SUNDAY AFTERNOON
‟JUST as close a shave as anything could be,” John Weston said. “It came
into our paddock and burned about a chain of fencing: and then the wind
changed. It had been chopping about a bit, they said: not much of it:
but suddenly it blew steadily from the west. And so we’ve still got our
grass, Mary girl!”
“Thank goodness!” she said. “And thanks to every one who worked for us!”
“Yes, indeed,” said her husband. “Half the district seemed to be there
when I got out; it’s queer how the news of a fire will travel quickly in
some directions. Some one passing in a motor saw it in Moncrieff’s, and
sent the word along. That big fellow Conlan—Jo’s friend—was there,
working like a tiger. Was Billy very done?”
“Yes, absolutely. The man who brought him home said he had almost to
hold him on his pony: he was just dead with sleep and fatigue. He drank
two cups of hot milk and was asleep before he had fairly swallowed the
second. I undressed him and put him to bed without even washing his dear
old dirty face; and he’s asleep yet.”
“Poor little chap!” The man’s voice was very tender. “They said he
worked splendidly, galloping from place to place to beat out fires from
flying embers: they wouldn’t let him beat near the main fire, much to
his disgust. Mary, how on earth those kiddies managed to get the cattle
out beats me! Moncrieff said it seemed no time after they went after
them that Billy was back, saying all the bullocks were out.”
“As far as I can gather from Rex they just got them on the run and kept
them running,” Mrs. Weston said. “Rex mentioned that they both yelled
like fury: and certainly he has no voice left to-day. You must be very
tired, John.”
“I’m not: I’m too thankful,” he said.
It was noon, and he had just ridden in, after having spent the night at
the fire: for although the most acute danger was over, trees were still
blazing in Moncrieff’s paddock, and a change of wind might have carried
sparks into the dry grass on Emu Plains. It would be necessary to watch
until the last tree was burned out.
“I thought the twins might go out and keep guard this afternoon, while I
have a sleep,” he went on. “They would like to be in it: and there’s no
hard work required, only watchfulness. I’ll go out again to-night.
Conlan’s chopping down two of the worst trees.”
“What—is he still working?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“Can’t hunt him away. He says he has nothing particular to do—he has a
farm of his own, you know, and does odd work occasionally for Harrison.
I believe the poor chap thinks he’s working off a bit of his debt to Jo.
As things stand, Mary, it’s a very lucky fire for us. It means that we
have a big break of burned country between us and further danger. It has
done Moncrieff good, too—cleared up a very dirty paddock, all over
fallen trees and rubbish—a harbour for rabbits. He had no stock there,
so he’s lost nothing except a little fencing. Moncrieff is jubilant.”
“Perhaps the luck is turning,” his wife said, smiling.
John Weston sighed.
“It’s taken a long time to turn,” he said; “and there’s no sign yet.
Half the district will be ruined if rain doesn’t come while there’s
still warmth enough to bring on the grass. It’s over a year since we had
a good rain. Do you know, I almost thought it was coming this morning:
it was very cloudy, and there was a sort of feel of rain in the air. But
it blew over, as it’s done hundreds of times.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was up at daylight, looking out for you:
and I was almost hopeful. But my toe wasn’t aching!”
Her husband laughed.
“Your old toe!”
“But it always ached for rain, John!”
“Then it’s had such a long spell it must have forgotten to ache,” said
he. “For which you should be thankful.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “It’s better to have my toe aching because of
rain coming than the whole of me—mind and body—aching because rain
doesn’t come. You’ll see me dancing with joy if my toe ever aches
again.”
Mrs. Weston’s private barometer was a standing joke to her family. As a
girl, her toe had been broken in an accident: and ever since, when rain
was coming, it ached, more or less. Now, however, it had not manifested
itself for over a year, and its queer warnings had been almost
forgotten.
“May I see the dance soon!” said her husband, almost solemnly. “By the
way, that fellow Conlan was giving me a chance of buying sheep last
night.”
“And feed with them?” Mrs. Weston queried, drily.
“Feed? Well, yes, as it happens. It would be rather a chance, if one had
ready money—and pluck. A cousin of his named Murphy, a queer old chap,
has just been left a property in Ireland, and he’s anxious to clear out
at once and go back to take possession of it. He rents a place ten miles
away, on Reedy Creek, where he runs sheep. His lease has only a couple
of months to run, and he’s willing to forfeit that, or to give it in to
any one who’ll buy his sheep. Dirt cheap, too, they are. But, of course,
no one’s buying stock now, especially for ready money, which is what old
Murphy wants. In two months’ time this country will be like the Sahara,
unless we get rain.”
