A GREAT SURPRISE.
Eustace thought he had never seen anything so wicked as the
chief's grin when he looked down into his astonished face. The
black-fellow's teeth gleamed like a wolf's. His whole expression
seemed to say, "Ha, ha! so I've caught you in the very act. You
don't escape me so easily, you see." He evidently felt an exultant
satisfaction in frustrating his departure, or he was rejoicing over
having found him again.
With an overwhelming consciousness of Bob's helplessness, Eustace
moved back quickly to the prostrate figure, as if to shelter it.
"What's up, old man?" questioned Bob, who from his position could
see nothing. "You're not shirking, are you?"
The chief came rapidly within range of the sick man's eyes, and
Bob's face fell most unmistakably. There was disappointment in
every line of it.
"Phew!" he whistled, "we've lost our chance this time."
Exactly how crestfallen the pair was it would be impossible to
describe. Not that Bob had harboured any hope for himself. He knew
the natives would come to him before Eustace could possibly get
back with assistance, and finding him no longer an amusing
spectacle, would probably dispatch him. But he had been bent on
saving the boy's life and sending his message home.
The native chief said something in his rapid, unintelligible
language, then turned, made a strange call, and began gesticulating
violently.
Eustace dropped on his knees and hid his face on Bob's tattered
shirt.
"Buck up, old chap," Bob said softly; "one can only die once. Let's
show these black-fellows how a Christian and an Englishman can do
it. You'll get the strength right enough; I'm not a bit afraid of
your funking."
There was an advancing tramp, a crashing of branches: the chief's
summons was being rapidly obeyed. With a long shuddering sigh
Eustace raised himself and knelt upright, gazing down on his hero.
"That's right," said Bob steadily, with his own genial smile
lighting up his whole face, "keep your eyes on mine; hold on to me
if you like. I shan't think you a muff, because I know you aren't
one."
But the boy did not touch him; he kept his hands clasped tightly
together in a supreme effort to be worthy of Bob's belief in him.
He heard the new-comers halt. The native spoke and moved aside.
Then--
"Both of them!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Thank God for that."
Eustace sank back in a heap on the ground and stared up.
"Father!" cried Bob in astonishment.
It was Mr. Cochrane indeed, and with him Mr. Orban--as haggard a
pair as could be met with in a long day's march.
It seemed little short of a miracle that they should appear at such
a juncture, yet the explanation proved simple enough. The native
chief had fetched them straight to the spot. There was no sort of
nobility in the act: the man knew enough of white men's ways to
expect a big reward. Bob he did not know; but when Eustace appeared
on the scene he recognized the boy as belonging to the master of
the neighbouring plantation, whom he had seen many times from a
distance as he rode through the Bush. Mr. Orban was out with Mr.
Cochrane making a frantic search of the entire neighbourhood when
the chief arrived, and he would communicate his business to no one
else. Not that it is likely any one else would have understood him
or followed him as Mr. Orban did the moment he arrived home. The
language was unintelligible to both men; but putting two and two
together in their great anxiety, they made out that the chief could
lead them where they would find something of interest to
themselves. They had not dared to hope he knew the whereabouts of
both their sons, or to speculate which they should find; they did
not even know whether they were being taken to the living or the
dead.
"I'm afraid you'll have a bit of bother getting me home," said Bob;
"I'm as stiff as a board, and can't move hand or foot."
Then he told his story, and how Eustace had found him, and to all
intents and purposes saved his life.
"And you, Eustace," said Mr. Orban--"how did you come here?"
When Eustace came to the description of the answering coo-ee on the
banks of the creek, Mr. Orban interrupted him.
"That was only an echo. I knew there was one there, but I never
thought of telling you."
"Thank God you didn't," said Mr. Cochrane, "and that he made the
mistake. We should never have found Bob but for that."
"Father," Eustace said anxiously, "you won't forget poor old
Bolter, will you? This black-fellow has got him in the camp over
there."
"I had quite forgotten him," Mr. Orban said; "and we shall need him
too."
