicker time than any fire-alarm. The
bar-lady, if she didn’t escape with the first rush, would faint, or have
a ladylike fit of hysterics; and by the time anyone collected enough
presence of mind to return, Moriarty would be far away, generally
helping himself to a couple of bottles of whisky as he went.”
“Horrid old pig!” was Norah’s comment.
“He wasn’t a nice man,” Wally agreed. “Still I suppose you might call
him a genius in his own particular line. Anyway, he travelled all over
Southern Queensland, leaving behind him a trail of memories of serpents
and missing cash.”
“What became of him?” Jim asked.
“What I believe becomes of every crank who goes in for
snake-catching—he got bitten at last. He lost his snakes one by one;
you see, quite often one or two would get killed when he let them loose
in a bar, if they happened to wriggle up against a man who was sober and
had his stockwhip handy. Then he tried the trick once too often; he came
to a place where there was a drover who had seen him play his game in
another township, and this fellow warned everyone else, and told them he
was sure the snakes were really harmless. So when Moriarty let them go,
everyone was ready, and nobody fled—but in about two minutes there
wasn’t a live wriggler left of all his stock-in-trade.”
“That was awkward for Moriarty,” Jim remarked “What did he do? Was he
wild?”
“I guess he was pretty wild. But from all we could hear, he hadn’t a
chance to do anything, because things became so actively unpleasant for
him. The drover was one from whom he’d borrowed money previously; and he
knew there was no chance of getting it back, so he was annoyed. He told
the story of Moriarty’s misdeeds until everyone else felt annoyed too,
and they ducked the old sinner in a horse-trough outside, and then
escorted him gently but firmly from the township, riding him on a
fence-rail. It was summer, so it really didn’t hurt him, but it
discouraged him.”
“Still, he went catching snakes again?” Norah asked.
“Oh, yes. I suppose he felt they were his only friends; they must have
twin-souls to a certain extent. If a snake wasn’t your natural affinity
you couldn’t go about with it in your pocket, could you?”
“I don’t expect you could,” said Jim, laughing. “I can’t imagine doing
it under any circumstances whatever; but there’s no accounting for
tastes, and your Moriarty seems to have been an unusual gentleman. I
suppose he felt lonely without his pets. One would.”
“One certainly would,” Wally assented. “Fancy a dozen of ’em wriggling
about you! Anyhow, Moriarty went off into the bush after more, and had
pretty good hunting; he turned up on our station with five or six. Of
course, he behaved all right there, and didn’t attempt to show them
unless he was asked—and, of course, we youngsters were as keen as
mustard to see them. We always enjoyed a visit from Moriarty, and he
used to be very careful with the snakes, not to run any risks for us. He
was really quite a decent old chap, except for whisky; when he couldn’t
get any you might have easily mistaken him for a respectable citizen.”
“Is that the kind you keep in Queensland?” enquired Jim, grinning.
“Don’t know,” returned Wally, evenly—“they wouldn’t let me mix in
respectable circles since I took to associating with you. However,
Moriarty stayed with us a few days, and then went off into the bush
again, saying he wanted more snakes. We never saw him again, poor old
chap; but one of the boundary-riders came upon his body a few days
later.”
“Dead?”
“Oh, yes, quite dead. He had evidently been bitten by a snake. He had a
theory that if one did bite him, it wouldn’t hurt him, and he’d always
said that he wouldn’t do anything to cure himself—that he was too tough
for poison to hurt him. All these snake-charming idiots say that sort of
thing. Well, old Moriarty found out his mistake, as they all do—too
late.”
“Poor old chap!” said Norah.
“Yes—we were all jolly sorry for old Moriarty. Of course, he was really
an absolute reprobate; but he always behaved decently on our station,
and he used to be jolly kind to us boys. We were lonely kids, and the
place was at the back of beyond—hardly a soul ever came there, and we
welcomed Moriarty’s visits tremendously. He was such an unusual animal.
Ah, well, rest his sowl, as Murty would say. I don’t suppose he’d have
done any good with himself, so perhaps it was as well he went out.”
