FISHING
The party had for some time been walking near the creek, so close to it
that it was within sound, although they seldom got a glimpse of water,
save where the ti-tree scrub on the bank grew thinner or the light wind
stirred an opening in its branches. Now, however, the Hermit suddenly
turned, and although the others failed to perceive any track or
landmark, he led them quickly through the scrub belt to the bank of the
creek beyond.
It was indeed an ideal place for fishing. A deep, quiet pool, partly
shaded by big trees, lay placid and motionless, except for an
occasional ripple, stirred by a light puff of wind. An old wattle tree
grew on the bank, its limbs jutting out conveniently, and here Jim and
Wally ensconced themselves immediately, and turned their united
attention to business. For a time no sound was heard save the dull
“plunk” of sinkers as the lines, one by one, were flung into the water.
The Hermit did not fish. He had plenty at his camp, he said, and
fishing for fun had lost its excitement, since he fished for a living
most days of the week. So he contented himself with advising the others
where to throw in, and finally sat down on the grass near Norah.
A few minutes passed. Then Jim jerked his line hurriedly and began to
pull in with a feverish expression. It lasted until a big black fish
made its appearance, dangling from the hook, and then it was suddenly
succeeded by a look of intense disgust, as a final wriggle released the
prisoner, which fell back with a splash into the water.
“Well, I’m blessed!” said Jim wrathfully.
“Hard luck!” said Harry.
“Try again, Jimmy, and stick to him this time,” counselled Wally, in a
fatherly tone.
“Oh, you shut up,” Jim answered, re-baiting his hook. “I didn’t catch
an old boot, anyhow!”—which pertinent reflection had the effect of
silencing Wally, amidst mild mirth on the part of the other members of
the expedition.
Scarcely a minute more, and Norah pulled sharply at her line and began
to haul in rapidly.
“Got a whale?” inquired Jim.
“Something like it!” Norah pulled wildly.
“Hang on!”
“Stick to him!”
“Mind your eye!”
“Don’t get your line tangled!”
“Want any help, Miss Norah?”
“No thanks.” Norah was almost breathless. A red spot flamed in each
cheek.
Slowly the line came in. Presently it gave a sudden jerk, and was
tugged back quickly, as the fish made another run for liberty. Norah
uttered an exclamation, quickly suppressed, and caught it sharply,
pulling strongly.
Ah—he was out! A big, handsome perch, struggling and dancing in the air
at the end of the line. Shouts broke from the boys as Norah landed her
prize safely on the bank.
“Well done, Miss Norah,” said the Hermit warmly.
“That’s a beauty—as fine a perch as I’ve seen in this creek.”
“Oh, isn’t he a splendid fellow!” Norah cried, surveying the prey with
dancing eyes. “I’ll have him for Dad, anyhow, even if I don’t catch
another.”
“Yes, Dad’s breakfast’s all right,” laughed the Hermit. “But don’t
worry, you’ll catch more yet. See, there goes Harry.”
There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod,
hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.
“Not bad for a beginning!” he said, grinning. “But not a patch on
yours, Norah!”
“Oh, I had luck,” Norah said. “He really is a beauty, isn’t he? I think
he must be the grandfather of all the perches.”
“If that’s so,” said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of
“do or die” earnestness, “I reckon I’ve got the grandmother on now!”
A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.
“Hurry up, Jim!”
“Go slow!”
“There—he’s getting off again!”
“So are you!” said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing
hard.
“Only a boot, Jim—don’t worry!”
“Gammon!—it’s a shark!—look at his worried expression!”
“I’ll ‘shark’ you, young Harry!” grunted Jim. “Mind your eye—there he
comes!” And expressions of admiration broke from the scoffers as a
second splendid perch dangled in the air and was landed high and dry—or
comparatively so—in the branches of the wattle tree.
“Is he as big as yours, Norah?” queried Jim a minute later, tossing his
fish down on the grass close to his sister and the Hermit.
Norah laid the two fishes alongside.
“Not quite,” she announced; “mine’s about an inch longer, and a bit
fatter.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Jim said. “I said it was the grandmother I
had—yours is certainly the grandfather! I’m glad you got the biggest,
old girl.” They exchanged a friendly smile.