“What a chance—if rain should come!” said his wife.
“Rather. But it would be simply a gamble: of course the sheep are as
poor as crows, Conlan says. They can scratch up a sort of a living, but
they couldn’t travel. That’s the sort of gamble a man can face if he has
a good fat balance in the Bank: not unless. Conlan was very sorry. He
brought me the offer first.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him I guessed he had as much ready money as I had, just now. He
grinned at that, and said, ‘Well, indeed, I bought a pair of Injinrubber
ducks for the Missus last week, but it took some scratching up to raise
the cash!’ I told him to go to Holmes about Murphy’s sheep. But I don’t
suppose even Evan Holmes has any spare cash now.”
He rose, yawning.
“Well, I must see to some things,” he said. “I’ll lie down after dinner,
and have a sleep. I don’t suppose Sarah has enough wood to go on with
for the kitchen stove.”
“Oh, yes, she has,” his wife answered, with a smile. “The twins got it.
They chopped mightily. Jean remarked that she hoped you wouldn’t notice
any logs, or you would certainly think a dog had gnawed them off! And
they milked.”
“Did they, indeed?” her husband said. “Good old twinses! I quite forgot
that the little chaps were still asleep.”
“Oh, Rex isn’t. But he was late: the twins wouldn’t call him. He was
very disgusted to find that they had done the outside work, and at once
went and chopped another barrow-load of wood! I think he would have
liked to milk again, but Jean pointed out that the cows wouldn’t have
been of the same opinion!”
A quaint figure came round the corner of the verandah: Billy, in his
pyjamas, with his ruddy curls ruffled all over his head, and with his
face startlingly dirty. He came towards his father, rubbing blackened
fists into his sleepy eyes.
“Is the fire out?” he asked.
“All that matters is out,” John Weston said.
“Did we get burned out, Father?”
“No, we didn’t. And I’m proud of you, old son.” John Weston sat down,
drawing the boy into his arms; and Billy snuggled down on his knee,
cuddling his sleepy head into his father’s neck. Over the rumpled curls
the father and mother smiled at each other.
Round the corner came the twins, with Rex between them.
“Father! Is everything all right?”
“Quite all right,” Mr. Weston said. He held out his hand to Rex.
“I’ve got to thank you, old chap. You and Billy did men’s work
yesterday.”
Rex flushed to the roots of his fair hair.
“Indeed, it wasn’t me, Mr. Weston. It was all Billy!”
“Bosh!” said Billy briefly, without raising his head.
“No, it wasn’t all Billy—though I’ll admit Billy did his share. Billy
couldn’t have moved those cattle single-handed. I’m blessed if I know
how you got them out as it is.”
“I didn’t think we had any chance myself,” said Billy, sitting up
suddenly, “with no dogs, and no stock-whips, nor nothing. So we just
went mad ’n’ yelled. And then the jolly old bullocks went mad, too, an’
put their tails in the air an’ galloped. So we got ’em out quite easy.
It was no end of fun, if we hadn’t been anxious about the grass.”
“You’re good kids,” said Mr. Weston, laughing. “I must say I’d like to
have seen that muster. Billy, my son, have you any idea how dirty your
face is?”
“No, really, is it?” Billy asked, greatly surprised. He caught sight of
his blackened hands. “Why—look!” He held them out for his family’s
benefit. The family shouted with laughter.
“Your face matches them, sonnie,” said his mother. “Go and look at
yourself; and then be off to the bathroom as fast as you can. Dinner
will be ready as soon as you are.”
At dinner it transpired that Mrs. Weston would like to see the scene of
the fire, and that the boys were much aggrieved at the idea of not going
out: so it was decided to give the ponies a rest, and Jo drove the whole
party out in the big express-waggon, leaving Mr. Weston to sleep in the
silent house, in charge of Sarah. They offered to take Sarah too, but
the gaunt handmaiden received the invitation with a snort.
