DURBAN.
THE _Perseus_ was coming gently in to Durban Harbour, past a long
breakwater and a high green bluff that towered sheer from the water.
Some one had just told Norah that it swarmed with monkeys, and she was
straining curious eyes upwards, trying vainly to pierce the dense growth
that covered it.
“Well, it may,” she said aloud, in accents of disappointment. “But I
can’t see a sign.”
“A sign of what?” asked Wally’s cheerful voice.
“Monkeys. Mr. West says they are there, and I did want to see them. To
see them . . .
“‘Walk together.
Holding each other’s tails,’”
quoted Wally, dreamily. “It would be lovely; only they’re not supposed
to do it in the middle of the day. Personally, I don’t like monkeys.”
“Well, neither do I,” Norah said. “But it’s all so wonderful—to think
I’m actually coming to a place where there can be such things walking
about, and not in a zoo. Wally, doesn’t it make you feel queer?”
“Yes, rather,” admitted Wally. “I’ve been pinching myself, to try and
realise that I was really coming to Africa. Africa has always seemed so
awfully far off—a sort of confused dream of Scipio, and Moors, and
dervishes, and lions, and King Solomon’s Mines, and the Mountains of the
Moon. The Boer War brought it nearer, of course, but even so, it was
still pretty mysterious. You know, I was in Tasmania last year, and
Edward’s car broke down near a saw-mill on the Huon. I was poking about
while they fixed her up, and I sat down on a pile of sleepers.”
“Yes?” said Norah, as he paused. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“No reason—only I got talking to one of the men, and he told me those
sleepers were being cut for the Cape to Cairo railway. That made me feel
awfully queer—to think I’d been sitting on a sleeper that was going to
lie out in the middle of Africa, and have fiery, untamed lions and
giraffes and elephants strolling across it.”
“For all you know it never got further than a Cape Town suburb,” said
Jim, unfeelingly.
“Oh, get out!” Wally uttered, in disgust. “If I like to think of the zoo
walking over it, why shouldn’t I?”
“Why not, indeed—when it began with a donkey sitting on it?” grinned
Jim. “Anyhow, here’s old Africa; and I don’t see that this part of it is
unlike any other old wharf I’ve seen.”
They were slowly coming in towards the pier. On the left lay a grey
warship, workmanlike and trim, with smoke coming lazily from her four
funnels; they could catch glimpses of white-clad sailors on her deck.
There were many ships lying at the long wharves. Ashore, the streets
were bare and brown and dusty. It was Saturday afternoon, and there were
few people about.
“It doesn’t look exciting,” Wally admitted. “Not much of King Solomon’s
Mines about this outlook, anyhow. But you can’t judge any place by its
wharves. These seem much like the Melbourne ones, only dirtier. You
would think Melbourne was awful enough if you judged it by its ports.”
“It looks lovely back there,” Norah said, indicating a long semicircle
of green hills that rose behind the dusty town.
“That’s the Berea, where all the lucky people of Durban live,” said the
doctor, coming up. “You must take a trip round there. Going to stay
ashore, Miss Norah?”
“Yes—Dad says so,” Norah answered. “The captain advised him—he says
that it would be horrid to be on the ship here for two days.”
“And she coaling!” said the doctor, feelingly. “It’s horrible—dirty,
noisy, and hot, and your cabin has to be always locked, because the
Kaffir boys are everywhere, and they’d steal the clothes off your back
or the pipe out of your mouth.”
“That’s what the captain said. So we’re going to a hotel.” Norah gave
vent suddenly to a little jig of delight, principally executed on one
foot.
“Why, what’s the matter?” the doctor asked.
“Look!” said Norah. “They’re Kaffirs, aren’t they? I haven’t seen any
before.” She pointed to a group of men coming across the wharf
yard—muscular, brown fellows, bare-footed, many of them stripped to the
waist, and all chattering and laughing among themselves.
The doctor stared.
“Yes, they’re Kaffirs,” he admitted, without any enthusiasm. “And a low
set of animals they are, too.”
“They don’t look exactly lovely,” Norah said. “Only you see, it’s so
queer to me to be in a country where there are coloured people
everywhere. I can’t help feeling excited.”
