UNDER THE TAMARIND TREE.
It was very dark in the scrub, and the new moon had set. The flying
foxes squealed in the wild fig trees, and Tom Pagdin, sitting under the
tamarind heard a night owl complaining mournfully.
The hollow hoot of the owl sent a shudder down Tom’s spine, because it
was unlucky to hear an owl in the dark of the moon.
Away off on the flats the curlew called, wild pathos in his cry.
The scrub, close-matted and tied by many vines, was cool and pleasant in
the daytime; but at night its overhanging canopy of vegetation shut out
the stars, and one walked beneath in an eerie gloom that was wearing on
the strongest nerves.
Tom waited and waited until it was almost eight o’clock.
He was restless and uneasy. Half the joy of his proposed expedition would
be gone if Dave did not turn up. There is no fun in the pirating business
without a mate; it becomes lonesome and monotonous. Tom had just decided
to take it out of Dave for breaking his promise, when he heard a noise
somewhere off at the other side of the scrub.
He put his ear to the ground, bushman fashion, and listened.
It was Dave whistling loudly. Dave had no more idea of tune than a milch
cow; he made up what he whistled as he went along.
It was weird, but he kept himself brave in that way, and overcame the
temptation to drop the bundle he was carrying and cut back home as fast
as his legs could carry him.
Tom sneaked through the scrub with the stealthiness of an Apachee, and
hid behind a bean tree, which he knew his mate must pass. As the scrub
drew denser and darker Dave gave over whistling and started talking to
himself.
Once he caught his toe in a vine, stumbled, and swore.
Presently he came to the bean tree. Tom was holding his breath.
As Dave passed he jumped out and caught him round the neck.
The red-headed boy let out a continuation of blood-curdling yells, which
woke wild echoes in the forest, and frightened the night owl from his
perch on Dobie’s fence.
“Shut up,” cried Tom, trying to smother Dave’s outcry by putting his hand
over his mouth. “Shut up, you speckled idiot; you’ll have them down on
us.”
But Dave was so thoroughly frightened that for the moment he did not
recognise the aggressor. He concluded that a dastardly attempt had been
made to smother him, and determined to die hard, anyhow. So he bit the
hand.
“Let up!” yelled Tom. “It’s me, I tell yer!”
But Dave, sobbing with fright, held on like a bulldog.
“By gosh!” cried Tom, “I’ll stouch yer.”
He suited the action to the word by punching the other boy in the ribs.
In retaliation Dave kicked Tom’s shins viciously.
It was a rather lively rough-and-tumble for about a minute and a half;
then Dave recovered sense enough to realise that he was not in the grip
of an unknown assassin, and Tom, with a contused eye and badly-bitten
hand, sat on the leaves and reproached him.
“What yer mean by bitin’ my ’and?” he demanded, angrily.
“Well, what did you mean by comin’ be’ind me and thumpin’ me in the dark?”
“I never; I only just held yer.”
“What did you hold me for, then?”
“Why, I wanted to frighten yer, that’s all.”
“What did you do it for, then?”
“I wanted to see how you’d act if we was caught by the police, or stuck
up by a gang of bushrangers, or something.”
“Well, you didn’t get no good of it, anyhow. It wasn’t a fair thing to
do, neither.”
“My word, you _was_ frightened, Dave!”
“Me frightened! No blooming fear! You couldn’t frighten me like that.”
“Gerrout! Why, you yelled louder ’n ole Dobie’s bull!”
“Gerrout; I _knowed_ it was you all the time.”
“Well, if yer did,” demanded Tom, indignantly, “What right did yer ’ave
to bite me ’and? If yer knew, what did you ’it me in the eye for with yer
shut fist?”
“Because you punched me. I don’t want to have nothing more to do with
you, Tom Pagdin; I’m goin’ home.”
“No!” said Tom magnanimously. “Don’t go ’ome; we’ll cry quits; we was
both in the wrong.”
“_I_ wasn’t in the wrong,” persisted Dave. “You started it; I only hit
when you did.”
“Of course, you was frightened,” said Tom. “That’s why you did it.”
“I was _not_ frightened,” protested Dave, vigorously; “I was no more
frightened—nor—nor—nor anything. You can’t frighten me as easy as that!”
“All right,” cried Tom, “don’t let us say any more about it. Shake hands,
and we’ll make it up.”
“I won’t try to frighten you any more,” said Tom, generously, rubbing his
shin where Dave had kicked him. “We better get down to the Tamarind. I
left a lot of things there.”
It was growing darker and darker.
The two adventurers sneaked stealthily through the scrub in the direction
of Dobie’s fence, following as nearly as they could a track which led
across from Pagdin’s.