They had been riding through a belt of sparse growing timber, the track
marked by the wheels of the bullock-drays that were sent to bring
firewood to the homestead. Now they emerged upon an open plain, where
quicker going was possible. Just ahead was Billy, jogging along upon the
hated Bung-Eye, whose piebald sides bore many marks of his spurs. He was
leading a heavy black horse; one of the generally useful “slaves” to be
found on any station, capable of being used as hack or stock-horse, in
buggy, cart, or plough, and equally handy in any capacity. It was said
of Nugget that in an emergency he was quite agreeable to pulling a load
with his tail; and it was known that by means of a halter fastened to
that useful appendage he had once “skull-dragged” a jibbing horse home.
Nothing came amiss to him. If he had a temper, it was never shown. In
good seasons or bad, he throve, and under no circumstances was he sick
or sorry. His breeding was extremely doubtful, but in all that matters
he was a perfect gentleman.
Billy looked enviously at the unhampered riders as they swept past him.
He hated slow progress; to him, as to most natives, a horse was a thing
which should be kept at a high speed, and it was the sorrow of his life
that the work demanded of him very often meant quiet going. It was bad
enough to have to jog over the paddocks on lazy old Bung-Eye, leading
Nugget, heavy-footed and with trace-chains clanking dismally, without
being forced to watch these cheerful people tear by him on horses that
he would have bartered most of his small worldly possessions to ride. He
jerked Nugget’s leading-rein angrily, whereof the old black horse took
not the slightest notice. Nugget was certainly not a cheerful
proposition to lead; he went at his own pace or none, and at any attempt
to hustle him he simply leaned heavily on the bit, becoming in Murty’s
phrase, “as aisy as a stone wall.” At the moment. Billy was blind to all
his undoubted moral excellences.
Half a mile across the paddock was a swampy lagoon. Ordinarily it was
fringed with a thick belt of green rushes, which made splendid cover for
black duck, and always gave good shooting in the season. Now, however,
it was half dried up, and the rushes, withered and yellow, rattled
cheerlessly in the keen wind. There was a wide expanse of dried mud near
the bank; then another expanse, deep chocolate in colour, not yet quite
dry. Beyond was the water, dotted with clumps of rushes, and looking
rather like pea-soup. The mud was deeply indented with hoof-marks. A
loud croaking of innumerable frogs filled the air.
A dozen yards from the edge stood a big shorthorn bullock, girth deep in
water. He was hopelessly bogged. From time to time he made a violent
struggle to free his legs from the mud that held them; but each attempt
only left him sunk more deeply. It was quite evident that he fully
understood the seriousness of his plight. His sides heaved with his
panting breath; his great eyes were wild with fear. Now and then he gave
a low bellow, full of anxiety.
“I’ll bet he’s cold!” said Jim, with emphasis. “The great stupid ass!
Why couldn’t he have the sense to keep out of a bog-hole like that?” He
jumped off, and proceeded to tie Garryowen’s bridle to a tree. “Been at
him long, Murty?”
“Sure I kem upon him two hours ago, an’ I’ve been doin’ me endeavours to
shift him ever since,” replied Mr. O’Toole, picking his way across the
hoof-marked mud to meet the riders. His usually cheery countenance wore
a doleful expression, and was obscured by many muddy streaks. Mud, in
fact, clothed him from head to foot; in addition to which he was
extremely wet. He cast a look at his hands, plastered and dripping.
“Sorry I can’t take the pony for ye, Miss Norah.”
“It’s all right, thank you, Murty,” Norah answered, securing Bosun. “I
wish I had known you’d been at this horrible job so long. I could have
brought you out some tea. You must be frozen.”
“Don’t you worry; I’ve something better,” said Jim, producing a flask,
at the sight of which Murty’s eyes brightened.
“Well, I’ll not be sorry for a drink,” he said, gratefully. “Cold! It’d
freeze a poley bear to be standin’ in that water; and that’s what I’ve
been doin’ these two hours, coaxin’ of that onnatural baste. Thanks, Mr.
Jim.” His teeth chattered against the silver cup as he drank.
“I knew you’d need it,” Jim said. “This isn’t a winter job. Mud deep,
Murty?”