“And it’s within my memory,” said the doctor, “that an Australian boy
came to my school—and we English boys were all quite indignant because
he could speak our language, and because he wasn’t black! We had a kind
of idea that every one in Australia was black!”
“But how queer!” said Norah, laughing.
“That’s what we said when we discovered that he was white. But you have
seen your aborigines, haven’t you, Miss Norah?”
“Oh, I’ve seen them, of course!” Norah answered, “some of them, that is.
There are not so very many left now, you know, especially in Victoria;
they are dying out fast, and the remaining ones are principally kept in
their special settlements. And I never remember enough of them to make
it seem that they were really the people of the country.”
“Poor wretches!” said the doctor. “It makes one feel a bit sorry for
them.”
“It wouldn’t if you knew them,” Jim put in. “They’re a most unpleasant
crowd—the lowest, I believe, in the scale of civilisation. Useless,
shifty, lazy, thieving—you can’t trust many of them. They will steal,
and they won’t work.”
“But I’ve heard you speak of one that you employ,” said the doctor.
“Oh, Billy! But I always tell Dad that Billy is the only decent black
fellow left. And he, like the curate’s egg, is only good in patches.
He’s very fond of us, and rather afraid of us, and so he works well—on
a horse. But if you take him off a horse he’s a most hopeless person.
Now those fellows”—Jim indicated the gang of chattering Kaffirs—“may
not be perfection, but at least they can be made to work.”
“Oh, they’ll work well enough!” admitted the doctor. “But they’re rather
like animals. Watch them, now.”
He took out a penny, holding it aloft for a moment. The ship was nearly
alongside the wharf, and his action was instantly noticed by the noisy
black throng below, who broke into imploring shouts. The penny, flung
among them, fell on the wharf, burying itself in coal-dust; but almost
before it had fallen the Kaffirs had hurled themselves upon it,
shouting, fighting, scrambling, packed somewhat like a football “scrum,”
with bare, brown backs heaving and struggling. Those unable to get into
the mêlée hovered on the outskirts, relieving their feelings by beating
the backs of their friends wildly. For a few moments complete
pandemonium reigned. Then a big fellow heaved himself out of the press
and sprang aside, brandishing the penny aloft, and grinning from ear to
ear. The others took his victory in perfect good part, grinning as
widely themselves, and making no attempt to interfere with the victor as
he tucked away his booty in some obscure corner of his ragged and scanty
clothing.
“Losh!” ejaculated Jim. “Never did I see such exertion over one small
penny!”
“It would be just the same over a halfpenny,” the doctor said. He threw
one—and the scene was reenacted, with equal vigour. The successful
combatant was a mere boy, who executed a dance of triumph as he
concealed the spoils of war.
The other passengers on the _Perseus_ had taken up the game by this, and
coppers fell freely on the wharf; some caught in the air, others made
the centres of more wild struggles.
“Big animals—that’s all they are,” the doctor said, looking at the
heaving mass of brown backs. “It’s all very well when they scramble for
coppers; but they will fight in precisely the same way for the most
disgusting-looking refuse from the cook’s galley, flung into the
coal-dust as those pence are flung. The winners gather up their prizes
and proceed to eat them, coal-dust and all. It isn’t an edifying sight.
You wouldn’t think it pretty if they were pariah dogs—but considered as
human beings, well——!” The doctor left his sentence eloquently
unfinished.
Along the deck came Mr. Linton, hurriedly, his face full of joy.
“Dad’s got news,” Jim said, quickly.
“News!—I should think so!” said his father. “We’ve got the _Emden_!”
“No!”
“Yes—and it’s the Australian ship that finished her—the _Sydney_.
Caught her off Cocos Island.”
“Our ship!” came in a delighted chorus. “Oh, that’s too good to be
true!”
“It is true, all the same—and more power to our baby Navy!” said the
squatter, beaming. “Of course, there was no real fight in it; the
_Emden_ was hopelessly outclassed. Still, the _Sydney_ was all there
when she was wanted. It’s worth being without news for so long, to get
anything as good as this.”
