Produced by Donald Lainson
BACK TO BILLABONG
By Mary Grant Bruce
1921
“Beyond the distant sky-line
(Now pansy-blue and clear),
We know a land is waiting,
A brown land, very dear:
A land of open spaces,
Gaunt forest, treeless plain:
And if we once have loved it
We must come back again.”
(Dorothea Mackellar.)
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W
II. THE RAINHAMS
III. PLAYING TRUANT
IV. COMING HOME
V. THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL
VI. SAILING ORDERS
VII. THE WATCH DOGS
VIII. HOW TOMMY BOARDED A STRANGE TAXI
IX. THE WELCOME OF AUSTRALIA
X. BILLABONG
XI. COLONIAL EXPERIENCES
XII. ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE
XIII. THE HOME ON THE CREEK
XIV. THE CUNJEE RACES
XV. HOW WALLY RODE A RACE
XVI. BUILDING UP AGAIN
BACK TO BILLABONG
CHAPTER I
LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W
“Do the beastly old map yourself, if you want it. I shan't, anyhow!”
“Wilfred!”
“Aw, Wil-fred!” The boy at the end of the schoolroom table, red-haired,
snub-nosed and defiant, mimicked the protesting tone. “I've done it
once, and I'm blessed if I do it again.”
“No one would dream that it was ever meant for Africa.” The young
teacher glanced at the scrawled and blotted map before her. “It--it
doesn't look like anything earthly. You must do it again, Wilfred.”
“Don't you, Wilf.” Wilfred's sister leaned back in her chair, tilting it
on its hind legs.
“You have nothing to do with Wilfred's work, Avice. Go on with your
French.”
“Done it, thanks,” said Avice. “And I suppose I can speak to my own
brother if I like.”
“No, you can't--in lesson time,” said the teacher.
“Who's going to stop me?”
Cecilia Rainham controlled herself with an effort.
“Bring me your work,” she said.
She went over the untidy French exercise with a quick eye. When she had
finished it resembled a stormy sky--a groundwork of blue-black, blotted
writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red. Cecilia put down her red
pencil.
“It's hopeless, Avice. You haven't tried a bit. And you know it isn't
hard--you did a far more difficult piece of translation without a
mistake last Friday.”
“Yes, but the pantomime was coming off on Saturday,” said Wilfred, with
a grin. “Jolly little chance of tickets from Bob if she didn't!”
“You shut up!” said Avice.
“Be quiet, both of you,” Cecilia ordered, a spot of red in each pale
cheek. “Remember, there will be other Saturdays. Bob will do nothing for
you if I can't give him a decent report of you.” It was the threat she
hated using, but without it she was helpless. And the red-haired pair
before her knew to a fraction the extent of her helplessness.
For the moment the threat was effective. Avice went back to her seat,
taking with her the excited-looking French exercise, while Wilfred
sullenly recommenced a dispirited attack upon the African coastline.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair, and took up a half-knitted sock--to
drop it hastily, as a long-drawn howl came from a low chair by the
window.
“Whatever is the matter, Queenie?”
“I per-ricked my finger,” sobbed the youngest Miss Rainham. She stood
up, tears raining down her plump cheeks. No one, Cecilia thought, ever
cried so easily, so copiously, and so frequently as Queenie. As she
stood holding out a very grubby forefinger, on which appeared a minute
spot of blood, great tears fell in splashes on the dark green linoleum,
while others ran down her face to join them, and others trembled on her
lower eyelids, propelled from some artesian fount within.
“Oh, dry up, Queenie!” said Wilfred irritably. “Anyone 'ud think you'd
cut your silly finger off!”
“Well--it'th bleed-in'!” wailed Queenie. She dabbed the injured member
with the pillow case she was hemming, adding a scarlet touch in pleasant
contrast to its prevailing grime.
“Well--you're too big a girl to cry for a prick,” said Cecilia wearily.
“People who are nearly seven really don't cry except for something
awfully bad.”
“There--I'll tell the mater you said awfully!” Avice jeered. “Who bites
our heads off for using slang, I'd like to know?”