“Och, deep as you like!” said Murty lucidly. He handed back the cup.
“’Tis good to feel that sendin’ a taste of a glow through a frozen man!
The mud’s deeper than the water, Mr. Jim—there’s mighty little of that.
Good sticky mud too; it takes a powerful grip of the boot.”
“Have you moved him at all?”
“I have not. He’s precisely where he was when I found him, barrin’ he’s
sunk deeper. I tried driving and I tried pulling; Billy an’ I got our
stirrup-leathers joined and did our divilmost to haul him out; and I’ve
beaten the poor baste most unfeeling. There’s no stirring him. So I sent
Billy in f’r ye, and I’ve been employing me time laying down logs an’
slabs all round him, the way he’ll get a howlt for his feet when we do
move him—an’ have something f’r ourselves to stand on while we’re
getting the tackling on to him. That same is needed.” Mr. O’Toole looked
down ruefully at his mud-plastered feet and legs. “Near bogged I was
meself, an’ I beltin’ him; a good thing f’r me I got a howlt on his
tail, though I expect he thought it was a misfortunit thing for him. But
it was him or me.”
“You certainly must have had a cheerful time,” Jim observed. “I’d sooner
have lots of jobs than laying down a wood pavement under water in this
weather.”
“Well, it passes the time away, an’ that’s about all you can say f’r
it,” said Murty, grimly. “Here’s that black image. ’Twas all I wished
wan of us had been on old Nugget—we’d have skull-dragged the baste out
somehow, before he sank as deep as he is now. But we’ll manage it nice
an’ pleasant, with all that tackling.”
“I hope so,” Jim said, surveying the muddy water a little doubtfully.
“We’ll have a good try, anyhow. Better stay out of the water now, Murty;
you’ve had quite enough. We can rope him.”
“Is it me?” queried Mr. O’Toole, indignantly. “’Tis only used to it I
am—there’s no need f’r you to wet y’r feet at all. Billy an’ I can fix
it.”
Jim laughed.
“I might have known you wouldn’t be sensible,” he said. “Come on, then,
you obstinate old Irishman!” He picked up a coil of rope and some
sacking and marched off into the water, followed by his henchmen.
The big shorthorn seemed to understand that the new arrivals were bent
on helping him, for he showed no sign of fear as they waded across,
stumbling in the boggy mud and tripping over Murty’s unseen and uneven
pavement of logs. To stand on logs hidden under water is never the
easiest of pursuits—the log possessing an almost venomous power of
tipping up; and when such action on the part of the log renders its
victim exceedingly likely to be dogged by plumping him violently into
mud, the excitement becomes a trifle wearing. Norah, left alone on dry
land beside Nugget, who slumbered peacefully, was divided between mirth
and anxiety. To the looker-on there was much that was undoubtedly
comical.
“Scissors!” ejaculated Wally, making a mis-step and losing his balance
altogether. A violent splash resounded as he struck the water,
disappearing momentarily in a cloud of spray that half drenched his
companions. Mr. Meadows arose like a drowned rat, amidst unfeeling
laughter.
“Can’t you stand up, you old duffer?” queried Jim—and promptly lost the
use of one leg, which sank so far into the yielding mud that it was all
its owner could do to avoid sitting down in the water. Prompt action
rescued him, amidst jeers from Wally.
“Of all the evil places for a stroll!” ejaculated Jim. “What on earth
possessed you to come in here at all, you owl?” This to the bullock, who
very naturally made no reply.
“Contrary they do be, by nature,” said Murty, picking his way from log
to log. “You’d wonder, now, what he’d expect to be finding; and any fool
could have towld it’d be boggy. Well, he has his own troubles coming,
an’ serve him right.”
The bullock snorted uneasily when he found himself the centre of
attraction: a matter brought home to him sharply by the fact that Jim
slipped on a log near him, and fell against him with a violence that
would have disturbed anything less firmly bogged.
“No good trying to move him by ourselves, I suppose, Murty?” queried
Jim, recovering himself.
“Not a bit—we’ll help the ould horse, but ’tis Nugget that’ll pull him
out,” rejoined the stockman. “I doubt if we’d shift him in a month of
Sundays. Let ye be catching that rope, Mr. Jim, when I pass it under
him.”