“Rather!” said Jim. “Thank goodness that blessed little wasp is out of
the way of the transports!”
“She was near enough to be dangerous,” said his father. “And she ran up
a big enough butcher’s bill for us before we got her.” His face
darkened; the exploits of the predatory German cruiser had not made
pleasant British reading. “She has a mighty big bundle of scalps to her
credit.”
“Well, she played the game,” Jim said. “As far as I can see, she’ll go
down to history as almost the only chivalrous fighter the Germans had. I
reckon her captain must be an uncommonly decent sort—he had to be a
pirate, but he was such a good fellow with it. You can’t help respecting
him.”
“No—nor being glad he’s out of business,” Wally said. “I’m not keen on
being sunk by any pirate, no matter how gentlemanly. But, of course,
though the _Emden_’s captain did treat people awfully well, not even a
German would sink ships regardless of human life”—wherein Wally spoke
without foreknowledge of later German tactics. “Any other news, Mr.
Linton?”
“I haven’t seen any papers yet, but I believe there is nothing
special—a sort of deadlock everywhere,” the squatter answered. His eyes
widened suddenly. “There’s an ornamental person! What do you think of
him, Norah?”
Norah turned, following the direction of his gaze. A man drawing a
rickshaw had just trotted gently to the wharf, and, putting down his
shafts, stood erect. Without doubt, he was an ornamental person. He was
a Zulu, considerably over six feet in height, and of powerful build,
with well-cut features, and a bearing proud enough to be something more
than a mere human horse. His dress was striking. A close-fitting tunic
of scarlet and white stripes, over short scarlet knickerbockers, only
served to outline his mighty frame. Across his back and chest were
criss-crossed strips of bright-coloured embroidery. There were bangles
on his arms, from wrist to shoulder, and bangles above his knees. He was
bare-footed—but his legs were painted in white from the knees downwards
in an elaborate design to represent boots and gaiters.
But his glory was in his head-dress. A tight-fitting skull-cap was
crowned with the most amazing erection that ever bewildered a newcomer.
Above his brow curved away two enormous bullock-horns, dyed scarlet.
Between them, a straight aigrette of porcupine quills quivered with
every movement; and behind, a long plume of pampas grass, of vivid
yellow, streamed downwards, until it touched a monkey-skin, which,
fastened to his shoulders, trailed down his back. From different angles
long scarlet feathers stuck out; and above each ear was fastened a
native snuff-box—a gourd the size of a tennis-ball, profusely
ornamented with brass. He was a heartsome sight.
“Good gracious!” Norah gasped. “Are there many like him?”
As if in answer a second rickshaw came round the corner of a wharf
building. The Zulu who drew it might have been the twin brother of the
first man in size and features; but his dress was blue and white, and
one of his bullock-horns curved up, and the other down, which gave him a
curiously rakish appearance. They were dyed scarlet and black, and his
feathers were of every colour of the rainbow. The first man broke into a
rapid torrent of guttural, clicking speech, and for a moment they
chattered like monkeys. Then they looked up, catching sight of the
watching passengers on the _Perseus_, and each broad, black face widened
into a smile from ear to ear, while they beckoned invitingly towards
their waiting chariots.
“Many!” said the doctor, laughing. “Oh, any number, Miss Norah—that is
the cab of Durban!”
“Daddy!—do we go in them?”
“Would you like to?” said her father, regarding the peculiar equipage
with some distrust.
“Rather!” said Norah, breathlessly.
“I don’t think I’d look well in one,” said Mr. Linton, doubtfully.
“Surely they’re meant for the young and frivolous, doctor?”
“Not a bit,” said the doctor, laughing. “Every one uses them—they’re
awfully handy things. You can’t possibly keep out of them!”
“That settles it!” said Norah, thankfully. “We’ll go, Daddy. Can we go
soon?”
“That red and white chap has put the evil eye on Norah,” said Wally,
laughing. “She’s bewitched, and small blame to her—did you ever see
such an insinuating smile? Don’t let us keep her waiting, Mr. Linton, or
she’ll turn into a black cat and disappear for ever—in a phantom
rickshaw!”