“What ’ud I do, picnickin’ on a burnt log? An’ no one to look after the
master if he wanted anything. No, thanks. You’d better boil the billy
out there; if there’s men workin’ they’d be glad of a drink of tea. I’ll
fix it—you go on an’ get ready.” And when the iron-greys were
harnessed, she came out with a huge billy and a package of food almost
as huge. She held the gate open as they drove through—tall, erect, and
bony, in her stiffly-starched print dress, her hair screwed back from
her knobby forehead.
“Good-bye, Sarah, old girl!” sang out Billy. “Wish you were coming!”
“I know when I’m well orf!” responded Sarah, loftily. But her eyes were
very tender.
There was no buggy track across the paddock: the express-waggon bumped
and rattled over the bare, uneven ground, and the water splashed from
under the lid of the billy with such persistence that it seemed as if
there would be very little left to boil by the time they reached their
journey’s end. The cattle were all back in their feeding-ground—the
gate into the next paddock tied back, in case a fire should spring up.
They looked sleepily at the rattling buggy, failing to recognize, in the
small boys sitting in the back, with dangling legs, the two demons who,
only yesterday, had chased them through the timber with horrid yells.
Moncrieff’s paddock stretched away to the east, blackened and bare.
Smoke rose lazily from the charred timber on the ground, but only one
burning tree still stood erect. There was a steady sound of chopping
near its base, where could be seen a man, whose axe rose and fell with
machine-like regularity. As Jo pulled up the horses, a warning crack
came from the tree, and he stepped quickly backwards, looking up. Slowly
the tree swayed to one side, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then
toppled lazily over, coming to earth with a crash. It broke into three
pieces, showers of sparks and burning fragments rising from it. The
greys leaped beneath Jo’s restraining hand; and then, deciding that they
had made a mistake, settled to calmness again.
“That’s Mr. Conlan,” Jo said. “Isn’t he a brick, working here like
this—and on Sunday, too! And there’s Mr. Moncrieff. We must send them
home—if they’ll go. Come on, Jean, and we’ll get the horses out.”
They unharnessed the greys and tied them in a patch of shade, while
Billy and Rex hunted for sticks to boil the billy. Moncrieff came riding
towards them as they returned to the buggy.
“Good-day, Mrs. Weston. Nice and hot, as usual, isn’t it?”
“It was hotter for you, yesterday, Mr. Moncrieff, I believe,” Mrs.
Weston answered, laughing. “You have had a great burn.”
“Yes, thoroughly satisfactory, since it didn’t finish by getting the Emu
Plains grass,” said Moncrieff, a burly man with a keen, rugged face. “I
certainly was afraid that it was going to. It has done me hundreds of
pounds worth of good, in clearing up my paddock.”
“We’ve come to relieve you, Mr. Moncrieff,” Jean said. “Father sent us
out. We’re to stay until he comes, so you mustn’t wait, after you’ve had
a cup of tea.”
“I won’t wait for that, then, if you don’t mind, Miss Jean,” Moncrieff
said. “I’ll not be sorry to get a sleep, for I’ve been on the go for two
nights now. My wife will have tea for me when I get home.” He yawned
openly, looking at them with tired blue eyes, inflamed from the smoke.
“Great kid you’ve got there,” he said, nodding towards Billy, busily
gathering sticks a little way off. “I never saw anything quicker than he
was last night. Well, I’ll be going.” He lifted his hat—they saw a long
red burn across his hand as he did so—and, wheeling his pony, rode
away.
“Run and tell Mr. Conlan to come for some tea, Billy,” Jean called
presently. “The billy’s boiling.”
Tim Conlan was busy with the tree he had felled, piling the lighter
pieces about the heavier, that all might burn quickly. He came in a few
moments greeting them all cheerfully, with a special smile for Jo.
“You’re to bathe your eyes before you have tea, Mr. Conlan,” Mrs. Weston
said. She produced a bottle of boracic lotion and an eye-bath, and
showed him how to use it.
“Smarts like fury, but it makes ’em better, don’t it?” said the big man,
with tears streaming down his cheeks, making curious patterns in the
smoky dust that covered his face. “If you don’t mind, I’ll slip over to
the river for a wash: I’ll feel more comfortable-like.”
“Have one cup of tea first, Mr. Conlan,” suggested Jo, handing him a
brimming cup. “Then you can really have tea when you come back!”
The big man grinned, and obeyed her.
“That’s too big a temptation for a thirsty man to resist, Miss Weston.
My word, it’s good!” He drained it at a draught, and then went off with
great strides to the river: returning presently much freshened.