“Don’t make no more noise than you can help,” admonished Tom. “There
might be somebody about. They might ’ave ’eard that row we kicked up.”
The lads stumbled along in the darkness, and every time one of them trod
on a dry stick or on the crisp leaves, they would both stop and breathe
hard. There was a fearsome mystery about the whole thing which lent it
an additional charm. It is probably the danger attached to crime which
renders evil-doing most attractive to the criminal.
They came at last to the tamarind tree, and stopped. Tom sat on the butt
of a big hollow bluegum, which had been blown down by some tornado, and
wiped his forehead.
“It’s a hot night,” he said. “I think we’re going to have a storm.”
“Suppose we do, Tom?” asked Dave, anxiously.
“Well, suppose we do!” repeated Tom, with scorn in his voice.
“We’ll get wet,” replied Dave, diffidently. “Won’t we?”
“No,” said Tom, “not a wet! I got a tent.”
“A tent! Where did you get her, Tom?”
“Never you mind. Pirates ain’t supposed to answer questions like that. I
got her, that’s good enough.”
“Where is she, Tom?”
“I got her planted not ten yards from here,” replied the elder
conspirator, proudly.
Dave’s admiration for Tom was growing.
“Your a wonner,” he said.
“Bet your life,” replied Tom. “I wasn’t goin’ out in the bush without a
tent. It’s one some coves that was down fishin’ last summer left with
the old man to take care of. Don’t you split!”
“No blime fear,” said Dave. “We’re mates.”
“Let us put these things in the boat first,” said Tom, “an’ we’ll come
back and get the tent.”
“Where is the boat, Tom?” asked Dave. “I ain’t seen her yet.”
“Foller me!” cried Tom. “We got to be quick. The tide’s on the turn, an’
we’ll go down with it. Did you pinch a pair of pants for me?”
“Yes; and I hooked one of the old man’s shirts, too.”
“Good egg!” exclaimed Tom, gleefully. “I couldn’t have gone another night
without a shirt. The mosquitoes ’as nearly ’et me raw. Gimme the shirt
now.”
“It’s in the bag.”
“Is it near the top? Give us it, anyhow. They’ve sucked all the blood out
of me back an’ legs. I’d a lit a fire to keep ’em off only I was afraid
of somebody seein’ it.”
“My crumbs,” he added, presently, “this shirt comes all over me.”
“Tuck it down in your sugar-bag, fer now,” said Dave; “we’ll cut a bit
off it in the mornin’. I got an ole pair of trousers fer you, too, but
they’re in the bottom of the bag.”
“Your a all-right first mate, Dave,” said Tom. “You want a bit o’
trainin’ yet, an’ you want a bit more pursonal courage; but you’ll do. I
reckon we’ll surprise ’em before we’re done.”
“My oath we will,” said Dave. “We’ll make ’istry.”
“Hist!” exclaimed Tom. “Didn’t you ’ear a noise?”
“No,” said Dave, crouching down behind the log, “did you?”
“Ssh!” whispered Tom. “I ’eard something along there be Dobie’s fence.”
“Might be a cow!”
“Cow’s don’t cough!”
“I’ve heard cows cough.”
“Well, they don’t whistle softly to theirselves. Leastwise, I never ’eard
a cow do it. You might.”
“No, I never did. What did she whistle?”
“I don’t know the tune,” replied Tom, “but it was a whistle all right.
Lie low, there’s some people comin’.”
“Don’t breathe!” said Dave, in Tom’s ear. “I can ’ear ’em. It’s somebody
talking.”
“They’re comin’ this way,” muttered Tom. “Keep quiet, can’t yer! Yer
rootin’ in them dry leaves like a wild pig.”
“I’m not; it’s you,” protested Dave.
“It ain’t me,” denied Tom, _sotto voce_; “it’s you. You’re makin’ enough
row to wake the dead, blarst yer!”
“I ain’t!” said Dave, indignantly. “I ain’t.”
“Shut up!” hissed Tom in his pal’s ear. “They’re comin’ right this way.”
“Who is it, Tom?” asked Dave, in a faint whisper. The strain was heavy on
him.
“’Ow the devil do I know?” replied Tom; “shut up!”
The boys laid behind the fallen tree as still as mice.
“Get down,” whispered Tom presently. “Get right down.”
He spread himself out on the flat of his stomach, with his chin to the
ground.
Dave followed suit.
“They’ll think we’re two logs,” he explained to his comrade.
The sound of voices became more distinct. The footsteps of the
approaching unknown fell audibly on the crisp leaves, and when one of
them trod on a dry bangalow leaf it cracked sharply.
Tom and Dave could hear their hearts beat.