“We may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. The gangway was down;
already a swarm of Kaffir boys were coming on deck, unsavoury enough at
close quarters to cure even Norah of undue hankerings after this
particular brand of noble savage. Their bare feet left tracks of
coal-dust on the spotless decks, at which the doctor shrugged
disgustedly.
“Poor old ship—she’ll be coal from end to end soon,” he observed. “Are
all your cabins locked, by the way?”
“Yes—we handed them over to the steward’s care,” Mr. Linton answered.
“Suit-cases all on deck, boys?”
Everything was ready, and in a few moments was delivered to the hotel
agent, a busy half-caste who came on board suffused with his own
importance. Then, with no heavier impedimenta than cameras, the
Billabong party went ashore—to be received with a delighted air of
welcome by the rickshaw “boys.” Mr. Linton and Norah boarded one
rickshaw, Jim and Wally the other; the steeds gripped the shafts, said
authoritatively, “Sit ba-a-a-ck!” and started on the long jog to the
city, the little brass bells on their wrists jingling at each stride.
The rickshaw of Durban is an enticing vehicle. It holds two people
comfortably: it is well-cushioned, with an adjustable hood, and has
rubber tyres; and both it and its “boy” are as clean as polishing can
make them. The “boy’s” bare feet are almost soundless on the well-paved
roads; the rickshaw runs smoothly, with no apparent effort on the part
of the big Zulu. He is a cheerful soul, with a keen eye to the main
chance; his smile is always ready, and he passes other “boys” with a
quick volley of chaff that appears to give equal delight to both. Very
certainly he will demand double or treble fare if he thinks there is the
slightest chance of obtaining more than his due. He loves to appear
quite ignorant of English, once he has caught his passenger, and will
jog on serenely into space, oblivious of any command to stop, knowing
that he is piling up the sum to be paid him eventually. For these
reasons, it is as well to learn from the steward a few elementary native
words of command, which are apt to imbue the “boy” with a painful regard
for his fare’s might and learning. Failing this, a stick or umbrella
long enough to prod him is of much value.
With all these small drawbacks, the rickshaw “boy” is a delightful
person, combining the heart of a child with the business instincts of a
financier. Even when there is strong reason to suspect that he has
grossly overcharged you, it is quite impossible to be angry with him,
his smile is so friendly and his manner so insinuating. The effect might
be less marked if he were not so extremely ornamental. But a
chocolate-coloured, highly-polished Hercules, clad in shining raiment,
jingling with brazen ornaments, and crowned by a head-dress calculated
to excite envy in the Queen of Sheba, claims affection in a fashion
denied to lesser mortals.
Norah found her red and white-clad steed wholly delightful. She gave to
his great back, with its flowing monkey-skin, more attention than to the
dusty streets through which they were passing, though they, too, were
not without their special interests—groups of natives, Kaffir women
with their brown babies tucked into the corner of their bright shawls,
little native boys with the splendid uprightness that comes from many
generations who have carried loads on their heads, Indians in gaudy,
flowing draperies, and slouching half-castes, with evil, crafty faces.
Other rickshaws passed them, taking passengers back to ships at the
Point, or jogging down, empty, in the hope of picking up a fare. There
were long teams of mules, in Government ammunition carts; and in a
railway yard they caught sight of a train painted with the Red Cross,
and suddenly remembered that South Africa, too, was at war. Women were
sitting in the dust by the roadside, with great baskets of fruit—the
travellers from the land of fruit sniffed disdainfully at its quality;
and there were hawkers of cool drinks and ice-cream, which appeared to
be of a peculiarly poisonous nature. Then the unsavoury streets widened
to a fine road on the sea-front—and they ran past imposing hotels and
clubs, which looked out on a fleet of small yachts, lying at anchor or
lazily sailing before the light breeze; and then came a sharp turn into
a broad street, past a square where statues were surrounded by beds of
flowers that blazed in the afternoon sun, and a great building, the
beautiful Town Hall, shone on the further side; and the “boys” dropped
the shafts in front of the Post Office and grinned by way of explaining
that this was the heart of Durban town.