A yell from Wally intimated that he had something on his hook, and with
immense pride he flourished in the air a diminutive blackfish—so small
that the Hermit proposed to use it for bait, a suggestion promptly
declined by the captor, who hid his catch securely in the fork of two
branches, before re-baiting his hook. Then Harry pulled out a fine
perch, and immediately afterwards Norah caught a blackfish; and after
that the fun waxed fast and furious, the fish biting splendidly, and
all hands being kept busy. An hour later Harry shook the last worm out
of the bait tin and dropped it into the water on his hook, where it
immediately was seized by a perch of very tender years.
“Get back and grow till next year,” advised Harry, detaching the little
prisoner carefully, the hook having caught lightly in the side of its
mouth. “I’ll come for you next holidays!” and he tossed the tiny fellow
back into the water. “That’s our last scrap of bait, you chaps,” he
said, beginning to wind up his line.
“I’ve been fishing with an empty hook for I don’t know how long,” said
Jim, hauling up also. “These beggars have nibbled my bait off and
carefully dodged the hook.”
“Well, we’ve plenty, haven’t we?” Norah said. “Just look what a
splendid pile of fish!”
“They take a bit of beating, don’t they?” said Jim. “That’s right, Wal,
pull him up!” as Wally hauled in another fine fish. “We couldn’t carry
more if we had ’em.”
“Then it’s a good thing my bait’s gone, too!” laughed Norah, winding
up. “Haven’t we had a most lovely time!”
Jim produced a roll of canvas which turned out to be two sugar bags,
and in these carefully bestowed the fish, sousing the whole thoroughly
in the water. The boys gathered up the lines and tackle and “planted”
the rods conveniently behind a log, “to be ready for next time,” they
said.
“Well, we’ve had splendid sport, thanks to you, sir,” Jim said, turning
to the Hermit, who stood looking on at the preparations, a benevolent
person, “something between Father Christmas and Robinson Crusoe,” as
Norah whispered to Harry. “We certainly wouldn’t have got on half as
well if we’d stayed where we were.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Hermit answered. “Yours is a good place—I’ve
often caught plenty of fish there—only not to be relied on as this pool
is. I’ve really never known this particular spot fail—the fish seem to
live in it all the year round. However, I’m glad you’ve had decent
luck—it’s not a bit jolly to go home empty-handed, I know. And now,
what’s the next thing to be done? The afternoon’s getting on—don’t you
think it’s time you came to pay me a visit at the camp?”
“Oh, yes, please!” Norah cried.
Jim hesitated.
“We’d like awfully to see your camp, if—if it’s not any bother to you,”
he said.
“Not the least in the world,” the Hermit said. “Only I can’t offer you
any refreshment. I’ve nothing but cold ’possum and tea, and the
’possum’s an acquired taste, I’m afraid. I’ve no milk for the tea, and
no damper, either!”
“By George!” said Jim remorsefully. “Why, we ate all your damper at
lunch!”
“I can easily manufacture another,” the Hermit said, laughing. “I’m
used to the process. Only I don’t suppose I could get it done soon
enough for afternoon tea.”
“We’ve loads of tucker,” Jim said. “Far more than we’re likely to eat.
Milk, too. We meant to boil the billy again before we start for home.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Norah said, struck by a brilliant idea. “Let’s
coo-ee for Billy, and when he comes send him back for our things. Then
if—if Mr. Hermit likes, we could have tea at his camp.”
“Why, that’s a splendid notion,” the Hermit cried. “I’m delighted that
you thought of it, Miss Norah, although I’m sorry my guests have to
supply their own meal! It doesn’t seem quite the thing—but in the bush,
polite customs have to fall into disuse. I only keep up my own good
manners by practising on old Turpentine, my snake! However, if you’re
so kind as to overlook my deficiencies, and make them up yourselves, by
all means let us come along and coo-ee for sweet William!”
He shouldered one of the bags of fish as he spoke, disregarding a
protest from the boys. Jim took the second, and they set out for the
camp.
Their way led for some time along the track by which they had come, if
“track” it might be called. Certainly, the Hermit trod it confidently
enough, but the others could only follow in his wake, and wonder by
what process he found his way so quickly through the thick bush.
About half a mile along the creek the Hermit suddenly turned off almost
at right angles, and struck into the scrub. The children followed him
closely, keeping as nearly at his heels as the nature of the path would
permit.
Norah found it not very pleasant. The Hermit went at a good rate,
swinging over the rough ground with the sure-footed case of one
accustomed to the scrub and familiar with the path. The boys unhampered
by skirts and long hair, found no great difficulty in keeping up with
him, but the small maiden of the party, handicapped by her clothes, to
say nothing of being youngest of them all, plodded along in the rear,
catching on sarsaparilla vines and raspberry tangles, plunging head
first through masses of dogwood, and getting decidedly the worst of the
journey.