Either boy was temped to jump up and run for his life, but the thought
of what the other might say restrained him. It is even thus with whole
regiments in action.
It was plain that two men had come up to the log and were talking.
A smell of strong tobacco told that one of them was smoking a pipe.
And with the powerful odour of bush weed was blended the milder perfume
of a cigarette.
Tom and Dave watched the flame of the cigarette like a glowworm not
twenty yards away, and once, when the smoker drew in a long whiff, they
saw the outline of a dark, bearded face.
Scraps of conversation came down to the two trembling youths cowering
among the leaves. It had anything but a re-assuring effect on them.
One man, he of the cigarette, spoke with an accent.
“Tell to me,” he said, “vat you sink ze best time?”
“About eleven o’clock at night,” replied the other. “He goes to bed
early.”
“Ah! zen vere shall ve meet—you an’ I, eh?”
“Look ’ere, Frenchy,” came the second voice, “I don’t see what you want
me for at all.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the first speaker in a louder tone, “zen you air
friten now! You have vot you call concoct ze plan, you leave ze ozzer to
open ze door! You air coward, ees eet not so?”
“No,” came the response, “it ain’t that; but I’m getting known round
here, and you ain’t. If anything happened I might be recognised, an’ that
would be bad for both of us.”
“So?”
“So I reckon it ’ud be better I didn’t go right down with you to-morrow
night. I’ve put you up to everything. You know the lay of the land as
well as I do meself. I’ve giv you the plan of the place, I’ve giv you the
impression of the key. You don’t have to make no noise with the safe. All
you got to do is to open it an’ shift the stuff. It’s as easy as fallin’
off a log. I’ll be waitin’ down under the bank with the boat. We’ll bring
the stuff off together and plant it in a safe place. After the row is all
over we can slip away quietly down the country with the spile. It’s a
dead cert. It’s the deadest cert that ever was in this world.”
“_Tres bien_,” replied the black-headed man, “It shall be as you say.
Remembaire zat I vill not be made fool of. Non! Eet ees so?”
“Who wants to make a fool of you?” demanded the other man. “We’re halves
in this job. We’re both takin’ our equal risk, an’ we stand in equal.
That’s fair, ain’t it?”
“_Oui_; that ees so! About ze boat! Vat zen? Hav’ you made ze
preparation?”
“That’s all as right as rain. You leave that to me. I struck a bit o’
luck to-day.”
“Ah! so?”
“I found a boat!”
The spark of the cigarette described a parabola in the darkness.
“Hist!”
“What’s the matter, Frenchy?”
“I think I hear someone. Ah! Vat! Ssh!”
There was a silence. It seemed about a hundred and twenty years to Tom
and Dave.
Neither dared to speak, but Dave could feel Tom tremble, and it
comforted him in his own quivering anguish.
After a time one of the men—he who spoke without an accent—laughed
softly.
“There’s nobody about,” he said in a quiet voice, “nor likely to be; an’
if there was it’s too dark for them to see us, an’ if they did see us,
that don’t prove nothing.”
“Ah!” said the Frenchman, drawing a long breath; “so; but ze boad, vere
ees it?”
“I found her tied up among the reeds in a little branch off the creek
here.”
“Tied up! Fastened, eh?”
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid. She’s a stray boat. One of these farmer
coves has found her. He’s just run her in there and hitched her to a
log. By-an’-bye he thinks to himself he’ll take her out and paint her up
quietly, an’ let on he bought her new down the river.”
“Vell, vat you think to do?”
“Borrow the boat for to-morrow night.”
“So, and——”
“Yes; we’ll come down here, get her, pull down quietly to the town. I’ll
wait at the place I told you. When you come along with the stuff we’ll
pull back an’ tie her up again to the log an’ nobody won’t ever be any
the wiser. The cove that’s thinking to hook that boat for himself won’t
say anything. It won’t be his game. See?”
“_Oui!_ it is reasonable. Ef so, he ees accuse, an accomplice, eh?”
“Frenchy you got sense. You’ll do.”
The foreigner laughed—a saturnine laugh. “I haf,” he said, “ze advantage
of moch experience.”
“Don’t doubt it,” replied the other. “You’re an older hand than me. Now,
listen. We got to meet here to-morrow night at half-past seven. It’s a
good three hours’ pull even with a falling tide.”
“I shall be here,” replied the foreigner, grimly. “Ah, most certainly
shall I be here. Eet ees a bargain, zen, eh?”
“That’s settled,” said the other, “and, remember, no violence. I got no
wish to see you ’ung, Frenchy.”
“Nor I you,” replied the Frenchman, politely. “Eet will surely break my
heart zat my dear friend terminate hees career—_sacre bleu!_—upon ze
sgaffold. Non, non!”