“I’d give half my kingdom,” said Wally, as they met on the footpath, “if
I could import that turn-out to Melbourne and drive down Collins Street
on a Saturday morning. Just fancy that gorgeous black chap—and the look
on the Melbourne policeman’s face as he caught sight of him!”
“Just fancy the horses!” said Jim, laughing. “Wouldn’t there be an
interesting stampede!”
“Look at them now!” said Norah delightedly. A long row of rickshaws
stood on the other side of the street, waiting to be hired, their “boys”
chattering in little groups or brushing their miniature carriages with
feather dusters. A man approached them, bearing the unmistakable tourist
stamp, and immediately every “boy” sprang to attention—patting the
rickshaw seat, whistling softly, yet urgently, waving their bright
dusters, while some, between the shafts, pranced wildly, apparently
overcome by the sheer joy of being alive. There was a storm of guttural
pleading. “Take me, sar!” “No, me—he no good!” “Me is fast boy, sar!”
“Me is faster!” The great bronze faces were vivid with excited
impatience; white teeth flashed, and rainbow plumes nodded.
“And it’s all for a sixpenny fare—and they’re cab-horses!” ejaculated
Mr. Linton. “By Jove, just fancy an impi of those fellows under Cetewayo
going out to battle—with broad spears instead of feather dusters!”
Jim whistled under his breath, watching the row of child-like giants.
Then he burst into a laugh. On the far side of the row was a Zulu who
had been unable to get round in time to join in the general effort to
attract the tourist. He was contenting himself by stooping and peering
between the wheel-spokes, grinning from ear to ear as he beat upon them
in the hope of catching the passenger’s eye. The effect was
indescribably ludicrous.
“Isn’t he lovely!” laughed Norah. “Oh, Jimmy, can you imagine a stolid
Melbourne cabby playing ‘Bo-peep’ behind his wheels like that!”
“I’d give a lot to see it,” Jim said, “especially if I could dress him
in that kit first. I wonder what’s the duty on one rickshaw complete
with Zulu—it would be rather a lark to import one to Australia after
the war!”
“You couldn’t do it—the cabmen would rise up and slay you,” Wally said.
“Well, I want to go inland, and see those chaps on their native heath.
Great Scott, what fighting-men they’d make!”
“Once,” said Mr. Linton. “Not now—since they learned the ways of
civilisation. But what they must have been! Did you ever hear of the
impi that failed in battle, under Chaka? He mustered them afterwards and
told them their punishment. There was a cliff half a mile away, with a
sheer drop of hundreds of feet into a rocky gorge; at a signal their
officers gave them the word to march, and took them straight forward,
over the edge!”
“And they went over?” Norah was wide-eyed with horror.
“Every man. The king stood near the edge to watch; and as they passed
him they tossed their shields aloft and gave him the royal
salute—‘Bayété!’ Then they went down, like warriors. They knew it was
the only thing left to them; it was not possible to fail the king and to
continue to live.”
“He gave one impi a chance, though,” Wally said. “They were a very
famous fighting regiment, and in some way or other they disobeyed him.
Chaka didn’t want to kill them—possibly he was short of recruits, like
Great Britain! But he paraded them and told them that because of their
previous good record he would spare their lives, under one
condition—that they left their assegais in the kraal, went out into the
bush, and brought him a living lion, full-grown, with teeth and claws
perfect!”
“What—with their bare hands?” Jim asked, incredulously.
“There wasn’t a weapon among the whole crowd; all they were allowed was
rope to bind him. They did it, too; marched out into the bush and caught
their lion and brought him in to the king. It must have been something
of a job. Forty were killed, and over two hundred clawed. You’d call
those chaps warriors, wouldn’t you?”
“And now they haul one round in rickshaws! Doesn’t it make one feel
small!” Jim ejaculated. “Well, Chaka was a cruel brute, but he must have
been a good deal of a man himself to be able to handle such men as those
fellows, and send them marching to death, saluting him. Leaders like
that don’t seem to get born nowadays.”