“You wouldn't have much head left if I bit for every slang word you
use,” retorted her half-sister. “Do get on with your French, Avice--it's
nearly half-past twelve, and you know Eliza will want to lay the table
presently. Come here, Queenie.” She took the pillow case, and unpicked
a few stitches, which clearly indicated that the needle had been taking
giant strides. “Just hem that last inch or two again, and see if you
can't make it look nice. I believe the needle only stuck into your
finger because you were making it sew so badly. Have you got a
handkerchief?--but, of course, you haven't.” She polished the fat,
tear-stained cheek with her own. “Now run and sit down again.”
Queenie turned to go obediently enough--she was too young, and possibly
too fat, to plan, as yet, the deliberate malice in which her brother and
sister took their chief pleasure. Unfortunately, Wilfred arrived at the
end of Africa at the wrong moment for her. He pushed the atlas away from
him with a jerk that overturned the ink bottle, sending a stream of ink
towards Avice--who, shoving her chair backwards to escape the deluge,
cannoned into Queenie, and brought her headlong to the floor. Howls
broke out anew, mingled with a crisp interchange of abuse between the
elder pair, while Cecilia vainly sought to lessen the inky flood with a
duster. Upon this pleasant scene the door opened sharply.
“A nice way you keep order at lessons,” said Mrs. Mark Rainham acidly.
“And the ink all over the cloth. Well, all I can say is, you'll pay for
a new one, Cecilia.”
“I did not knock it over,” said Cecilia, in a low tone.
“It's your business to look after the children, and see that they do not
destroy things,” said her stepmother.
“The children will not obey me.”
“Pouf!” said Mrs. Rainham. “A mere question of management. High-spirited
children want tact in dealing with them, that is all. You never
trouble to exercise any tact whatever.” Her eyes dwelt fondly on her
high-spirited son, whose red head was bent attentively over Africa
while he traced a mighty mountain range along the course of the Nile.
“Wilfred, have you nearly finished your work?”
“Nearly, Mater,” said the industrious Wilfred, manufacturing mountains
tirelessly. “Just got to stick in a few more things.”
“Say 'put,' darling, not 'stick.' Cecilia, you might point out those
little details--that is, if you took any interest in their English.”
“Thethilia thaid 'awfully' jutht now,” said Queenie, in a shrill pipe.
“I don't doubt it,” said Mrs. Rainham, bitterly. “Of course, anyone
brought up in Paris is too grand to trouble about English--but we think
a good deal of these things in London.” A little smile hovered on
her thin lips, as Cecilia flushed, and Avice and her brother grinned
broadly. The Mater could always make old Cecilia go as red as a
beetroot, but it was fun to watch, especially when the sport beguiled
the tedium of lessons.
A clatter of dishes on a tray heralded the approach of Eliza.
“It is time the table was clear,” Mrs. Rainham said. “Wilfred, darling,
I want you to post a letter. Put up your work and get your cap. Cecilia,
you had better try to clean the cloth before lunch; it is ruined, of
course, but do what you can with it. I will choose another the next time
I am in London. And just make sure that the children's things are all in
order for the dancing lesson this afternoon. Avice, did you put out your
slippers to be cleaned?”
“Forgot all about it, Mater,” said Avice cheerfully.
“Silly child--and it is Jackson's day off. Just brush them up for her,
Cecilia. When the children have gone this afternoon, I want you to see
to the drawing-room; some people are coming in to-night, and there are
fresh flowers from Brown's to arrange.”
Cecilia looked up, with a sudden flush of dismay. The children's dancing
lesson gave her one free afternoon during the week.
“But--but I am going to meet Bob,” she stammered.
“Oh, Bob will wait, no doubt; you need not keep him long, if you hasten
yourself. Yes, Eliza, you can have the table.” Mrs. Rainham left the
room, with the children at her heels.
Cecilia whisked the lesson books hastily away; Eliza was waiting with a
lowering brow, and Eliza was by no means a person to be offended. Maids
were scarce enough in England in the months after the end of the
war; and, even in easier times, there had been a dreary procession
of arriving and departing servants in the Rainham household--the
high-spirited characteristics of the children being apt to pall quickly
upon anyone but their mother. In days when there happened to be no
Eliza, it was Cecilia who naturally inherited the vacant place, adding
the duties of house-maid to those of nurse, governess, companion and
general factotum; all exacting posts, and all of them unpaid. As Mrs.
Rainham gracefully remarked, when a girl was not earning her own living,
as so many were, but was enjoying the comfort of home, the least she
could do was to make herself useful.
