WHAT NORAH FOUND
Norah, meanwhile, had been feeling somewhat “out of things.” It was
really more than human nature could be expected to bear that she should
remain on the log with the three boys, while Jim told amazing yarns
about her. Still it was decidedly lonesome in the jutting root of the
old tree, looking fixedly at the water, in which placidly lay a float
that had apparently forgotten that the first duty of a float is to bob.
Jim’s voice, murmuring along in his lengthy recital, came to her
softly, and she could see from her perch the interested faces of the
two others. It mingled drowsily with the dull drone of bees in the
ti-tree behind her, and presently Norah, to her disgust, found that she
was growing drowsy too.
“This won’t do!” she reflected, shaking herself. “If I go to sleep and
tumble off this old root I’ll startle away all the fish in the creek.”
She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the
splash of a leaping fish. “No good when they jump like that,” said
Norah to herself. “I guess I’ll go and explore.”
She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy
inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the
boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting
her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy—not that Norah’s free and
independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy
garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along
the bank.
A little farther up she came across black Billy—a very cheerful
aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine
blackfish to leave their watery bed.
“Oh, I say!” said Norah, round-eyed and envious. “How do you manage it,
Billy? We can’t catch one.”
Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words.
“Plenty bob-um float,” he explained lucidly. “Easy ’nuff. You try.”
“No, thanks,” said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. “I’m sick
of trying—and I’ve no luck. Going to cook ’em for dinner, Billy?”
“Plenty!” assented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and
meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it
suffice.
“That’s a good boy,” said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen
grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old
white. “I’m going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when
lunch is ready.”
“Plenty,” said Billy intelligently.
Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush,
and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born
bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the
scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be
born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives
it.
She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she
did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand—clinging creepers and
twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, clusters of
maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade,
and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet
snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at
it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit
at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling
disgusted with herself.
Suddenly she stopped in amazement.
She was on the edge of a small clear space, at the farther side of
which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the
whole space was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in
surprise.
For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely
place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent.
The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be
seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy
hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks,
and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and
over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed
that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was
all very neat and tidy. “It looks quite home-like,” said Norah to
herself.
As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man
came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping
under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him,
as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he
straightened himself he was wonderfully tall—taller even than Dad, who
was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very
long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of
bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes.
But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have passed muster
in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee.
He was dressed entirely in skins—wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though
there was an occasional section that looked like ’possum. They didn’t
look bad, either, she thought—a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose
trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or
leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling.
The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully
raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper—Norah had never seen
one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked
good, too—nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that
was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased “Not half bad!” he
said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in
the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped.
The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on
them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire
to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the
damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to
blow the dust from the result of his cookery.
At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She
fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain
silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent
handkerchief.
As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its
imprisonment, so Norah’s sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her
efforts to repress it. It came—
“A—tish—oo—oo!”
The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round.
“What on earth’s that?” he said. “Who’s there?” For a moment Norah
hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second’s thought showed
her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least
frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to
hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly
emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, “It’s me.”
“‘Me’, is it?” said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard
at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt—at the
merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. “‘Me’,”
he repeated. “‘Me’ looks rather nice, I think. But what’s she doing
here?”
“I was looking at you,” Norah exclaimed.
“I won’t be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king,”
said the old man. “But don’t you know that no one comes here? No young
ladies in blue dresses and brown curls—only wombats and wallabies, and
ring-tailed ’possums—and me. Not you—me, but me—me! How do you account
for being here?”
Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man,
whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke.
“But I don’t think you know,” she said. “Quite a lot of other people
come here—this is Anglers’ Bend. At least, Anglers’ Bend’s quite close
to your camp. Why, only, to-day there’s Jim and the boys, and black
Billy, and me! We’re not wallabies!”
“Jim—and the boys—and black Billy—and me!” echoed the old man faintly.
“Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found
the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than
a bunyip! But—I’ve been here for three months, little lady, and have
never come across anyone. Are you sure you’re quite serious?”
“Quite,” Norah answered. “Perhaps it was that no one came across you,
you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp
here sometimes, but we haven’t been for more than three months.”
“Well, I must move, that’s all,” said the old man. “I do like
quiet—it’s annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township
now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may
as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance.”
“Did you make them yourself?” asked Norah.
“Behold how she fences!” said the old man. “I did indeed!”
“Then they do you proud!” said Norah solemnly.
The old man laughed.
“I shall prize your expression of opinion,” he said. “May I ask the
name of my visitor?”
“I’m Norah. Please who are you?”
“That’s a different matter,” said the other, looking nonplussed. “I
certainly had a name once, but I’ve quite forgotten it. I have an
excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I’d be
delighted if you could!”
“I couldn’t.” Norah shook her head. “But I’ll tell you what I think you
are.”
“Do.”
“A hermit!”
The old man’s face cleared.
“My dear Miss Norah,” he said, “you’ve made a profound discovery. I
am—I am—a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are
scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me?
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” said Norah, looking affectionately at the
damper. “The boys will be looking for me, if I don’t go back.
Listen—there’s Jim coo-eeing now!”
“And who may Jim be?” queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily.
“Jim’s my brother,” Norah said. “He’s fifteen, and he’s just splendid.
Harry and Wally are his two chums.”
“Coo-ee! Coo-ee!”
Norah answered the call quickly and turned to the Hermit, feeling a
little apologetic.
“I had to call,” she explained—“Jim would be anxious. They want me for
lunch.” She hesitated. “Won’t you come too?” she asked timidly.