“That’s more respectable—though I don’t think my old woman would think
I looked respectable, if she could see me. Fire-fighting isn’t clean and
tidy work,” he said, laughing. Suddenly his eye fell on Jean, who was
proffering him a plate of scones: and then wavered to Jo, who was
handing him tea. “Holy Ann!” he ejaculated. “I say, excuse me, but which
of you is which?”
The twins, who were dressed alike in blue print frocks, chuckled.
“This is my sister!” they said, together, each indicating the other. The
girls at school used to say that only twins could have made remarks with
the absolute unanimity of Jean and Jo. It happened without any previous
preparation, as though the two bodies were informed by one mind. Rex and
Billy shouted with laughter.
“Well, I’ve met one of you—and good reason I have to know it,” said the
bewildered man. “But I’m hanged if I can say which it is. Do _you_ know
them apart, Mrs. Weston?”
“Well, nearly always,” said that lady. “I have my moments of
uncertainty, but they seldom last long.”
“You’ve a right to brand them!” murmured Mr. Conlan, gazing
distressfully.
“When they were smaller, I used to put different coloured ribbons on
them,” Mrs. Weston said, laughing. “But I regret to say that they used
to change the ribbons!”
“They look as if they might do that,” remarked Tim. “Take pity on me,
and tell me which is the one I know!”
“Make a guess, Mr. Conlan!” sang out Billy delightedly. “I don’t believe
you’re game!”
Thus adjured, Tim Conlan favoured each twin with a searching glance, and
then, indicating Jo with an accusing forefinger, said, “You’re her!”
“Good guess!” said Billy approvingly.
“Well, ’tis no credit to me,” remarked Tim, at length accepting
nourishment at the hands of the laughing twins. “’Tis only that I
noticed she’d a scar on her hand, the day she was at my place: and, by
good luck, I remembered to look for it!”
He ate a vast meal, punctuated by many cups of tea. Though he had been
up all night, and working hard for twenty-four hours, he disclaimed any
idea of being tired. He kept a wary eye on the smouldering fires, until
the twins sent Billy and Rex to patrol them: then he allowed his long
limbs to relax, lit his pipe, and “yarned” in the manner dear to the
bushman. All the time he covertly watched Jean and Jo. They strolled
across to the fires presently, and he watched them go, with a little
smile.
“They’re wonderful alike,” he said. “But I’ve got ’em placed now. Their
hair don’t grow quite the same way, an’ my Miss Jo has a tiny mole near
her eye.” He ran over half a dozen other differences: some that Mrs.
Weston herself could not remember noticing. “I’ll not mix them up
again,” he finished. And he never did.
“I wish the Boss could have seen his way to buyin’ old man Murphy’s
sheep,” he said, as he was preparing for his long ride home. “They’re
dirt cheap, and no mistake: if only rain comes they’ll be easy money for
the man who buys them.”
“Yes—but if rain does not come, Mr. Conlan?”
“Oh, rain’s sure to come some day,” said Tim, with the easy optimism of
his Irish blood. “And there’s two months’ feed, of a sort, where they
are. It’d be worth the risk, if a man only had the money. Murphy’s
pretty near ready to give them away, for cash!”
“But cash is what no one has.”
“More’s the pity, for it’s a real bargain. I’d like Mr. Weston to have
been the one to make a pile out of ’em. But of course no one’s buyin’
sheep now, nor cattle either, barrin’ the chaps down Gippsland way. He’d
truck ’em there, only they’d never stand the trip.” He put his bridle
over his horse’s head. “Well, I’ll say good-bye, Mrs. Weston.”
She put her hand into his.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping us.”
“I’ve done nothing,” he said. “Nothing that any neighbour wouldn’t be
glad to do. An’ where Miss Jo’s concerned—well, you can guess it’s a
relief to me to try an’ work off a bit of my debt.”
“There is no debt, Mr. Conlan. Jo would be the first to tell you so.”
“Isn’t there?” he said. “Well, I see it pretty plain every time I look
at them little kids of mine.” He swung his long form to the saddle, and
she watched him ride carefully over the burnt ground to say good-bye to
the others; she noticed that, though he shouted cheerily to the boys
from his horse, he dismounted when he spoke to the twins. Then he jumped
the broken fence and cantered off, leaving them to patrol the dying
fires.