Harry was the first to notice that Norah was falling “into the
distance,” as he put it, and he ran back to her immediately.
“Poor old kid!” he said shamefacedly. “I’d no idea you were having such
a beast of a time. Sorry, Norah!” His polite regrets were cut short by
Norah’s catching her foot in a creeper and falling bodily upon him.
“Thank you,” said Harry, catching her deftly. “Delighted, I’m sure,
ma’am! It’s a privilege to catch any one like you. Come on, old girl,
and I’ll clear the track for you.”
A little farther on the Hermit had halted, looking a trifle guilty.
“I’m really sorry, Miss Norah,” he said, as Norah and Harry made their
way up to the waiting group. “I didn’t realise I was going at such a
pace. We’ll make haste more slowly.”
He led the way, pausing now and again to make it easier for the little
girl, holding the bushes aside and lifting her bodily over several big
logs and sharp watercourses. Finally he stopped.
“I think if you give Billy a call now, Jim,” he said, “he won’t have
much difficulty in finding us.”
To the children it seemed an utter impossibility that Billy should ever
find them, though they said nothing, and Jim obediently lifted up his
voice and coo-ee’d in answer to the Hermit’s words. For himself, Jim
was free to confess he had quite lost his bearings, and the other boys
were as much at sea as if they had suddenly been dropped down at the
North Pole. Norah alone had an idea that they were not far from their
original camping-place; an idea which was confirmed when a long
“Ai-i-i!” came in response to Jim’s shout, sounding startlingly near at
hand.
“Master Billy has been making his way along the creek,” commented the
Hermit. “He’s no distance off. Give him another call.”
“Here!” Jim shouted. Billy answered again, and after a few more
exchanges, the bushes parted and revealed the sable retainer, somewhat
out of breath.
“Scoot back to camp, Billy,” Jim ordered. “Take these fish and soak ’em
in the creek, and bring back all our tucker—milk and all. Bring
it—Where’ll he bring it, sir?” to the Hermit.
“See that tall tree, broken with the bough dangling?” the Hermit asked,
pointing some distance ahead. Billy nodded. “Come back to that and
cooee, and we’ll answer you.”
“Plenty!” said Billy, shouldering the bags of fish, and departing at a
run. Billy had learnt early the futility of wasting words.
“Come along,” said the Hermit, laughing.
He turned off into the scrub, and led the way again, taking, it seemed
to Norah, rather a roundabout path. At length he stopped short, near a
dense clump of dogwood.
“My back door,” he said politely.
They stared about them. There was no sign of any door at all, nor even
of any footprints or marks of traffic. The scrub was all about them;
everything was very still and quiet in the afternoon hush.
“Well, you’ve got us beaten and no mistake!” Jim laughed, after they
had peered fruitlessly about. “Unless you camp in the air, I don’t
see—”
“Look here,” said the Hermit.
He drew aside a clump of dogwood, and revealed the end of an old log—a
huge tree-trunk that had long ago been a forest monarch, but having
fallen, now stretched its mighty length more than a hundred feet along
the ground. It was very broad and the uppermost side was flat, and here
and there bore traces of caked, dry mud that showed where a boot had
rested. The dogwood walled it closely on each side.
“That’s my track home,” the Hermit said. “Let me help you up, Miss
Norah.”
He sprang up on the log as he spoke, and extended a hand to Norah, who
followed him lightly. Then the Hermit led the way along the log, which
was quite broad enough to admit of a wheelbarrow being drawn down its
length. He stopped where the butt of the old tree, rising above the
level of the trunk, barred the view, and pulling aside the dogwood,
showed rough steps, cut in the side of the log.
“Down here, Miss Norah.”
In a moment they were all on the ground beside him—Wally, disdaining
the steps, having sprung down, and unexpectedly measured his length on
the earth, to the accompaniment of much chaff. He picked himself up,
laughing more than any of them, just as Norah popped her head through
the scrub that surrounded them, and exclaimed delightedly—.
“Why, here’s the camp.”
“I say,” Jim said, following the Hermit into the little clearing,
“you’re well planted here!”