“Let me commend to your notice, Norah, that method of doing your hair!”
said Mr. Linton, indicating two Kaffir girls who were passing. Their
hair was drawn tightly back from their faces and dressed in a kind of
hard club, about a foot long, that stuck out stiffly from the backs of
their heads, slanting upwards.
“Good gracious!” said Norah, weakly.
“Do you suppose they take that erection down every night?” Jim asked.
“No, indeed—it looks calculated to last for years,” Norah answered. “I
wonder how on earth they build it, and why.”
“It’s a handle,” Wally said, solemnly. “Their husbands pick them up by
it when they’re tired. Also it might be used as a flag-staff, or a
hat-peg: you could find ever so many uses about a house for it. And then
it saves them for ever from buying hats. They might possibly make a
forage-cap sitting on one eyebrow work in with that hair, but no other
kind of head-dress would fit on. Think of the economy!”
“Think of trying to sleep in it!” said Norah, gazing sympathetically
after the retreating brown ladies. “It could only be comfortable if they
lay on their noses.”
“Well, their noses would rather give you the impression that they did,”
Jim said. “Most of them are as flat as a pancake. I say, do we stand on
the steps of this post office all day? Because I saw a shop with a
touching legend about strawberries across the street; and I haven’t seen
a strawberry for nearly a year. Let’s explore.”
They explored, and found the Durban strawberries so good that the
exploration was indefinitely prolonged; then they sought curio-shops,
and rummaged among assegais and knob-kerries, rhinoceros-hide shields,
Zulu trinkets, Kaffir wire-work, ostrich feathers, and queer carved
figures; and Norah found herself the delighted possessor of a little
silver box with top and bottom of beautiful dark-blue agate, veined with
white. It was very hot, and the city streets, crowded and dusty, were
not inviting; so they hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly
along a wide road that led away from the town and towards the ocean
beach. There was a steep pull up a long hill, which made the passengers
strongly inclined to get out and walk, except that no one else in
rickshaws seemed to think of doing so. The “boys” went up it at a good
pace, though panting audibly. At the top they came in sight of the sea;
a long strip of beach, on which big rollers pounded incessantly. On the
left the steep slope down to it was terraced in lawn and garden, with
seats here and there, summer-houses overgrown with gay creepers, and
fountains, throwing aloft sparkling jets of water. The clean salt air
blew strongly towards them.
“Sit ba-a-a-ck!” said the “boys” suddenly.
The Australians obeyed, not too soon. The rickshaws tilted back
alarmingly as they shot down the hill. The Zulus rested their elbows on
the shafts and balanced themselves in the air, their legs taking strides
that were apparently gigantic, but never touching the ground with their
feet. It was a spectacular performance—by no means comfortable, and
distinctly nerve-shaking. Faster and faster went the rickshaws, and
further and further back they tilted.
“If I get out of this alive,” said Jim, “I guess I’m born to be hanged!”
They came to the foot of the hill, and swung round a corner so abruptly
that to find themselves still intact seemed almost a miracle. The Zulu
came down to earth and the rickshaw to a horizontal position; the
occupants righted themselves with sighs of relief. Still under the
impetus of that wild descent, the “boys” raced along a level strip of
roadway, and drew up at a big hotel that fronted the beach. They let
down the shafts gently, and turned to their passengers, each chocolate
countenance bearing a grin from ear to ear.
“My is a nice boy!” said Norah’s steed, modestly.
“You are,” said Mr. Linton, getting out. “You’re also closely related to
an assassin, I think. How many people do you kill in the year?”
The Zulu grinned yet more widely, apparently under the impression that
his acrobatic efforts were receiving the praise they merited.
“Two shillin’,” said he, blandly, and accepted the coin with an air of
condescension, while his companion did the same. They trotted off
smartly, lest their passengers should discover that they had paid double
fare and take steps of vengeance.
The hotel was cool and spacious, with big rooms and wide verandahs.
Norah’s window looked out upon the sea, stretching to the misty horizon
over which they had come. Beneath her, the life of the beach surged.
War, people said, had made Durban quiet; few of the up-country settlers
had followed their usual custom of coming down for the bathing, since
most of the men were fighting, and every one else was busy guarding
property. But Norah thought she had never seen such a busy beach.