“Half a minute, Eliza.” She smiled at the slatternly girl. “Sorry to
keep you waiting; there's a river of ink gone astray here.” She placed
the soaked cloth on the waste-paper basket and polished the top of the
table vigorously.
“I'll bet it worn't you wot spilt it--but it's you wot 'as the cleanin'
up,” muttered Eliza. “Lemme rub that up now, Miss.” She put down her
tray and took the cloth from Cecilia's hand.
“Thanks, ever so, Eliza--but you've got plenty to do yourself.”
“Well, if I 'ave, I ain't the on'y one wot 'as,” said Eliza darkly.
Her wizened little face suddenly flushed. “Lor, Miss,” she said
confidentially, “you doan't know wot a success that 'at you trimmed for
me is. It's a fair scream. I wore it larst night, an' me young man--'im
wot's in the Royal Irish--well, it fair knocked 'im! An' 'e wants me to
go out wiv 'im next Benk 'Oliday--out to 'Ampstead 'Eath. 'E never got
as far as arstin' me that before. I know it was that 'at wot done it.”
“Not it, Eliza,” Cecilia laughed. “It was just your hair under the hat.
I told you how pretty it would be, if you would only brush it more.”
“Well, I never 'ad no brush till you give me your old one,” said Eliza
practically. “I did brush it, though, a nundred times every night, till
Cook reckoned I was fair cracked. But 'air's on'y 'air, an' anyone 'as
it--it's not every one 'as an 'at like that.” She clattered plates upon
the table violently. “You goin' out this awfternoon, Miss?”
“As soon as I can, Eliza.” Cecilia's face fell. “I must arrange flowers
first.”
“I'll 'ave the vawses all ready wiv clean water for you,” said Eliza.
“An' don't you worry about the drorin'-room--I'll see as it's nice.”
“Oh, you can't, Eliza--you have no time. I know it's silver-cleaning
afternoon.”
“Aw, I'll squeeze it in some'ow.” Eliza stopped suddenly, at a decided
footstep in the passage, and began to rattle spoons and forks with a
vigour born of long practice. Cecilia picked up the inky cloth, and went
out.
Her stepmother was standing by the hall-stand, apparently intent on
examining Wilfred's straw hat. She spoke in a low tone as the girl
passed her.
“I wish you did not find so much pleasure in gossiping with servants,
Cecilia. It is such a bad example for Avice. I have spoken about it to
you before.”
Cecilia did not answer. She went upstairs with flaming cheeks, and
draped the cloth across the hand basin in the bathroom, turning the tap
vengefully. A stream of water flowed through the wide stain.
“There's more real kindness in that poor little Cockney's finger than
there is in your whole body!” Cecilia whispered, apparently addressing
the unoffending cloth--which, having begun life as a dingy green and
black, did not seem greatly the worse for its new decoration. “Hateful
old thing!” A smile suddenly twitched the corners of her mouth.
“Well, she can't stop the money for a new cloth out of this quarter's
allowance, because I've just got it. That's luck, anyhow. I'll give it
to Bob to keep, in case she goes through my desk again.” She poured some
ammonia upon the stain, and rubbed gingerly, surveying the result with a
tilted nose. It was not successful. “Shall I try petrol? But petrol's
an awful price, and I've only got the little bottle I use for my gloves.
Anyhow, the horrible old cloth is so old and thin that it will fall to
pieces if I rub it. Oh, it's no use bothering about it--nothing will
make it better.” She squeezed the water from the cloth and spread the
stained area over a chair to dry, looking disgustedly at her own dyed
finger-nails. “Now for Avice's shoes before I scrub my hands.”
Avice's shoes proved a lengthy task, since the younger Miss Rainham had
apparently discovered some clay to walk through in Regent's Park on her
way home from the last dancing lesson; and well-hardened clay resists
ordinary cleaning methods, and demands edged tools. The luncheon bell
rang loudly before Cecilia had finished. She gave the shoes a final
hurried rub, and then fell to cleansing her hands; arriving in the
dining-room, pink and breathless, some minutes later, to find a dreary
piece of tepid mutton rapidly congealing on her plate.
“I think you might manage to be down in time for meals, Cecilia,” was
Mrs. Rainham's chilly greeting.