The space was not very large—a roughly circular piece of ground, ringed
round with scrub, in which big gum trees reared their lofty heads. A
wattle tree stood in the centre, from its boughs dangling a rough
hammock, made of sacking, while a water bag hung from another
convenient branch. The Hermit’s little tent was pitched at one side;
across the clearing was the rude fireplace that Norah had seen in the
morning. Everything, though tough enough, was very clean and tidy, with
a certain attempt at comfort.
The Hermit laughed.
“Yes, I’m pretty well concealed,” he agreed. “You might be quite close
to the camp and never dream that it existed. Only bold explorers like
Miss Norah would have hit upon it from the side where she appeared to
me this morning, and my big log saves me the necessity of having a
beaten track home. I try, by getting on it at different points, to
avoid a track to the log, although, should a footmark lead anyone to
it, the intruder would never take the trouble to walk down an old
bushhung tree-trunk, apparently for no reason. So that I feel fairly
secure about my home and my belongings when I plan a fishing expedition
or an excursion that takes me any distance away.”
“Well, it’s a great idea,” Jim said. “Of course, a beaten track to your
camp would be nothing more or less than an invitation to any swaggie or
black fellow to follow it up.”
“That’s what I thought,” the Hermit said; “and very awkward it would
have been for me, seeing that one can’t very well put a padlock on a
tent, and that all my belongings are portable. Not that there’s
anything of great value. I have a few papers I wouldn’t care to lose, a
watch and a little money—but they’re all safely buried in a cashbox
with a good lock. The rest I have to chance, and, as I told you, I’ve
so far been pretty lucky in repelling invaders. There’s not much
traffic round here, you know!”
Jim and Norah laughed. “Not much,” they said, nodding.
“My tent’s not large,” the Hermit said, leading the way to that
erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had
there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a
comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner
explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many
strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.
“It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day,” said
Wally.
“It would,” said the Hermit, “if I did untie them. They’re only part of
my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally.” He
slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which
opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.
“A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all
those,” said the Hermit. “He’d be rather disgusted, on completing the
job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And
perhaps by that time I might be home!”
The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A
hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a
sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly
fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a
rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable
ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and
upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a
further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from
illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the
tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah,
beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood
that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several
blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore
marks of long and honourable use.
The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and
interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and
tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a
benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim
and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said,
reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager
for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp,
wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little
material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.
“A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser,”
Wally said. “I wouldn’t like it myself.”
“Once would be enough for most chaps.” Harry grinned.
“Oh, get out! you know what I mean,” retorted Wally. “You chaps are
never satisfied unless you’re pulling my leg—it’s a wonder I don’t
limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose.”
“He’s an educated chap, too,” Harry said—“talks like a book when he
likes. I wonder what on earth he’s doing it for?”
They had dropped their voices instinctively, and had moved away from
the tent.
“He’s certainly not the ordinary swaggie,” Norah said slowly.
“Not by a good bit,” Wally agreed. “Why, he can talk like our English
master at school! Perhaps he’s hiding.”
“Might be,” Harry said. “You never can tell—he’s certainly keen enough
on getting away from people.”
“He’s chosen a good place, then.”
“Couldn’t be better. I wonder if there’s anything in it—if he really
has done anything and doesn’t want to be found?”
“I never heard such bosh!” said Norah indignantly. “One would think he
really looked wicked, instead of being such a kind old chap. D’you
think he’s gone and committed a murder, or robbed a bank, or something
like that? I wonder you’re not afraid to be in his camp!”
The boys stared in amazement.
“Whew-w-w!” whistled Wally.
Harry flushed a little.
“Oh steady, Norah!” he protested—“we really didn’t mean to hurt your
feelings. It was only an idea. I’ll admit be doesn’t look a hardened
sinner.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have such ideas,” Norah said stoutly; “he’s a
great deal too nice, and look how kind he’s been to us! If he chooses
to plant himself in the bush, it’s no one’s business but his own.”
“I suppose not,” Harry began. He pulled up shortly as the Hermit,
followed by Jim, emerged from the tent.
The Hermit had a queer smile in his eyes, but Jim looked desperately
uncomfortable.
Jim favoured the others with a heavy scowl as he came out of the tent,
slipping behind the Hermit in order that he might deliver it
unobserved. It was plain enough to fill them with considerable
discomfort. They exchanged glances of bewilderment.
“I wonder what’s up now?” Wally whispered.
Jim strolled over to them as the Hermit, without saying anything,
crossed to his fireplace, and began to put some sticks together.