Their own horses were quietly waiting a little distance back. By
means of much gesticulation--pointing towards the horses, and then
in the direction of the camp--the chief was made to understand what
was wanted; and after a little demur he went away to fetch Bolter,
but certainly most grudgingly.
The journey back to the plantation was one that none of the party
could ever forget. The difficulty of conveying the helpless Bob,
the suffering he so bravely tried to endure, and the terrible time
it took, were indescribable.
It had of course been necessary to tell both mothers of the loss of
their sons. Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy had gone immediately to the
Orbans' house as more central for obtaining news.
Mr. Orban dispatched one coolie from the plantation for the doctor,
who lived fifteen miles away. Another man he sent up the hill as
fast as he could go with a note preparing his wife for their
arrival, and the whole white-faced party was out waiting for it as
the slow procession--Bob on a stretcher in the midst--wound its way
to the house.
The joy of the meeting was lost sight of in the anxiety, for Bob
was by this time delirious with pain, Eustace so weak that he was
nearly fainting.
For the next ten days the house was no better than a hospital--its
central interest the condition of the two patients within its
walls; but the first day Bob and Eustace were brought out on to the
veranda--two white-faced shadows of themselves--Bob laughingly
called it the convalescent home.
Up to that point everything was, as Nesta expressed it, horrid; but
when Bob was about again, even if his voice was weaker, his laugh a
ghost of itself, matters at once began to improve.
They were all sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening.
"What I can't understand," said Nesta meditatively, breaking a long
pause, "is why the black-fellows wouldn't let Eustace answer
father's coo-ee."
"It is quite simple," said Mr. Orban. "The chief had evidently
given strict orders he was not to be allowed to go in his absence,
and they were afraid we should come and take him away. Then the
chief would have got no reward."
"What I can't understand," said Peter, who never remained long in
the background, "is why the black-fellows didn't cut Bob down. It
was wicked of them."
"That's what I think," said Nesta. "If they left him because they
thought it funny, I wish they could be tortured."
"Nesta, Nesta, my darling!" said Mrs. Orban warningly.
"I suppose," said Miss Chase softly, "the poor things have no
knowledge of mercy."
"None," said Mr. Cochrane, who was over spending the evening; "and
they wouldn't understand it if you showed them any, either."
"No heathens ever do," said Mrs. Orban, "and how should they? They
have no Great Example to follow as we have. It is the people who
have the chance of knowing better, and still are cruel and
heartless, that I would have tortured--if any one."
Mr. Orban gave a soft laugh.
"If any one, indeed, wife," he said. "You know as well as I do that
you wouldn't have a spider hurt for torturing a fly."
Every one laughed with him except Mrs. Orban herself. Her tender
heart was as good as a fable in the household. But she said quite
gravely,--
"You have chosen a bad example for once, Jack. A spider is as
ignorant as a heathen. It has only its own nature to follow."
"Got the worst of it there, Mr. Orban," said Bob in an amused tone.
"Talking of cruelty," remarked Miss Chase, "what do you do to your
unfortunate cows here at night? I never heard such a dismal noise
as they make."
"Cows!" exclaimed every one in astonishment.
"Yes, cows," was the answer. "If you listen you can hear them now."
There was an instant hush, followed by renewed peals of laughter.
"Those aren't cows I advise you to go and sympathize with, Miss
Chase," said Bob. "We call them alligators hereabouts, and at the
present minute they are lying on the banks of the creek wishing a
nice, tasty supper would come strolling along."
"There are alligators in the river, and yet Nesta says you boat on
it and bathe in it!" exclaimed Miss Chase. "What extraordinary
people you are!"
"There are alligators one side of the bar and sharks the other, and
one often upsets going over it in rough weather," said Bob
cheerfully.
"How horrible!" said Miss Chase.
"When Aunt Dorothy saw a tarantula strolling round the table
towards her the other day she nearly had a fit," said Peter.
"Don't tell tales out of school, Peter Perky," said Aunt Dorothy.
"A poor, ignorant Englishwoman isn't expected to be brave when she
sees a spider as big as a penny bun, with furry legs in proportion,
trying to sit on her knee."