Cecilia said nothing. She had long realized the uselessness of any
excuses. To be answered merely gave her stepmother occasion for further
fault-finding--you might, as Cecilia told Bob, have a flawless defence
for the sin of the moment, but in that case Mrs. Rainham merely changed
her ground, and waxed eloquent about the sin of yesterday, or of last
Friday week, for which there might happen to be no defence at all. It
was so difficult to avoid being a criminal in Mrs. Rainham's eyes that
Cecilia had almost given up the attempt. She attacked her greasy
mutton and sloppy cabbage in silence, unpleasantly conscious of her
stepmother's freezing glance.
Mrs. Rainham was a short, stout woman, with colourless, rather pinched
features, and a wealth of glorious red hair. Some one had once told her
that her profile was classic, and she still rejoiced in believing it,
was always photographed from a side view, and wore in the house loose
and flowing garments of strange tints, calculated to bring out the
colour of her glowing tresses. Cecilia, who worshipped colour with every
bit of her artist soul, adored her stepmother's hair as thoroughly as
she detested her dresses. Bob, who was blunt and inartistic, merely
detested her from every point of view. “Don't see what you find to rave
about in it,” he said. “All the warmth of her disposition has simply
gone to her head.”
There was certainly little warmth in Mrs. Rainham's heart, where her
stepdaughter was concerned. She disapproved very thoroughly of Cecilia
in every detail--of her pretty face and delicate colouring, of the fair
hair that rippled and curled and gleamed in a manner so light-hearted as
to seem distinctly out of place in the dingy room, of the slender grace
that was in vivid contrast to her own stoutness. She resented the very
way Cecilia put on her clothes--simple clothes, but worn with an air
that made her own elaborate dresses cheap and common by comparison. It
was so easy for her to look well turned out; and it would never be easy
to dress Avice, who bade fair to resemble her mother in build, and had
already a passion for frills and trimmings, and a contempt for plain
things. Mrs. Rainham had an uneasy conviction that the girl who bore all
her scathing comments in silence actually dared to criticize her in
her own mind--perhaps openly to Bob, whose blue eyes held many unspoken
things as he looked at her. Once she had overheard him say to Cecilia:
“She looks like an over-ornamented pie!” Cecilia had laughed, and Mrs.
Rainham had passed on, unsuspected, her mind full of a wild surmise.
They would never dare to mean her--and yet--that new dress of hers was
plastered with queer little bits of purposeless trimmings. She never
again wore it without that terrible sentence creeping into her mind.
And she had been so pleased with it, too! An over-ornamented pie. If she
could only have been sure they meant her!
She thought of it again as she sat looking at Cecilia. The new dress was
lying on her bed, ready to be worn that afternoon; and Cecilia was going
to meet Bob--Bob, who had uttered the horrible remark. Well, at least
there should be no haste about the meeting. It would do Bob no harm to
cool his heels for a little. She set her thin lips tightly together, as
she helped the rice pudding.
The meal ended, amidst loud grumbles from Wilfred that the pudding was
rice; and Cecilia hurried off to find the flowers and arrange them. The
florist's box was near the vases left ready by the faithful Eliza; she
cut the string with a happy exclamation of “Daffodils!” as she lifted
the lid. Daffodils were always a joy; this afternoon they were doubly
welcome, because easy to arrange. She sorted them into long-necked vases
swiftly, carrying each vase, when filled, to the drawing-room--a painful
apartment, crowded with knick-knacks until it resembled a bazaar stall,
with knobby and unsteady bamboo furniture and much drapery of a would-be
artistic nature. It was stuffy and airless. Cecilia wrinkled her pretty
nose as she entered. Mrs. Rainham held pronounced views on the subject
of what she termed the “fresh-air fad,” and declined to let London
air--a smoky commodity at best--attack her cherished carpets; with the
result that Cecilia breathed freely only in her little attic, which had
no carpet at all.
The lady of the house rustled in, in her flowing robe, as Cecilia put
the last vase into position on the piano--finding room for it with
difficulty amid a collection of photograph frames and china ornaments.
She carried some music, and cast a critical eye round the room.
“This place looks as if it had not been properly dusted for a week,”
she remarked. “See to it before you go, Cecilia.” She opened the
piano. “Just come and try the accompaniment to this song--it's rather
difficult, and I want to sing it to-night.”