“I haven’t eaten with my fellow-men for more time than I’d care to
reckon,” said the Hermit. “I don’t know—will they let me alone
afterwards? Are they ordinary abominable boys?”
“Indeed, they’re not!” said Norah indignantly. “They won’t come near
you at all, if you don’t want them—but I know they’d be pleased if you
came. Do!”
“Coo-ee!”
“Jim’s getting impatient, isn’t he?” said the Hermit. “Well, Miss
Norah, if you’ll excuse my attire I’ll come. Shall I bring my damper?”
“Oh, please!” Norah cried. “We’ve never tasted damper.”
“I wish _I_ hadn’t,” said the Hermit grimly. He picked up the fallen
cake. “Let us away!” he said. “The banquet waits!”
During their walk through the scrub it occurred to Norah once or twice
to wonder if her companion were really a little mad. He said such
extraordinary things, all in the most matter-of-fact tone—but when she
looked up at him his blue eyes twinkled so kindly and merrily that she
knew at once he was all right, and she was quite certain that she liked
him very much.
The boys were getting impatient. Lunch was ready, and when lunch has
been prepared by Mrs. Brown, and supplemented by fresh blackfish, fried
over a camp fire by black Billy, it is not a meal to be kept waiting.
They were grouped round the table-cloth, in attitudes more suggestive
of ease than elegance, when Norah and her escort appeared, and for once
their manners deserted them. They gaped in silent amazement.
“Boys, this is The Hermit,” said Norah, rather nervously. “I—I found
him. He has a camp. He’s come to lunch.”
“I must apologize for my intrusion, I’m afraid,” the Hermit said. “Miss
Norah was good enough to ask me to come. I—I’ve brought my damper!”
He exhibited the article half shyly, and the boys recovered themselves
and laughed uncontrollably. Jim sprang to his feet. The Hermit’s first
words had told him that this was no common swagman that Norah had
picked up.
“I’m very glad to see you, sir,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thank you,” said the Hermit gravely. “You’re Jim, aren’t you? And I
conclude that this gentleman is Harry, and this Wally? Ah, I thought
so. Yes, I haven’t seen so many people for ages. And black Billy! How
are you Billy?”
Billy retreated in great embarrassment.
“Plenty!” he murmured.
Everybody laughed again.
“Well,” Jim said, “we’re hungry, Norah. I hope you and—er—this
gentleman are.” Jim was concealing his bewilderment like a hero. “Won’t
you sit down and sample Billy’s blackfish? He caught ’em all—we
couldn’t raise a bite between us—barring Wally’s boot!”
“Did you catch a boot?” queried the Hermit of the blushing Wally.
“Mine, I think—I can’t congratulate you on your luck! If you like,
after lunch, I’ll show you a place where you could catch fish, if you
only held the end of your finger in the water!”
“Good enough!” said Jim. “Thanks, awfully—we’ll be jolly glad. Come on,
Billy—trot out your frying-pan!”
Lunch began rather silently.
In their secret hearts the boys were rather annoyed with Norah.
“Why on earth,” Jim reflected, “couldn’t she have left the old chap
alone? The party was all right without him—we didn’t want any one
else—least of all an odd oddity like this.” And though the other boys
were loyal to Norah, she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation,
and was classed for the moment with the usual run of “girls who do
rummy things.”
However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the
state of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like
quiet boys, were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for
polite requests for bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous
remark, “Chuck us the salt!”
Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really
have taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the
drollest stories, which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although
he never laughed himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told
them of the queer animals he saw—having, as he said, unusually good
opportunities for watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where
the lyrebirds danced, and had often crept silently through the scrub
until he could command a view of the mound where these strange birds
strutted and danced, and mimicked the other birds with life-like
fidelity. He loved the birds very much, and never killed any of them,
even when a pair of thievish magpies attacked his larder and pecked a
damper into little bits when he was away fishing. Many of the birds
were tame with him now, he said; they would hop about the camp and let
him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that was quite a pet, which he
offered to show them—an offer that broke down the last tottering
barriers of the boys’ reserve. Then there were his different methods of
trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who was a
trapper of much renown.
“Don’t you get lonely sometimes?” Norah asked him.
The Hermit looked at her gravely.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Now and then one feels that one would give
something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend’s
hand-grip. Oh, there are times, Miss Norah, when I talk to myself—which
is bad—or yarn to old Turpentine, my snake, just to hear the sound of
words again. However, when these bad fits come upon me I know it’s a
sign that I must get the axe and go and chop down sufficient trees to
make me tired. Then I go to sleep, and wake up quite a cheerful being
once more!”
He hesitated.
“And there’s one thing,” he said slowly—“though it may be lonely here,
there is no one to trouble you; no one to treat you badly, to be
ungrateful or malicious; no bitter enemies, and no false friends, who
are so much worse than enemies. The birds come and hop about me, and I
know that it is because I like them and have never frightened them; old
Turpentine slides his ugly head over my knees, and I know he doesn’t
care a button whether I have any money in my pocket, or whether I have
to go out into the scrub to find my next meal! And that’s far, far more
than you can say of most human beings!”
He looked round on their grave faces, and smiled for the first time.
“This is uncommonly bad behaviour in a guest,” he said cheerily. “To
come to lunch, and regale one’s host and hostess with a sermon! It’s
too bad. I ask your forgiveness, young people, and please forget all I
said immediately. No, Miss Norah, I won’t have any damper, thank
you—after a three months’ course of damper one looks with joy once more
on bread. If Wally will favour me—I think the correct phrase is will
you ‘chuck me the butter?’”—whereat Wally “chucked” as desired, and the
meal proceeded merrily.