“You’re bright objects!” he whispered wrathfully. “Why can’t you speak
softly if you must go gabbling about other people?”
“You don’t mean to say he heard us?” Harry said, colouring.
“I do, then! We could hear every word you said, and it was jolly
awkward for me. I didn’t know which way to look.”
“Was he wild?” whispered Wally.
“Blessed if I know. He just laughed in a queer way, until Norah stuck
up for him, and then he looked grave. ‘I’m lucky to have one friend,’
he said, and walked out of the tent. You’re a set of goats!” finished
Jim comprehensively.
“Well, I’m not ashamed of what I said, anyhow!” Norah answered
indignantly. She elevated her tip-tilted nose, and walked away to where
the Hermit was gathering sticks, into which occupation she promptly
entered. The boys looked at each other.
“Well, I am—rather,” Harry said. He disappeared into the scrub,
returning presently with a log of wood as heavy as he could drag.
Wally, seeing his idea, speedily followed suit, and Jim, after a stare,
copied their example. They worked so hard that by the time the Hermit
and Norah had the fire alight, quite a respectable stack of wood
greeted the eye of the master of the camp. He looked genuinely pleased.
“Well, you are kind chaps,” he said. “That will save me wood-carting
for many a day, and it is a job that bothers my old back.”
“We’re very glad to get it for you, sir,” Jim blurted, a trifle
shamefacedly. A twinkle came into the Hermit’s eyes as he looked at
him.
“That’s all square, Jim,” he said quietly, and without any more being
said the boys felt relieved. Evidently this Hermit was not a man to
bear malice, even if he did overhear talk that wasn’t meant for him.
“Well,” said the Hermit, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, “it’s
about time we heard the dusky Billy, isn’t it?”
“Quite time, I reckon,” Jim replied. “Lazy young beggar!”
“Well, the billy’s not boiling yet, although it’s not far off it.”
“There he is,” Norah said quickly, as a long shout sounded near at
hand. The Hermit quickly went off in its direction, and presently
returned, followed by Billy, whose eyes were round as he glanced about
the strange place in which he found himself, although otherwise no sign
of surprise appeared on his sable countenance. He carried the bags
containing the picnic expedition’s supply of food, which Norah promptly
fell to unpacking. An ample supply remained from lunch, and when
displayed to advantage on the short grass of the clearing the meal
looked very tempting. The Hermit’s eyes glistened as Norah unpacked a
bag of apples and oranges as a finishing touch.
“Fruit!” he said. “Oh, you lucky people! I wish there were fruit shops
in the scrub. I can dispense with all the others, but one does miss
fruit.”
“Well, I’m glad we brought such a bagful, because I’m sure we don’t
want it,” Norah said. “You must let us leave it with you, Mr. Hermit.”
“Water’s plenty boilin’,” said Billy
Tea was quickly brewed, and presently they were seated on the ground
and making a hearty meal, as if the lunch of a few hours ago had never
been.
“If a fellow can’t get hungry in the bush,” said Wally, holding out his
hand for his fifth scone, “then he doesn’t deserve ever to get hungry
at all!” To which Jim replied, “Don’t worry, old man—that’s a fate
that’s never likely to overtake you!” Wally, whose hunger was of a
generally prevailing kind, which usually afflicted him most in school
hours, subsided meekly into his tea-cup.
They did not hurry over the meal, for everyone was a little lazy after
the long day, and there was plenty of time to get home—the long summer
evening was before them, and it would merge into the beauty of a
moonlit night. So they “loafed” and chatted aimlessly, and drank huge
quantities of the billy-tea, that is quite the nicest tea in the world,
especially when it is stirred with a stick. And when they were really
ashamed to eat any more they lay about on the grass, yarning, telling
bush tales many and strange, and listening while the Hermit spun them
old-world stories that made the time slip away wonderfully. It was with
a sigh that Jim roused himself at last.
“Well,” he said, “it’s awfully nice being here, and I’m not in a bit of
a hurry to go—are you, chaps?”
The chaps chorused “No.”
“All the same, it’s getting late,” Jim went on, pulling out his
watch—“later than I thought, my word! Come on—we’ll have to hurry.
Billy, you slip along and saddle up the ponies one-time quick!”
Billy departed noiselessly.
“He never said ‘Plenty!’” said Wally disappointedly, gathering himself
up from the grass.