Cecilia sat down before the piano, with woe in her heart. Her
stepmother's delusion that she could sing was one of the minor trials of
her life. She had been thoroughly trained in Paris, under a master who
had prophesied great things for her; now her hours at the Rainhams'
tinkly piano, playing dreary accompaniments to sentimental songs with
Mrs. Rainham's weak soprano wobbling and flattening on the high notes,
were hours of real distress, from which she would escape feeling her
teeth on edge. Her stepmother, however, had thoroughly enjoyed herself
since the discovery that no accompaniment presented any difficulty to
Cecilia. It saved her a world of trouble in practising; moreover, when
standing, it was far easier to let herself go in the affecting passages,
which always suffered from scantiness of breath when she was sitting
down. Therefore she would stand beside Cecilia, pouring forth song after
song, with her head slightly on one side, and one hand resting lightly
on the piano--an attitude which, after experiment with a mirror, she had
decided upon as especially becoming.
The song of the moment did make some demands upon her attention. It
had a disconcerting way of changing from sharps to flats; trouble being
caused by the singer failing to change also. Cecilia took her through it
patiently, going over and over again the tricky passages, and devoutly
wishing that Providence in supplying her stepmother with boundless
energy, a tireless voice and an enormous stock of songs, had also
equipped her with an ear for music. At length the lady desisted from her
efforts.
“That's quite all right,” she said, with satisfaction. “I'll sing it
to-night. The Simons will be here, and they do like to hear what's new.
Go on with your dusting; I'll just run through a few pieces, and you can
tell me if I go wrong.”
Cecilia hesitated, glancing at the clock.
“It is getting very late,” she said. “Eliza told me she could dust the
room.”
“Eliza!” said Mrs. Rainham. “Why, it's her silver day; she had no
business to tell you anything of the sort--and neither had you, to ask
her to do it. Goodness knows it's hard enough to make the lazy thing do
her own work. Just get your duster, and make sure as you come down that
the children are properly dressed for the dancing class.” She broke into
a waltz.
Cecilia ran. Sounds of woe greeted her as she neared Avice's room,
and she entered, to find that damsel plunged in despair over a missing
button.
“It was on all right last time I wore the beastly dress,” wailed she.
“If you'd look after my clothes like Mater said you had to, I wouldn't
be late. Whatever am I to do? I can't make the old dress shut with a
safety pin.”
“No, you certainly can't,” said her half-sister. “Never mind; there are
spare buttons for that frock, and I can sew one on.” She accomplished
the task with difficulty, since Avice appeared quite unable to stand
still.
“Now, are you ready, Avice? Shoes, hat, gloves--where are your gloves?
How do you ever manage to find anything in that drawer?” She rooted
swiftly in a wild chaos, and finally unearthed the gloves. “Yes, you'll
do. Now, where's Wilfred?” Search revealed Wilfred, who hated dancing,
reading a “penny dreadful” in his room--ready to start, save for the
trifling detail of having neglected to wash an extremely dirty face.
Cecilia managed to make him repair the omission, after a struggle,
and saw them off with a thankful heart--which sank anew as she heard
a neighbouring clock strike three. Three--and already she should be
meeting Bob in Hyde Park. She fled for a duster, and hurried to the
drawing-room. Eliza encountered her on the way.
“Now, wotcher goin' to do wiv that duster, Miss?” she inquired. “I told
yer I'd do it for yer.”
“Mrs. Rainham is waiting for me to do it, Eliza. I'm sorry.”
“Ow!” Eliza's expression and her tilted nose spoke volumes. “Suppose
she finks I wouldn't clean 'er old silver proper. Silver,
indeed!--'lectrer-plyte, an' common at that. Just you cut and run as
soon as she's out of the 'ouse, Miss; I know she's goin', 'cause 'er
green and yaller dress is a-airin' on 'er bed.”
“It's not much good, Eliza. I ought to be in the Park now.” Cecilia
knew she should not allow the girl to speak of her mistress so
contemptuously. But she was disheartened enough at the moment not to
care.
“Lor!” said Eliza. “A bloomin' shyme, I calls it!”
Cecilia found her stepmother happily engaged upon a succession of wrong
notes that made her wince. She dusted the room swiftly, aware all the
time of a watchful eye. Occasionally came a crisp comment: “You didn't
dust that window-sill.” “Cecilia, that table has four legs--did you only
notice two?”--the effort to speak while playing generally bringing the
performer with vigour upon a wrong chord. The so-called music became
almost a physical torment to the over-strained girl.