To adjust the tackling was a matter requiring care, in order to avoid
injury to the bullock. They padded him with sacking wherever a rope was
likely to cut when the strain came upon it, with due regard that no
knots should press unduly. It took time—standing as the workers were on
slippery hidden logs that moved and squelched under them like living
things, and in icy water that chilled them through and through, and
numbed their fingers as they wrestled with the hard rope. When it was
done Norah led Nugget in to the edge of the boggy mud, and the
trace-chains attached to his collar were joined to the tackling on the
bullock.
“Lead him on, and we’ll see if he can shift him, Nor,” Jim called.
“Come up, Nugget,” responded Norah. She took the black horse by the
head; and Nugget, suddenly realising that great things were demanded of
him, woke up and went forward with a steady strain. The bullock, finding
himself more uncomfortable than he had ever dreamed of being, bellowed
indignantly. But nothing happened. The prisoner did not budge an inch.
“No good,” Jim sang out. “Back, Nugget,” and Nugget stopped and backed
with thankful promptness. “We’ll have to rig up some more tackling.”
The broad leather saddle-girths made an excellent foundation for
side-ropes. Jim and Billy took one, Murty and Wally the other. They
waded out until they were on firm ground. The bullock stood glaring at
them, wild-eyed.
“Now, Nor—and all together!”
The tackling tightened. On either side, the rope-holders threw their
weight on the stiffening cords, like men in a tug of war. Norah,
stumbling on the hoof-printed mud, urged Nugget by voice and hand. There
was a minute’s hard pulling.
“Slack off,” Jim commanded. “Back him, Norah.” Men and horse panted in
unison, getting their breath anew.
“I believe he came a little,” Wally said.
“Something came,” Jim agreed. “Let’s hope it wasn’t the tackling giving.
We’ll know this time, anyhow. Ready, boys?”
Once more the strain came. The four rope-holders struggled together,
their muscles standing out like knotted cords. Nugget, knowing his
business just as well as they, put his head down and leaned against the
strain, gaining foot by foot. An anguished bellow broke from the
bullock. There came a sucking, squelching sound.
“He’s coming!” Norah gasped. “Pull, boys!”
A final struggle, and the strain eased suddenly. The mud gave—the
bullock, feeling himself freed from the horror that had gripped his
legs, plunged stiffly forward, tripped, and fell bodily into the water.
They dragged him out on his side, a pitiful, mud-plastered object. It
required considerable coaxing to get him upon his feet, and then he
stood still, too numbed and confused to move, while the tackling was
removed.
“There you are,” Jim said at last, dealing him a hearty blow with a
girth. “Move on—you can’t stand there all night, you know.” But it was
only after repeated blows that the rescued one obeyed, stumbling across
the mud to the safety of the bank, where he stood, trembling with cold.
“We can’t leave him here,” Jim said. “He’s too cold altogether—he’ll
have to be housed to-night. Billy, you bring him in slowly—hitch old
Nugget to him if he won’t travel.”
“Plenty,” said Billy, lugubriously. He also was cold, and the prospect
of tailing in behind the numbed bullock was anything but pleasant. He
began his slow journey as the other four cantered off across the
paddock.
Mr. Linton came out to the stable yard to greet them. He had been
watching for some time before he heard the beat of far-off hoofs, and
the echo of young voices, singing in the dusk.
“Well, you seem cheerful enough,” he said. “Job tough?” The light from
the stables fell on his mud-covered son, and he laughed a little. “It
was as well you put on dungarees, Jim.”
“Just as well,” said Jim, laughing. “Got him out, anyhow.”
“You’ve had a long day,” said his father.
“Have I?” Jim asked. “Oh, I suppose I have! Nothing to growl at, at any
rate.” He straightened his broad shoulders as they walked across to the
house. “Billabong days never do seem long, somehow. I wonder if——”
Whatever the conjecture was, it went no further. His hand fell on
Norah’s shoulder as they went in together.
[Illustration: “‘He’s coming!’ Norah gasped. ‘Pull, boys!’”]
_From Billabong to London_] [_Page 89_