Motors, carriages, and rickshaws passed and repassed on the wide road
beneath her, with clanging, noisy electric trams; further down, the
terraces were thronged with people, and the cafes showed a stream of
customers going in and out. Children were paddling and digging in the
sand; in a rotunda a military band was playing softly.
In the sea itself, a semicircular pier curved right out into the water,
surrounding a stretch of surf. Men were fishing from the far side of the
pier; Norah could see immensely long rods, and once a gleam in the air
as a big fish was landed over the rail. But her interest centred on the
enclosed water, where hundreds of people were bathing in the breakers
that came rolling in from the sea. Durban bathing was famous, the doctor
had told her, since it combined the excitement and delight of surfing
with perfect safety. Norah watched them, fascinated. Some would wait,
waist-deep, for the breaker to come in behind them and carry them on its
crest ashore; others would face it, and as it came, dive right through
it, to swim in the more tranquil heave of water behind the crest. There
were old and young men and women; boys and girls, and tiny children,
most of them daring the deepest water, while a few paddled cheerfully
near the edge, sat down and shrieked when a wave came tumbling in, and,
if they did not swim, at any rate became extremely wet and happy.
“Why do women always yell when they bathe?” asked Jim, coming in. “I
knocked three times, by the way, but you didn’t hear me.”
“They don’t,” Norah said indignantly, ignoring his apology. “At least
sensible ones don’t.”
“Then it’s the insensible ones that bathe,” Jim said, sticking to his
point. “At least nine-tenths of the women there scream when a wave hits
them—and it’s the same in any place you go to. I often
wonder”—reflectively—“how they break themselves of the habit
sufficiently to avoid screaming in the bathroom at home!”
“Jimmy, you are an ass,” said his sister, politely. She looked up at him
with pleading. “It’s hot, and the sea looks lovely; I won’t yell, if
you’ll take me to bathe.”
“That’s what I came for,” Jim answered. “Dad is deep in the last three
weeks’ papers, and Wally and I are pining for a swim. Come on!” They
plunged downstairs, found Wally awaiting them on the verandah, and
hurried down the terrace to the sea; and in five minutes Norah was
having her first taste of surfing, getting knocked flat by waves and
buried temporarily beneath what seemed thousands of tons of water,
coming up to the surface, breathless, but happy, and swimming wildly
until another breaker came over her; and learning in a very short time
to meet them and make use of them, diving through their green curves and
coming gloriously ashore upon their hollow backs. They stayed until the
sun left the sky, and the water grew chilly; then, damp and hilarious,
and exceedingly hungry, climbed up to the hotel.
Mr. Linton was standing on the verandah, looking out.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said; “you were so long that I’ve been
mentally recalling the treatment of the apparently drowned. Had a good
bathe?”
“Oh, glorious!” said the bathers. “Is it time for dinner?”
Ten minutes later they were enjoying it in a big dining-room that was
open on one side to the verandah, and to the darkening sea. Lights began
to flash out all round the semicircle of the pier, and along the
terraces—though the waiter, a bare-footed Indian in white clothes, told
them regretfully that since the war the fountains no longer were red and
green at night, but were turned off when dusk fell!
“It seems a rum tribute to war,” Wally said. “But I suppose it’s all
right.”
“Yes, sar—certainly, sar,” said the waiter.
The hum of traffic did not cease, and the shouts of the bathers came up
plainly from the surf. The Billabong party strolled along the beach in
the hot dusk, and watched the heads bobbing in and out of the breakers,
mysteriously seen in the streaks of light cast by the lamps on the
encircling pier. Gradually the heat lessened and a pale moon climbed
into the sky. They turned homeward when Norah was discovered yawning.
“Well, the sea is lovely, and all that,” Jim said, stretching his long
frame as he rose. “But I think it’s loveliest when you’re off it. It’s
good to feel tired again—I’m getting flabby with doing nothing on that
old ship. Three weeks of solid sea certainly makes you enjoy land!”
[Illustration: “They hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly
along a wide road.”]
_From Billabong to London_] [_Page_ 194