“If she would only stop--if she would only go away!” she found herself
murmuring, over and over. Even the thought of Bob waiting in Hyde Park
in the chill east wind became dim beside that horrible piano, banging
and tinkling in her ear. She dusted mechanically, picking up one cheap
ornament after another--leaving the collection upon the piano until the
last, in the hope that by the time she reached it the thirst for
music would have departed from the performer. But Mrs. Rainham's tea
appointment was not yet; she was thoroughly enjoying herself, the charm
of her own execution added to the knowledge that Cecilia was miserable,
and Bob waiting somewhere, with what patience he might. She held on
to the bitter end, while the girl dusted the piano's burden with a set
face. Then she finished a long and painful run, and shut the piano with
a bang.
“There--I've had quite a nice practice, and it isn't often the
drawing-room gets really decently dusted,” she remarked. “Nothing like
the eye of the mistress; I think I must practise every day while you are
dusting, Cecilia. Oh, and, Cecilia, give the legs of the piano a good
rubbing. Dear me, I must go and dress.”
Cecilia dragged herself upstairs a few minutes later. All the spring was
gone out of her; it really did not seem to matter much now whether she
met Bob or not; she was too tired to care. This was only a sample of
many days; so it had been for two years--so it would be for two more,
until she was twenty-one, and her own mistress. But it did not seem
possible that she could endure through another two years.
She reached her own room, and was about to shut the door, when the harsh
voice rasped upwards.
“Cecilia! Cecilia! Come here a minute.”
The girl went down slowly. Mrs. Rainham was standing before her mirror.
“Just come and hook my dress, Cecilia. This new dressmaker has a knack
of making everything hard to fasten. There--see that you start with the
right hook and eye.”
At the moment, physical contact with her stepmother was almost the last
straw for the girl. She obeyed in silence, shrinking back as far as she
could from the stout, over-scented body and the powdered face with the
thin lips. Mrs. Rainham watched her with a little smile.
“Yes, that's all right,” she said. “Now, my hat, Cecilia--it's in the
bandbox under the bed. I can't stoop in this dress, that's the worst
of it. And my gloves are in that box on the chest of drawers--the white
pair. Hurry, Cecilia, my appointment is for four o'clock.”
“Mine was for three o'clock,” said the girl in a low voice.
“Oh, well, you should manage your work better. I always tell you that.
Nothing like method in getting through every day. However, Bob is only
your brother--it would be more serious if it was a young man you were
meeting. Brothers don't matter much.”
Cecilia flamed round upon her.
“Bob is more to me than anyone in the world,” she cried. “And I would
rather keep any other man waiting.”
“Really? But I shouldn't think it very likely that you'll ever have to
trouble about other young men, Cecilia; you're not the sort. Too thin
and scraggy.” Mrs. Rainham surveyed her own generous proportions in the
glass, and gathered up her gloves with a pleased air. For the moment she
could not possibly believe that anyone could have referred to her as “an
over-ornamented pie.” “Good-bye, Cecilia; don't be late for tea.” She
sailed down the stairs.
Even the bang of the hall door failed to convey any relief to Cecilia.
For the second time she toiled upstairs, to the bare freshness of her
little room. Generally, it had a tonic effect upon her; to-day it seemed
that nothing could help her. She leaned her head against the window,
a wave of homesick loneliness flooding all her soul. So deep were its
waters that she did not hear the hall door open and close again, and
presently swift feet pounding up the stairs. Someone battered on her
door.
“Cecilia! Are you there?”
She ran to open the door. Bob stood there, a short, muscular fellow, in
Air Force blue, with twinkling eyes. She put out her hands to him with a
little pitiful gesture.
“Don't say that horrible name again,” she whispered. “If anyone else
calls me Cecilia I'll just go mad.”
Bob came in, and flung a brotherly arm round her shoulders.
“Has it been so beastly?” he said. “Poor little Tommy. Oh, Tommy, I saw
the over-ornamented pie sailing down the street, and I dived into a side
alley until she'd gone out of range. I guessed from her proud and happy
face that you'd been scarified.”
“Scarified!” murmured Cecilia. But Bob was not listening. His face was
radiant.
“I couldn't wait in the park any longer,” he said. “I had to come and
tell you. Tommy, old thing--I'm demobilized!”