“No, but no funny business,” pleaded the other man, earnestly. “I ain’t
used to that sort o’ thing, if you are. Besides, the thing can be done
without any trouble if you go quietly. It’s the safest job was ever put
up in this world.”
“You can depend zat eet will be done, _mon ami_. Yes, eet will be done.
Already I am tired of zis countree. I would get back to France—to
Paris—vere zere ees vat you call ze scope for mine ability. Eet is not
here zat should remain ze man of parts—non!”
“That’s right,” agreed the other; “I want to get down to Melbourne
meself. Damn the country! Since I cleared out o’ Trial Bay last June
I ain’t ad a decent spree or met a pal, as was a pal, exceptin’ that
little cove down the river wot laid me on to this. An’ then ’e’s turned
respectable, and won’t take no active part in it. Sez ’e’s only puttin’
me on to this fer the sake of old times.”
“Ah! but he has done us ze great service.”
“Yes, and that puts ’im in it—so ’e’s safe. I wouldn’t trust no converted
bloke unless I ’ad a pull over ’im like that. Goin’ with those Salvation
coves ’as sent ’im ratty. But that’s only temporary. ’E’ll work it off.
’E’ll come out all right again, will Joe. ’E’s too good a cove to be
spiled with religion for long.”
“Zen ve meet here at zis place to-morrow?”
“Yes; to-morrow night at half-past seven.”
The two strangers went away quietly by the road they had come.
Tom and Dave might have been dead, they lay so still. At length—long
after the last sound of receding footsteps had died out—Tom spoke in a
hollow whisper:
“Do you know what they was takin’ about, Dave?”
“No,” replied Dave; “do you?”
“Some of it,” said Tom, “most of it, I think.”
“Do you think they’re gone?” asked the younger boy.
“Yes; they’re gone for now.”
“They won’t come back again?”
“Not to-night they won’t, but,” added Tom, vehemently, “they’ll be back
to-morrow night sure, an’ they’ll want the loan of our boat!”
“The loan of it! But you ain’t goin’——”
“Dave Gibson,” cried Tom, sitting up, “you leave this business to me. I
reckon we’ve struck a big thing. I reckon we’ve struck the biggest thing
any two young coves in Australia ever struck in their lives.”
“What is it, Tom?” asked Dave, curiously.
“You’ll know later on,” replied Tom; “you’ll ’ave a hand in it. Are you
fit?”
“My oath!” said Dave, bravely, forgetting his recent fears in the
prospect of adventure. “I’m fit!”
“You’re an all-right mate,” said Tom. “You’ll do.”
“Who were they?” asked Dave, after a pause.
“I don’t know neither of ’em, but I reckon they must be coves workin’
about here somewhere. They’ve got a game on.”
“Them coves,” said Tom, “is going to do a robbery down the river. I
reckon they’re goin’ to rob a bank somewhere not far from here.”
“Je-rusalem!” said Dave; “What was that cove that smoked the cigarette?”
“Some kind o’ German,” replied Tom, sagaciously. “He’s a bad egg whoever
he is. Did you hear them plannin’ it all out?”
“Yes,” said Dave, “but I didn’t know what they meant, a lot of it.”
“I did,” remarked Tom. “I follered ’em every word. I say, Dave, we’ve got
to take a hand in this game!”
“What!” exclaimed Dave, “in the robbing of the bank!”
“No, not in the robbin’ exactly, but we’ll be the detectives, an’, look
here, we’ll get the reward!”
“What reward, Tom?”
“Why the reward for the recovery of the money.”
“But the money ain’t stole yet.”
“No, but it will be—to-morrow night.”
Dave thought awhile.
“Wouldn’t it be better,” he asked, “to go an’ tell somebody beforehand?”
“What!” exclaimed Tom, in unutterable scorn, “go an’ tell somebody now
and spile the whole thing. You ain’t got no sense, Dave Gibson—no sense
whatever. You’re a nice sort o’ detective an’ pirate, you are.”
“Well, I didn’t know,” protested Dave.
“No, an’ you’ve got everything to learn. But you leave this business to
me. I’ll fix it.”
“What’ll we do, then?”
“Do? Why we’ll let ’em take the boat.”
“What for?”
“To row down the river and do the robbery with.”
“But that ain’t right, is it?”
“Why ain’t it right? They’ll bring the boat back, won’t they?”
“I suppose——”
“Of course! Didn’t they say so? Then we’ll see where they hide the money.
Then we’ll take the swag an’ go down the river an’ hide it in a place of
our own an’ wait for the reward. See?”
“I see, but where are we goin’ to camp till to-morrow night?”
“I’ve got a place,” said Tom.