"Then, so far, Miss Chase," said Bob, with a twinkle in his eyes,
"you are not infatuated with our Bush life?"
"Have you and Eustace given me much chance to be?" she asked. "You
must confess you did not give me a very good first impression by
both running away and losing yourselves. We don't think that sort
of thing necessary for the entertainment of our friends in England.
Spiders are spiders there, too, not animated penny buns, and our
cows don't want to eat us."
"Oh, of course," said Bob, "everything is perfect in England--isn't
it, Nesta?"
"It has some advantages," said Mrs. Orban. "I think the absence of
these excitements is amongst them."
She was looking very worn out after her recent experiences.
"Well, it's my opinion, my dear," said Mr. Orban, "that with your
little family you would have excitements wherever you went. It has
seemed fated to give you one shock after another."
"Only just lately, Jack," was the gentle response, for Mrs. Orban
caught a contrite expression in Eustace's eyes.
"It was the coming of the witch that did it," said Bob. "As soon as
she started for Queensland queer things began happening over here.
She wanted to make you out of conceit with life here, so that she
could more easily bewitch you over to England. That was her spell."
"And the queer thing is," said Mr. Orban quite gravely, "that it
has acted. She is going to take them all away from me when she
goes--wife, and sons, and daughters."
"Father," exclaimed Nesta, "what are you saying?"
"Is it a story, daddy?" demanded Peter.
"No, the solemn truth," said Mr. Orban.
"I don't understand," said Eustace blankly.
"How should you when so much nonsense is being talked?" said his
mother. "But the fact is, father thinks a change of air would do us
all a great deal of good; and as grannie wants us, and has sent us
our passage money--"
"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Nesta, "don't go on, mummie. You make it sound
just as if it were real, and it _will_ be so disappointing to have
to _un_-fancy it again."
But Eustace said breathlessly,--
"Mother, _is_ it true?"
"Quite true," was the grave answer. "We sail the end of next month.
It is all settled."
"What did I say?" said Bob in mock despair. "She'll take you away,
and you'll never come back any more."
"Oh, there you are quite wrong, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "If Dorothy
is a witch, Jack is a wizard, and he will magic us all back again
in a year and a day at latest."
"Well, I simply can't believe it," said Nesta.
"It's the queerest thing I have ever heard," said Eustace.
But Peter set up such yells of delight he had to be repressed by
the early-to-bed threat--always a useful one when Peter became
rampageous, for he hated going to bed at any time.
That evening no one could talk of anything but this trip to
England. No matter what subject was started, everything harked back
to this wonderful plan, which Mr. Orban had been thinking out for
some time, only confiding in his wife and Miss Chase as long as the
matter was undecided. Bob kept up the appearance of being utterly
woebegone, and Nesta and Peter seemed to have turned into machines
for asking questions.
Of the party only Eustace was silent, and presently Nesta noticed
the fact.
"Aren't you most awfully glad?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Eustace slowly.
"Goodness!" said Nesta in a bustling tone, "you've always said you
wanted to go."
"That was when I knew we couldn't," replied Eustace, scarcely
thinking what he was saying.
"What a funny thing to say," said Nesta. "But you _do_ still want
to go, don't you?"
"I don't know," said Eustace.
"Well, you are a queer boy," said Nesta in rather a disgusted tone.
"I call that silly."
"I think I know just what Eustace means," said Miss Chase quietly.
"He wants to get there without going--to be there without leaving
home. It is how I felt about coming here."
"I don't understand a bit," said Nesta, with a shake of her head.
"I do," said Bob. "One knows what one is leaving, but one doesn't
know what one is going to. It is a toss-up whether there is to be
any happiness in the venture. But I prophesy the witch will see to
it you don't want to come back in a hurry. You'll enjoy yourself no
end."
"Why, Bob," exclaimed Nesta in astonishment, "how you have changed!
That is all the opposite to what you have always said before."
"Is it?" said Bob lamely. "Well, I suppose I must be bewitched too.
What do you expect when you will import such things into the
country?"