“It was an oversight,” Jim laughed. “Now then, Norah, come along. What
about the miserable remains?”
“The remains aren’t so miserable,” said Norah, who was on her knees
gathering up the fragments of the feast. “See, there’s a lot of bread
yet, ever so many scones, heaps of cake, and the fruit, to say nothing
of butter and jam.” She looked up shyly at the Hermit. “Would you—would
you mind having them?”
The Hermit laughed.
“Not a bit!” he said. “I’m not proud, and it is really a treat to see
civilized food again. I’ll willingly act as your scavenger, Miss
Norah.”
Together they packed up the remnants, and the Hermit deposited them
inside his tent. He rummaged for a minute in a bag near his bed, and
presently came out with something in his hand.
“I amuse myself in my many odd moments by this sort of thing,” he said.
“Will you have it, Miss Norah?”
He put a photograph frame into her hand—a dainty thing, made from the
native woods, cunningly jointed together and beautifully carved. Norah
accepted it with pleasure.
“It’s not anything,” the Hermit disclaimed—“very rough, I’m afraid. But
you can’t do very good work when your pocket-knife is your only tool. I
hope you’ll forgive its shortcomings, Miss Norah, and keep it to
remember the old Hermit.”
“I think it’s lovely,” Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, “and
I’m ever so much obliged. I’ll always keep it.”
“Don’t forget,” the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. “And
some day, perhaps, you’ll all come again.”
“We must hurry,” Jim said.
They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun,
sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten
responsibility.
“It’s every man for his own steed,” he said. “Can you manage your old
crock, Norah?”
“Don’t you wish yours was half as good?” queried Norah, as she took the
halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.
Jim grinned.
“Knew I’d got her on a soft spot!” he murmured, wrestling with a
refractory crupper.
Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the
load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on
a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool
resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so
heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy’s balance, and,
after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off
with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a
decisive “Bust!” amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily,
the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log,
not much the worse, except in temper.
“Damp in there, Billy?” queried Wally, with a grave face.
“Plenty!” growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and
a dripping leg.
The Hermit had taken Norah’s saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it
up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him
keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old
man stroked the pony’s glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put
his nose into his hand.
“He likes you,” Norah said; “he doesn’t do that to everyone. Do you
like horses?”
“Better than men,” said the Hermit. “You’ve a good pony, Miss Norah.”
“Yes, he’s a beauty,” the little girl said. “I’ve had him since he was
a foal.”
“He’ll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?”
“About that, I think.”
“And we’ll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where
we are,” said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. “We’ll have to say
good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, and good-bye,” said the Hermit, holding out his hand. “I’m
sorry you’ve all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays—?”
“We’ll come out,” nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. “And if ever you
find your way in as far as our place—”
“I’m afraid not,” said the Hermit hastily. “As I was explaining to Miss
Norah, I’m a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again.”
The boys said “good-bye” and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah
swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Norah looked at him pitifully.
“I won’t say good-bye,” she said. “I’m coming back—some day. So
it’s—‘so long!’”
“So long,” the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then
something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the
saddle and kissed his cheek.
He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures
scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and,
with slow steps, went back into the scrub.
They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was
dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well,
and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they
had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The
track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is
not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode
almost in silence.
It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds
to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great
flapping thing flew into Harry’s face, and he uttered a startled yell
before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat
mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters
they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to
“Way Down Upon the Swanee River” and more modern songs, which aren’t
half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had
exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry “obliged” with one of
Gordon’s poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with
vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly
that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.
“Old Harry’s our champion elocutioner at school, you know,” Wally said.
“You should have heard him last Speech Day! He got more clapping than
all the rest put together.”
“Shut up, young Wally!” growled Harry in tones of affected wrath.
“Same to you,” said Wally cheerfully. “Why, you had all the mammas
howling into their hankies in your encore piece!”
After which nothing would satisfy Norah but another recitation, and
another after that; and then the timber ended, and there was only the
level plain be tween them and home, with the moon just high enough to
make it sufficiently light for a gallop. They tore wildly homeward, and
landed in a slightly dishevelled bunch at the gate of the paddock.
No one was about the stables.
“Men all gone off somewhere,” said Jim laconically, proceeding to let
his pony go. His example was followed by each of the others, the steeds
dismissed with a rub and a pat, and the saddles placed on the stands.
“Well, I don’t know about you chaps,” said Jim, “but I’m as hungry as a
hunter!”
“Same here,” chorused the chaps.
“Come along and see what good old Brownie’s put by for us,” said Norah,
disappearing towards the house like a small comet.
The boys raced after her. In the kitchen doorway Mrs. Brown stood, her
broad face resplendent with smiles.
“I was just beginning to wonder if any of you had fallen into the
creek,” she said. “You must be hungry, poor dears. Supper’s ready.”
“Where’s Dad?” asked Norah.
“Your Pa’s gone to Sydney.”
“Sydney!”
“Yes, my dears. A tallygrum came for him—something about some valuable
cattle to be sold, as he wants.”
“Oh,” said Jim, “those shorthorns he was talking about?”
“Very like, Master Jim. Very sorry, your Pa were, he said, to go so
suddint, and not to see you again, and the other young gentlemen
likewise, seein’ you go away on Monday. He left his love to Miss Norah,
and a letter for you; and Miss Norah, you was to try not to be dull,
and he would be back by Thursday, so he ’oped.”
“Oh,” said Norah, blankly. “It’s hardly a homecoming without Dad.”
Supper was over at last, and it had been a monumental meal. To behold
the onslaughts made by the four upon Mrs. Brown’s extensive
preparations one might have supposed that they had previously been
starving for time uncounted.
“Heigho!” said Jim. “Our last day to-morrow.”
Groans followed from Harry and Wally.
“What do you want to remind a fellow for?”
“Couldn’t help it—slipped out. What a jolly sell not to see old Dad
again!” Jim wrinkled his brown handsome face into a frown.
“You needn’t talk!” said Norah gloomily. “Fancy me on Monday—not a soul
to speak to.”
“Poor old Norah—yes, it’s rough on you,” said Jim. “Wish you were
coming too. Why can’t you get Dad to let you go to school in
Melbourne?”
“Thanks,” said Norah hastily, “I’d rather not. I think I can bear this
better. School! What on earth would I do with myself, shut up all day?”
“Oh, all right; I thought you might like it. You get used to it, you
know.”
“I couldn’t get used to doing without Dad,” returned Norah.
“Or Dad to doing without you, I reckon,” said Jim. “Oh, I suppose it’s
better as it is—only you’ll have to get taught some day, old chap, I
suppose.”
“Oh, never mind that now,” Norah said impatiently. “I suppose I’ll have
a governess some day, and she won’t let me ride astride, or go after
the cattle, or climb trees, or do anything worth doing, and everything
will be perfectly hateful. It’s simply beastly to be getting old!”
“Cheer up, old party,” Jim laughed. “She might be quite a decent sort
for all you know. As for riding astride, Dad’ll never let you ride any
other way, so you can keep your mind easy about that. Well, never mind
governesses, anyhow; you haven’t got one yet, and sufficient unto the
day is the governess thereof. What are we going to do to-morrow?”
“Can’t do very much,” said Norah, still showing traces of gloom. “It’s
Sunday; besides, the horses want a spell, and you boys will have to
pack—you leave pretty early on Monday, you know.”
“Oh, botheration!” said Wally, jumping up so suddenly that he upset his
chair. “For goodness’ sake, don’t talk of going back until we actually
get there; it’s bad enough then. Let’s go and explore somewhere
to-morrow.”
“We can do that all right,” said Jim, glad of any turn being given to
the melancholy conversation. “We’ve never taken you chaps to the falls,
two miles up the creek, and they’re worth seeing.”
“It’s a nice walk, too,” added Norah, putting sorrow to flight by
deftly landing a pellet of bread on Harry’s nose. “Think you can
struggle so far, Harry?”
“Yes, and carry you back when you knock up,” said that gentleman,
returning the missile, without success, Norah having retreated behind a
vase of roses. “I think it would be a jolly good plan.”
“Right oh!” said Jim. “That’s settled. We’ll pack up in the morning,
get Brownie to give us dinner early, and start in good time. It doesn’t
really take long to walk there, you know, only we want to be able to
loaf on the way, and when we get to the falls.”
“Rather,” said Harry. “I never see any fun in a walk when you tear
somewhere, get there, and tear back again. Life’s too short. Come on,
Norah, and play to us.”
So they trooped into the drawing-room, and for an hour the boys lay
about on sofas and easy chairs, while Norah played softly. Finally she
found that her entire audience was sound asleep, a state of things she
very naturally resented by gently pouring water from a vase on their
peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah.