Cover art
[Frontispiece: With incredible difficulty Yellow Billy
managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's
neck—See p. [188]. (missing from book)]
PALS
YOUNG AUSTRALIANS
IN SPORT AND ADVENTURE
BY
JOSEPH BOWES
WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
BY JOHN MACFARLANE
LONDON: JAMES GLASS
28 NEWGATE STREET
1910
CONTENTS
CHAP.
- [By Way of Introduction]
- [The Bushrangers]
- [A Desperate Encounter]
- [The Great Match]
- [The Big Flood]
- [On the Face of the Waters]
- [The Death of the Forest Monarch]
- [What the Tree held]
- [The Rescue]
- [The Return]
- [The Breaking Up]
- [Down the River]
- [Off for the Holidays]
- [Christmas Fun and Frolic]
- [A Bush Ride and its Consequences]
- [The Dingo Raid]
- [Dingo *v.* Emu: A Fight to a Finish]
- [The Chase and its Sequel]
- [Concerning Wild Horses]
- [The Brumby Hunt]
- [The Warrigal's Strategy]
- [How Yellow Billy broke the Warrigal]
- [A Day's Shoot]
- [The Corrobberie]
- [In the Bushrangers' Caves]
- [The Explorers]
- [A Respite]
- [The Camp by the Sea]
- [At the Mercy of the Sea-Tiger]
- [In and About the Camp]
- [Off to the Gold Diggings]
- [How they struck Gold]
- [Bullion and Bushranger]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
[With incredible difficulty Yellow Billy managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck] (missing from book) . . . Frontispiece
[Suddenly the Forest Monarch topples, lurches, staggers and falls with a mighty crash]
[The emu failed to elude the panther-like spring]
[Retreating one moment and advancing the following, uttering war-cries]
[The huge brute lashed the water into foam, and swam round and round in a circle]
["We've struck it rich, I do believe," cried the stockman]
[Behind the lantern came a voice that more than the lantern, or even pistol, cowed them: "*Stop! Hands up!*"] (missing from book)
The grey gums by the lonely creek
The star-crowned height,
The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak,
The cold white light,
The solitude spread near and far
Around the camp-fire's tiny star,
The horse-bell's melody remote,
The curlew's melancholy note,
Across the night.
GEORGE ESSEX EVANS
PALS
CHAPTER I
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION
"Happy season of virtuous youth, when shame is still an impassable barrier, and the sacred air cities of hope have not shrunk into the mean clay hamlets of reality; and man by his nature is yet infinite and free."—CARLYLE.
"Comin' over to-night, Tom?"
"By jings! I'd like to, Joe, but dad said this morning he was going to shell corn to-night. You know what that means. What's on?"
"Oh! Sandy's stayin' in for the night; so I thought of gettin' Jimmy Flynn an' Yellow Billy so's we could have bushrangers, an' stick up the coach by moonlight. If they can't come, Sandy an' I'll go 'possumin' in the slaughter-house paddock."
"I say! what a jolly lark the bushranging'd be. How'd you manage it, Joe?"
"We've planned that out all right. We'd get Jimmy Flynn's billy-goat cart an' the billies. He'd be mailman, an' it'd be gold-escort day. Yellow Billy'd be the trooper; he's got a pistol, you know. He'd ride the roan steer he's broken in. Then you, Sandy, an' I'd be Ben Bolt's gang. We'd do a plant in a lonely spot along the road an' surprise 'em. I'd tackle Billy, you'd look after Jimmy, Sandy 'd collar the mailbags and gold boxes, and then scoot with the loot. I think it'd be better to shoot Billy, so's to make it a bit more real; that's what Ben Bolt'd do."
"But, Joe, where'd we get the guns?"
"I'd get father's. You'd have to make believe with a nulla-nulla. We could stick a boomerang in our belts, it'd look like pistols in the dark."
"But I say, Joe, ole chap, you wouldn't really shoot Billy?" said Tom in a tone that savoured both of fear and scepticism.
"You're a precious muff, Hawkins! I was just kidding you. No, you stupid, it's all gammon. The noise the powder 'll make 'll scare the seven senses outer Billy."
"By golly! it'll be crummie enough. Put it off till to-morrow, Joe, an' I'll come."
"Can't be done, my boy. Sandy'll not be here, for one thing. Besides, I have to pull father down to Yallaroi Bend to-morrow. It's his service night there. Sorry you can't come, Tom. We'll have to do our best without you."
"Oh Moses! to think that I can't join!" groaned Tom. "Look here, Joe, I—I'll do a sneak. I'll be here somehow, you may bet your Sunday breeks," continued the eager lad, as he stepped into the little "flat-bottom" boat which had brought him over.
"Joe!" he shouted when he had rowed some distance from the shore. "I'll give a cooee if I can get, an' two cooees if the way's blocked. So don't start till you hear."
"Right-o!"
The place where these boys lived, moved, and had their being was a district famed for its fertility, on one of the northern rivers in New South Wales.
The river itself had many of the elements of nobility and beauty as, taking its rise in the snowy heights of the New England ranges, it clove its way eastward, finally debouching into the blue waters of the Pacific. The river-flats formed magnificent stretches of arable lands; too rich, indeed, for such cereals as wheat and oats, for their rank growth rendered them liable to the fatal rust.
Here, however, was the home of the maize, the pumpkin, the sweet potato, the orange, the lemon, the plantain. Here too, the natural sequence, in a way, of the prolific corn and the multitudinous pumpkin, were reared and flourished the unromantic pig.
Fed on pumpkins, with skim milk for beverage, topped off with corn, the Australian grunter—whether as delicious, crisp bacon, or posing as aristocratic ham—produces flesh with a flavour fit to set before a king.
Away from the river-flats the land becomes undulating and ridgy, and well grassed for cattle runs. In the scrub belts, running back from the river and its affluents into the hilly country, are to be found valuable timbers, hard and soft; especially that forest noble, the red cedar.
Cattle runs of large extent exist in the back-blocks, formed in the early days by that class of men to whom Australia owes so much; the men who to-day are vilified by those not worthy to black their boots: the hardy, adventurous, courageous, indomitable pioneer, who more often than not laid down his life and his fortune in the interest of Colonial expansion and occupation.
At intervals along the river-banks are small settlements, dignified by the name of townships. Tareela, the principal village, skirted both sides of the river, and was connected by a ferry. Here were located the Government offices for the district, together with the stores, hotels, school, etc.
Joe Blain, the minister's son, was the leader of the village lads. He had two pals, who were inseparable from him: Sandy M'Intyre, the squatter's son, whose father owned Bullaroi, a cattle station situated a few miles from the town, and Tom Hawkins, a farmer's son, the youngest of the trio. These boys gave tone and direction to the fun and frolic of the settlement. Of them it is sufficient to say at present that they were not pedestal lads.
At this time a noted bushranger and his mate were raiding the settlements. All police pursuit was futile, owing to the resourcefulness of the 'rangers. They had a keen knowledge of the open country and the mountain ranges. Furthermore, they were generally mounted on blood horses, usually "borrowed" from the surrounding station studs.
These men had many sympathisers among the lawlessly inclined, and, strange to say, among law-abiding settlers. The "bush-telegraph" was an institution in those days. Certain friends of the 'rangers kept them posted up in the movements of the police, sometimes by word of mouth, at others by writings on paper or bark, which were deposited in rock crevices or in tree hollows, known only to the initiated. Sometimes a young lad, or even a girl, would ride scores of miles across country to give them warning.
The police were not wanting in bush lore or courage, and in the end invariably ran their quarry to earth. But an outlaw often had a long career in crime, owing to the aid given, ere he was trapped. Thanks to closer settlement, the advance of education, and the general use of the electric telegraph, bushranging has become a matter of history. The species is now to be found only in the stage melodrama, the itinerating waxwork show, or embalmed in literature.
CHAPTER II
"THE BUSHRANGERS
"Poins: Tut! our horses they shall not see. I'll tie them in the wood; our visors we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce to immask our noted outward garments.
"Prince: But I doubt they will be too hard for us."
SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV.
After leaving Tom Hawkins, or, to put it more correctly, after Tom had paddled away in his punt, Joe Blain proceeded to look up Jimmy Flynn, the blacksmith's apprentice, and Yellow Billy, a half-caste youth, whose father followed the occupation of a timber-getter in the ranges. Yellow Billy was generally employed as yard boy at the Travellers' Best Inn, and a rough time he often had, especially when the timber-getters were dissolving their hard-earned gold in alcohol.
One of Billy's duties was to milk the cows and tend the calves. Among the latter was a yearling steer, which he broke in and rode on the quiet. Many an hour's frolic the boys had in the moonlight in riding the steer. This animal had a good slice of the rogue in its composition, with a propensity for buck-jumping. When in a certain mood it would be as stubborn as a donkey and as savage as a mule.
After standing, say for some minutes, never budging, in spite of thwackings and tail-twistings, it would suddenly take to buck-jumping. Oh, my, couldn't it buck! Woe betide the unlucky rider when it was in this mood. Torn from his hold—a rope round its brisket—one moment behold him sprawling over its back, the next whirling through space, finally deposited with more force than elegance on the turf. All this, however, was great fun for the boys, who encouraged the brute in its bucking moods, each mounting in turns, to lie prone sooner or later on mother earth, amid the uproarious laughter of his fellows.
Billy was the exception. He was a born rider. Unable to shift him from its back, the brute became quite docile in his hands, and kept its tricks for the others.
Jimmy and Billy were ready and willing to fill their parts in the bill. The former, at "knock off," went out to the town common to round his goats, and Billy promised to be ready, "steered," so to speak, by the time appointed.
The road fixed upon was the track that led out from the township to a large sawmill, distant about six miles. It was a solitary road, passing through a scrub-belt, crossing several minor creeks, threading its way over a rocky ridge, winding through a rather wild defile, and ending at the mill; the sort of place, indeed, to present numerous opportunities for the criminal enterprise on hand. A spot where one could get "nice and creepy," as Joe said to Yellow Billy, much to that young man's disquiet.
The plan of campaign was simple enough. Joe, Tom, and Sandy were to set out as soon as possible after sundown and choose their spot for attack; while Jimmy was to drive the Royal Billy-goat Mailcart, with Trooper Yellow Billy a little in advance, as per custom.
The embryo bushrangers, unfortunately, had only one horse between them; the one Sandy rode to school. Mr. Blain's horse, on which the boys counted, was being used by the minister to take him to a moonlight service some distance out from the river. It was settled, therefore, that the three boys should bestride Sandy's stout cob, which was well able to carry these juvenile desperadoes.
"Mother!" shouted Joe, as he strode into the house in the late afternoon, from the wood-pile, where he had been chopping the next day's supply, "we're going to have grand fun to-night."
"What sort of fun, my son?"
"Bushranging along the sawmill road. Can I go mother? We've got such a grand plot."
"Well, I don't mind; but don't be out late."
"S'pose I can have the gun?"
"The g-u-n!"
"Yes, mother. No need to fear. It's all play."
"Well, don't load it."
"Only with powder to make a bang."
"I don't like the idea, my boy. Gun accidents often happen in play. You remember Jim Andrews——"
"Oh yes, mother, but that's different! It was loaded."
In the end, owing to the boy's importunity, Mrs. Blain reluctantly consented.
Early tea being duly dispatched, the boys made the necessary preparations for their dark deed. Joe produced a pair of knee-boots, the some time property of his father. He made them fit by sticking rags into the toes. He thrust his trousers' legs into the boot-tops, and wound a red scarf round his waist, through which he stuck a boomerang and nulla-nulla. A 'possum-skin cap adorned his head. His final act was to fasten on a corn-tassel moustache, and to strap his gun across his back. The broad effect of the costume was to make this youthful outlaw a cross, as it were, between Robinson Crusoe and a Greek brigand.
Indeed he quite terrified his two sisters, as he suddenly entered the sitting-room to the accompaniment of a blood-curdling yell. This the girls match with a shriek that wakes up the sleeping baby, bringing the mother in with a rush.
For a moment Mrs. Blain, seeing Joe in the half-light, thought some ruffian had entered.
"It's very thoughtless and wrong of you, Joe, to frighten your sisters. I—I—I'm quite angry with you——"
"Very sorry, mater," said Joe, with a serio-comic air. "I only meant to give them a start."
The girls, however, began to laugh, Joe looked such an oddity. They turned the tables on him by quizzing him most unmercifully. At last our young hero was very glad to beat a retreat to the backyard, where he found Sandy busy in saddling the horse.
Joe's confederate had roughened himself as much as circumstances permitted. In lieu of a skin cap he tied a big handkerchief round his hat, and stuck a couple of turkey-tail feathers through it. He had manufactured a brace of pistols out of short lengths of bamboo, with corn-cobs, stuck in bored holes at an angle, to form the stocks. These, with a boomerang and nulla-nulla slung at either side, and a short spear fixed in his belt at the back and standing over his head, made him in appearance more like a red Indian than a Colonial free-booter.
"All ready, Hawkeye?"
"Yes, ole pal. The mustang is waiting, and the brave will vault into the saddle at Thundercloud's word of command," answered Hawkeye in bastard Cooperese. Fenimore of that ilk was Sandy's favourite author.
"Hast thou heard the signal of Red Murphy?" said Joe, falling into the strain of speech.
"No, Thundercloud. No sound from our brither of the hither shore hath been borne on the wings of the wind across the——"
"Oh, stow that rot, Sand—Hawkeye! I wonder?——"
"Yon's the cry of the chiel," broke in the would-be brave, as at that moment the cooee of Tom Hawkins, alias Red Murphy, rose in the still air, faint from the distance, but distinct.
"A single cooee! Rippin! he's comin'. Let's mount and wait at the landing."
Hardly had the boys reached the river-bank ere Red Murphy appeared, attired much as the others, with the addition of an old blunderbuss belonging to his father.
"It's all right, boys! Hurroar! Dad broke the handle of the corn-sheller this evening, and sent me over with it to the blacksmith's. I'm to wait till it's mended. Wait a jiff an' I'll be with you," cried he, as he ran to the smithy, returning as fast as his legs could bring him, with the news that the broken handle could not be repaired under three hours owing to other urgent work.
Joe rapidly detailed the plan, informing Tom, at the same time, that his name and character were to be that of Red Murphy, one of the blood-thirstiest and most rapacious cut-throats in the Colonies.
CHAPTER III
A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER
"Falstaff: I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through; my sword hacked like a handsaw ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do."—SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV.
Joe had barely made his explanations before the rumbling of the approaching cart was heard. It was the Royal Mail starting on its adventurous trip.
"Time to be off, pals!" cried the leader. "Now then, Hawkeye, whip 'em up."
Off started the trio, Thundercloud, Hawkeye, and Red Murphy; each delivering a blood-curdling yell which rang up and down the street, as they passed through it at a smart canter. It had never fallen to the lot of horse, before, to bear upon its back at the same time three such ferocious outlaws, bent on so diabolical an errand. Behind them, and at a slower pace, came the Royal Mail goatcart, drawn by four strong billies, skilfully driven by coachman Jimmy, and attended by Trooper Billy astride his cud-chewing steed.
After leaving the township the road skirted the river for a mile or so, then, crossing a plank bridge, bore away to the hills. The silver moon shone from the clear sky through the pure air, making the tree shadows as they lay across the road to resemble fallen timber. The nocturnal 'possum, having ventured to the ground to feed upon the tender grass, scudded up the trees, frightened by the rumbling vehicle and the baaing steeds. The thud of paddy-melon[#] and wallaby could be distinctly heard, as they smote the earth in their jumping movements; while from the heights of some lofty tree the mopoke[#] tolled his mournful cry.
[#] "Paddy-melon," a small marsupial or pouch-bearing mammal.
[#] "Mopoke," the Australian crested goat-sucker.
The coach had now passed the three-mile creek, and still there was no sound of disturbing element. The coachman and trooper, having intelligence to the effect that the 'rangers were "out," and had threatened to "stick" up the gold-escort, were on the qui vive. They surmised that the attack would come in the scrub-belt, and about the spot where the creek intersected. Here the tall, overhanging trees, interlaced as they were with a thick vinous growth, effectually barred the moon's rays.
It was the ideal spot for ambush, and the hearts of the boys beat faster, and a nervous apprehension amounting to fear seized them, as they passed among the shadows. Everything had a distorted appearance, and again and again they trembled, as it were, on the verge of attack. They had chatted freely until the darkness of the scrub closed in upon them. Under its oppression, and by reason of the dread uncertainty, what had before seemed to be only a prime lark now presented itself as a grim reality.
They drove on slowly now, conversing only in whispers, for the night silences, the deepening shadows, and the unseen before them, all contributed to the mental mood which affected the boys. The creek banks and bed, save for a solitary moon-ray which silvered the rippling water, were enwrapped in thick darkness. Pulling up at the brink, the boys held a short conversation.
"Goin' ter cross, Jimmy?"
"I—I—s'pose so, Billy. Measly black ahead, ain't it?"
"You're not frightened, are you?"
"Wot! me? No fear! Y'are yourself!"
"I like that! Wot's to be frightened of?"
Yet the boys, if truth be told, were a good deal alarmed by the unwonted darkness and stillness.
"Well, s'pose we'd better be gettin' on. Don't care how soon we git outer this hole. You cross ahead, Billy, an' do a bit o' scoutin'. I'll wait here till you git up the bank on the other side."
Yellow Billy didn't like the prospect, and would have proposed turning back, but was afraid of being called a coward. Therefore, despite an apprehension of the darkness, accentuated by his aboriginal strain, and very much against his will, the half-caste plunged down the creek bed, and mounted the other side without let or hindrance, greatly to his surprise and relief.
But where are the 'rangers?
Of them the darkness gave no token and the silence is unbroken. Jimmy had some difficulty in getting his leaders to tackle the creek. It was only after he left the cart, seized their heads, and half-dragged them into the water that he effected his purpose. The scrub thinned out shortly after passing the creek, and the spirits of the boys rose with the increasing moonlight.
"They missed a grand charnce at the crick, Billy!"
"By dad, they did that! I wonder where they are. P'raps they've given us the slip."
The road took a sudden turn just here, leading over a rocky ridge. At a farther sharp turn, under the lee of a bank, a big log lay across the road.
"Hello, here's a go, Jimmy! You'll have to drive round. No! you can't do that. Wait a moment an' I'll——"
"Bail up!"
The cry, crisp and startling, rang out, as three figures darted from the shadow of a huge tree which stood near. Thundercloud, the leader of the band of bushrangers, pointed his gun at the driver. Hawkeye made a dash at the trooper, while Red Murphy seized hold of the leading billies.
"Hands up!" cried Thundercloud in the highest style of bushranging. "Your money or your life!"
Trooper Billy was not disposed to yield without a struggle, and at the first cry he whipped out his pistol, firing at his aggressor point blank, missing the leader but hitting his confederate, Hawkeye, who tumbled down with a loud squeal, as unlike an Indian war-whoop as it is possible to imagine. Simultaneously, Thundercloud discharged his gun at Jimmy the coachman, who, instead of putting his hands up at the challenge, began to lash the billies, and had just turned them off the log, when—pop, crash! went the two weapons.
And now the unforeseen occurred. The steer and the billies bolted! Down the ridge and along the road they dashed at breakneck speed; the steer roaring and kicking, the four strong billies baaing, and neither driver nor rider could control the brutes. Away they scurried along the rough bush-track, the cart bumping and rocking over the ruts; every jump of the trap bringing a fresh bleat from the fear-stricken goats.
After racing along for nearly a mile and finding his steed unmanageable, getting frightened too, Yellow Billy slipped over the stern, and by good luck dropped upon his feet. It was different with Jimmy, who gallantly hung on to the billies. The creek was what he most feared, and it was very close now. He had, however, got a pull on the beasts, and they were slackening a little, but, as ill-luck would have it, on going down a gully one of the wheels caught a tree root, and in a jiffy capsized the cart, sending the driver head over heels into a clump of bracken.
The incident gave fresh impetus to the runaways, who rushed on baaing; dashing at length down the steep incline of the creek, the cart righted itself as it tumbled adown the gradient. They tore over the stream and up the bank, finally leaving the track, and getting boxed up in the scrub.
After lying in a stunned condition for a few minutes, Jimmy scrambled up. But the moment he put his weight on his right foot he let out a yell, caused by the terrific pain that shot through his ankle. It was unbearable, and he tumbled down in an almost fainting condition.
Meanwhile the outlaws stood aghast at the unexpected and startling turn of events. Thundercloud was the first to recover his speech.
"Great Cæsar! who would have dreamt of a bolt? Just listen to the brutes!" as the animals tore along, baaing and roaring in a way possible only to frightened billies and calves.
"I—I—didn't know he'd loaded his pistol. I—I—I thought for sure I was a goon coon," gasped Hawkeye, who, after lying for a minute under the impression that he was mortally wounded, got up, rubbing his face and head, half terrified as his hands became wet with flowing blood, and only reassured after Joe had declared that the blood was from his nose. As a matter of fact, he had sustained a smart blow upon his prominent feature with the pistol wad; his cheeks, also, were scorched with the powder flare.
Red Murphy, who had just grasped the billies' heads when the guns were fired, was thrown down in their mad rush, and had his shins severely barked on the rocky ground.
"Drat the brutes! Oh, I say, here's a go! Listen to the beggars! Ain't they footin' it?"
"To horse! to horse, pals!" cried Thundercloud, making hasty strides to a patch of scrub where they had tied up the horse. In a few seconds the three were mounted and away with a swinging canter, adding their yells to the cries of the beasts. They were soon up to the spot where Jimmy had come to grief, when, thundering down the gully, the horse made a shy at the prostrate coachman, shooting off Thundercloud and Red Murphy. They scrambled up quickly, none the worse for their spill. Hawkeye immediately reined in his steed and rejoined his dismounted companions.
The boys were greatly concerned to find Jimmy in this condition. The affair began to assume a serious aspect. They were no longer outlaws and police: they were pals, and Jimmy was suffering intense pain from his sprained ankle. After a short consultation the boy was placed on the horse, which was led by Sandy. The others followed behind, making a somewhat mournful spectacle. In due course they reached the goatcart, now in possession of Yellow Billy, who had disentangled the team and was waiting for the others to come along. The steer meanwhile continued his career at headlong speed, until he pulled up at the milking yards in an exhausted condition. Mrs. Blain, as the hours sped by, began to get concerned at the non-return of the boys. Concern deepened into anxiety. She became a prey to evil imaginings, as do all our dear mothers. They are lost! ... Some dreadful accident has happened! ... That gun! ... Their legs, arms, necks, are broken! And so on and on, running over the whole gamut of catastrophy.
She goes out to scan the streets, and listens with strained ears for some enheartening sound of footsteps. Lights are out in the village. Even the dogs are sleeping. No shuffle of advancing feet; no rattle of wheels as they grind in the ruts: no sound, indeed, is borne upon the night wind save the mystic noises of the flowing river, which fill the air with a deep undertone. Above this, at intervals, come the splashing sounds of the jumping fish; the smooth splash of the falling mullet, the tail flutter of the rising perch. The wood-duck's soft quack-quack, and the red-bill's chuckle, are to be heard as they move among the sedges. No landward sound!
Stay! a dark shadow swiftly steals along the earth like a spirit of evil omen, and passes through the house, across the street, as it strikes the walls. While from above comes a wail as that of a lost soul.
The poor woman quivers and shivers at the unwonted sight and sound. She knows not that the apparition is the shadow of a black swan, which is sailing high up in the heavens; it crosses the moon, and utters its melancholy note as it wings its flight to the feeding grounds. The mother is now on the outskirts of the town, under the shadows of the trees. Every leaf is a tongue; every tongue whispers—Something! which dries the throat and fills the ears with heart-thumps. "Why did I? ... That gun! ... What will father? ... Why don't they come? ... Which track? ... Hark! Yes, 'tis the galloping hoofs ... Oh, God! it is the steer! ... Riderless! ... This way, then.... On, on, on! ... At last! ..."
"Cheer up, mother ... no harm done ... Jimmy had a bit of a buster an' sprained his ankle.... Scold us, mother, but—don't cry!"
The hour is verging on midnight as five weary lads, four billies, one horse, and one thankful woman straggled into the silent township. All romance, for the moment, had gone out of bushranging.
CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT MATCH
"God bless the grilling days of cricket!
They're gone but I shall bless them ever,
For good it is to guard a wicket
By sudden wrist and big endeavour."
NORMAN GALE.
"There's a breathless hush in the close to night,
Ten to make and the match to win,
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in."
HENRY NEWBOLT.
"Hawkins, stand out!"
"Please, sir, I wasn't doin' nothin'!"
"No, you wasn't doin' nothin', but you have been talking all morning, you tiresome boy! Write out 'disobedient' three hundred times after school."
The fact is, Tom was relating the bushranging episode to a schoolmate, and, like Tom Sawyer, he "laid over" considerably in his recital. While in the act of enlarging he was brought to book in this peremptory fashion by the master, and had to do penance with as little relish as most boys.
"Sorry you can't come out and play, Tom," said Joe Blain, poking his head into the empty schoolhouse after dismissal.
"It's a beastly shame! What are you fellows up to?"
"Goin' to practise for the Dingdongla match. After that we'll have a swim."
"Oh, rot it!" grunted the chagrined prisoner.
"Say, Tom, don't forget to come along to-night an' help pick the team."
"I'll be there, never fret."
"Well, so-long. Wire in, and keep your pecker up."
Dingdongla was an up-river settlement; Tareela a down-river town. The latter named was the older and more substantial place, being the headquarters of the shipping. As a consequence it was instinct with the superior air generally to be met with in places of metropolitan pretensions. In schools, too, the down-river town had the advantage. Its school building was of sawn timber, with a shingle roof. Furthermore, it possessed two teachers, and pine desks. While, on the other hand, the up-river academy was constructed of roughly adzed slabs and a bark roof.
For the Dingdonglas to be thrashed in cricket by the Tareelians was not considered to be a disgrace. Per contra, their victory was a splendid achievement, and a great humiliation to their opponents. The latter was fairly beaten by the former last season, and naught would restore their prestige save the administration of an unmitigated licking. So, at least, thought the match Committee, as they conned names, and analysed the merits of the candidates on the name list.
Needless to say, Joe, Tom, and Sandy headed the list of certainties. Yellow Billy came next; for though a very irregular attendant at school, he was a tremendous swiper when he got his eye in. Billy had dragged more than one match out of the fire.
Saturday morning broke fair. Shortly after an early breakfast a cavalcade of about twenty youthful horsemen, followed by two teachers in a gig, were scampering along the bush road to Dingdongla, distant about nine miles up the river. Oh, the merry, merry days of youth! Those are the days of the superlative mood.
It was a merry, roaring, romping, racing crowd of youngsters that tore along the bush track. They jumped fallen timber and gullies; chased the flying marsupial; and spurted in couples for short lengths. There were minor accidents, 'tis true. Pincher Putnan's horse, in a fit of pig-jumping, broke a girth, sending Pincher and saddle to mother earth. Yellow Billy's half-broken brumby fairly bolted in a race, cleared off the road, and rushed through a belt of timber at breakneck speed, towards his native haunts in the Nulla ranges. It was only the superb horsemanship of the half-caste that saved him from being dashed against the trees in the headlong flight.
In due time Dingdongla is reached. The horses are turned out in a maize stubble paddock, where is a fine picking, and the boys stroll on to the ground to have a look at the pitch.
"Whatyer think of the pitch, Joe?"
"You'll have to keep your eye skinned for shooters Rody. The ball'll keep very low. Must keep a straight bat and forward play."
The stumps, like much of the material, were home-made. The Dingdonglas had only one "spring handle"; the others were chopped out of beech boards. The Tareelians were not much better off for material. They, it is true, had two "spring handles,"—more or less battered,—and could boast a pair of wicket gloves, but for the rest were like their opponents, sans leggings and gloves. That, however, was a small item; for every boy who possessed boots doffed them, rolling his trouser legs to the knees and his shirt sleeves to the elbows.
"Got all your men, Wilson?" said Joe to the Dingdonglas' captain.
"Yes, they're all here. May as well toss for innin's, Joe."
"Right you are," responds Joe, ejecting a jet of saliva on a piece of flat wood. "Shall I toss, or you?"
"You toss, Joe."
"Call you!" cried Blain, tossing the board with a twirl skywards. "Wet or dry?"
"Wet!" called Wilson, as the wood spun in the air.
"Dry!" exclaimed Joe, as it lay on the ground with its dry side uppermost. "We've won, and go in."
"Tom," said he a moment later, "you and Yellow Billy go in first, an' you take the strike."
The batsmen were soon in their places, and the Dingdongs in the field. The innings opened fairly well for the Tareelians. Yellow Billy got quickly to work, and laid on the wood to some purpose; Tom playing carefully the while.
Facing the Dingdonglas' swift bowler, after a smart short-hit run Billy sent a well-pitched ball for four, a rattling, straight-hit drive. But in trying to repeat the stroke off the next ball he misjudged, and, skying the sphere, was easily caught.
"One wicket for twenty!" of which the half-caste contributed fifteen.
After this the troubles of the batsmen set in. The Dingdongs were strong in bowling talent, and possessed a local Spofforth, whose lightning deliveries shot and kicked in a marvellous fashion. Joe, going in fifth man, stayed the "rot" for a while, but was foolishly run out by his mate.
The Tareelians were all out in an hour for the small total of forty-seven. If the down-river boys were despondent over this score, the up-rivers were correspondingly jubilant. Going to the wickets with plenty of confidence, they rattled up ninety-nine before the last wicket fell; the captain carrying out his bat for a well-earned forty-two.
Adjournment for lunch was now made. We call it lunch by courtesy. It was a big bush feed. This repast was served in the schoolhouse, the rough desks being converted into tables, which were literally covered with good things.
The Dingdonglas' mothers were determined that, whoever won, the boys of both sides should have a rippin' feed. A stuffed sucking-pig, whose savoury odour filled the room, lay at one end. Roast wild duck and a cold pigeon-pie balanced it at the other. An immense round of spiced beef, standing in the centre of the long table, seemed to say: "You may cut and come again." Potatoes and pumpkins smoked in big tin bowls, and all the available space was filled with cakes, puddings, and pies. Needless to say, the onslaught was terrific. They were all sloggers at tuck. Meats, puddings, cakes, tea, and ginger-beer disappeared like magic.
All good things mundane, however, come to an end; especially when the good thing happens to be a dinner. And now, after divers whisperings and nudgings, up stood Captain Joe, amid the cheers of his side.
Joe was silent a moment, nervously looking up and down the board, and heartily wishing himself at the bottom of the deep blue sea. "Mr. Chairman" (addressing the local schoolmaster), "I—we—that is—us fellows from Tareela asked me to tell you—I mean to say, that—that—that—a—it gives us much pleasure—er—er—oh, hang it all!—I—I mean—er—this is the jolliest blow in the way of tuck we've ever had." Joe subsided to the rattle of the knives on the bare board. As soon as the noise ceased, Tom Hawkins jumped up and called: "Three cheers for the Dingdonglas!" which were heartily given.
Half an hour's lounge, and the battle began afresh.
"We've got fifty-two to wipe out before we start even, boys. We can do it, and score plenty more to win the game, if we keep our heads. Anyway, we must have a big try. Billy an' I'll go in first; Tom next, and then Pincher. The order of the rest of you depends on the way things turn out."
"Look here, Billy," continued the captain, as the two batsmen walked to the wickets. "They've got two slashing bowlers, but if we can manage to knock 'em out they've no one else of much account. Get your eye well in before you do any slogging."
"All right, Joe! Do me best."
"Your best means steady play and a big score. I'll take the strike."
If Joe was nervous in public speech it was not observable in action. He played Ginger Smith's fast deliveries with confidence, punishing the loose balls and blocking the straight ones. Billy, too, was playing with unwonted caution, and the score, though slowly, was surely mounting up; until after half an hour's play it stood at twenty-five, with no wickets down. There were no boundaries, and every hit was run out.
"Oh, glory, what a swipe!"
Yellow Billy had got hold of one of Ginger's leg balls with a mighty lunge. The ball seemed as if it would go on for ever, and finally rolled into a gutter. They ran six for it.
There was great cheering among the Tareelians. Mr. Simpson, who umpired, forgot for a moment his impartial office. Flinging his hat into the air, he cried, "Bravo, Billy!"
"Thirty-one an' none out. Only twenty-one to get level!"
The boys were now scoring faster; singles, twos, threes were coming with great rapidity. Joe made his first four, a sweet, square cut.
"Forty-nine an' no wickets down!"
Joe faced the new bowler. The local demon had begun to bowl wildly, and was relieved.
"They'll never bowl them!" cried young Ben Wilde, as Joe took block for the new-comer—a lad with a reputation for slow left-hand twisters. The first ball was pitched on the leg stump; just the ball for Joe's favourite leg glance.
It went for two.
"Only one to make us even!" shouted Tom to his captain. The second ball was pitched in exactly the same spot, and Joe proceeded to treat it in the same fashion. The sphere, however, had a little more twist on it than its predecessor, and, breaking on to the left bail, flicked it off.
There was a great chorus of disappointment among the Tareelians, and hearty cheers from their opponents, as the captain's wicket fell. His twenty-one, got by true cricket, was worth twice that number by reason of the spirit of confidence he had infused.
Billy and Tom carried the score to seventy-three, when the latter was caught for ten. Pincher fell a victim to a very simple ball from an under-hand lob bowler, after making seven. Sandy gave the bowlers some trouble, and got into double figures before he retired. All this while Billy was scoring well, and, when Sandy's wicket fell, had made fifty runs. All the boys scored less or more; and when the innings closed had compiled a total of one hundred and thirty-seven, of which Billy made seventy-one and not out. This was a grand achievement, and the half-caste was carried off the ground amid great applause.
This left the Dingdongs eighty-six runs to win, which they failed to do by seventeen runs, Sleepy Sam stumping no less than three off young Ben's slow lobs.
There was great cheering as the victorious cricketers rode in the dusk of the evening through the main street of Tareela, after a grand day's fun.
CHAPTER V
THE BIG FLOOD
"The day is cold and dark and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall;
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary."
LONGFELLOW.
Drip, drip, drip!
Croak, croak, c-r-o-a-k!
Quack-quack, quack-quack!
"Heigho!" grunted Tom Hawkins, as he turned over sleepily in bed. "Is it ever goin' to stop rainin'?"
For some days a steady rain had been falling, soaking the ground. Every gully was a rivulet, and every depression a lake.
"Tom!" cried a feminine voice from an interior room. "Get up!"
"Bother those frogs an' ducks!" muttered the lad, full of sleep in the grey of the early morning. "Like ter choke 'em! waking fler——"
"Tom!" cried a masculine voice, as a hand rattled the door of the lad's bedroom, and a boot gave a drum-like accompaniment on the lower panel. "Git up this minit an' run the cows in, or I'll——"
But Tom had jumped out of bed as nimbly as one of the frogs, between whose croak and his father's bass voice he seemed unable, in his sleepy condition, to discriminate.
"All right, father! I'm dressing," shouted Tom, as the word "dowsing" fell on his ear. There had been times in master Tom's past when a sudden application of cold water was deemed necessary to expedite his slow movements.
"Dad's too mighty smart! Thought I'd nick him with that button," growled Tom, as he stuck his legs into his pants; said button being an iron tee snip, fastened so as to act as a bolt.
"Jemima! ain't it dark! Must be very early," muttered the reluctant boy, as he strove to lace his boots. "Drat it! Shan't wear 'em; too wet."
"My crikey!" cried he as he stood outside. "Must have been rainin' cats an' dogs, an' lakes an' seas."
His moleskins were rolled up to his thighs, while a cornsack, hooded at the bottom, and stuck on to his head like a nun's veil, gave him fair protection from the driving showers.
"I wonder if it's goin' to be a flood?" The thought was not unpleasant to the lad. It produced, indeed, a certain exaltation of spirits, forcibly expressed in Tom's vernacular by, "Ge-willikins! but won't we have fun!"
Heavily laden clouds, in interminable succession, were drifting from the sea, forming, as they swung overhead in batches, an endless series of smart showers. It had been an exceptionally wet week, and for the preceding twenty-four hours had rained without ceasing.
The cows depastured in a paddock that ran back from a creek to the timbered country. The creek itself was bank high and running strongly. It was only by climbing along the branches of a dead limb, which spanned the water, that Tom managed to reach the kine.
It was no small task to get them to face the stream. Small as was the creek in width, it was deep enough to make a swim, and the roaring, turbid, and muddy stream frightened the creatures. But for the fact that the calves were in a pen at the milking yard all Tom's efforts would have been futile. Their mooing and baaing, however, made a loud appeal to the maternal breast. Finally, when the old red poley, the mother of twins, made a plunge, the rest followed.
During the morning the river rose steadily, and large quantities of drift-wood passed down the stream. With the rubbish was a good deal of heavy timber, and—what Tom had predicted—pumpkins. This was an indication that the river up-stream had overflowed its banks in places, and was sweeping the low-lying farm lands. Tom spent the morning in fishing out the floating vegetables that came within reach of his hooked pole. Meanwhile the rain continued, and looked as though it might last for forty days and nights.
"I'll pull over to the township this afternoon," remarked Mr. Hawkins at the midday meal. "I'm anxious about this rise. Looks as if we're goin' to have an old man flood. Might get some information about the state of things up-river. If I leave it till to-morrow 'twill be a tough job gettin' acrost, as the timber's comin' down pretty thick now, an'll be worse by an' by."
"Be sure'n bring tea and flour back with you. No knowing how long the rise'll last."
"Can I go with you, father?"
"Yes; I'll require you to steer. It'll be a pretty stiff job, I reckon."
The crossing was not without peril. The current ran fierce and strong. The landing-place on the other side was protected, in a measure, by a headland up-stream. Out from the influence of that, however, the boatmen felt the full force of the current. The water seethed and foamed. The violence of its rush created great whirlpools, which accentuated the difficulty of keeping the boat's head up-stream. Logs and driftwood patches had to be dodged, and, what with fighting the current and outflanking the timber, by the time the river was crossed the boat had drifted quite half a mile down-stream. On gaining the other side they found a shore eddy, in which they were able to paddle up-stream with ease, until they came to a point of land about two hundred yards below the town wharf. As they lost the eddy here, and would have to encounter the full force of the flood when round the point, Mr. Hawkins wisely determined to tie up the boat in the slack water.
When Hawkins arrived at the store, where many of the townsfolk had congregated, he was informed that news had been brought down by the mailman that morning to the effect that heavy rains were falling at the head of the river, and that when the New England waters came down in full force the river might rise to the "high flood" marks.
Cooees could now be heard from the settlers in the low-lying portions, adjacent to the township. They proceeded from those who had neglected to move before being surrounded, and who were without boats. The police were busily engaged in rescuing families by boat. Many townsfolk were engaged on the same merciful errand.
All through the day the waters, fed by the flooded creeks, continued to rise, and as evening approached anxiety deepened. Things were so serious that Mr. Hawkins, whose farm, be it said, was situated on comparatively low-lying lands, acting upon the advice of his friends, returned home almost at once. After hoisting the most valuable of his possessions to the rafters, and securing them there, he returned to the township with his family; gaining it as dusk was deepening into dark. The family was distributed among neighbours, Tom and one of his sisters being quartered at Mr. Blain's.
A group of men and boys throughout the day had lined the bank of the river, in the vicinity of the Government wharf, which was submerged. They were engaged in gauging its rate of advance by pine laths scaled to inches.
Towards evening the wind, veering from east to south-east, increased in violence. Laden with torrential showers, it smote the earth in great gusts, streaming through roofs and walls, and taxing the ingenuity of housekeepers to find dry spots for beds.
The wind and flood waters, travelling in opposite directions, conflicted with great violence. The roaring, boastful wind, as it lashed the racing, defiant waters into angry waves, and the universe-filling sounds of the seething, surging flood-waters, as they wrestled with and overbore all opposing forces, made storm music, compared with which the artifices of man touch the infinitely puny. Darkness and the blinding rain had driven most of the river watchers indoors. A few, however, braved the elements, among them the minister and the lads.
Whatever effect the flood may have had on others, the dominant feeling in Mr. Blain's mind was that of solicitude. As the rain continued, deep concern merged into alarm. There were few on the river who knew as intimately as he the general havoc of a flood. The executive head of the Flood-relief Committee for many years, he had been the chief instrument in administering doles to flood victims. In many cases the utmost relief was as a drop of succour in the ocean of need.
"If the rise continues for another twenty-four hours, as it is doing now, it will beat the 'sixty-four flood, and, if so, God help our down-river friends," remarked the minister after examining Joe's gauge by the aid of a lantern.
The '64 flood was the highest known to white men up to the present. The settlers still retained a vivid recollection of its disastrous effects. Luckily, the township covered a piece of high ground, and though the low parts were covered in a moderate flood, the higher portions were some feet above the highest flood-mark. It was in the farming settlements that danger lurked.
"If this yere flood beats 'sixty-four, it'll be as you say, Parson; good-bye to many up-river an' down-river folk."
Mr. Blain's words had impressed both men and boys. Suddenly Joe, who was in the midst of the group, sang out lustily—
"Hurrah! wind's changed!"
"What's that?" shouted back Mr. Blain excitedly.
"Don't you feel it?" cried the boy, as he swung his arms windmill fashion.
"Yes; thank God! The lad's right," continued he. "The wind's chopping. Don't you feel it, men? Ah! there's a decided puff from the north-east."
"Take my word for it," said the ferryman, an old sailor, "the wind'll be blowing west afore morning."
"Pray God it may!" ejaculated the minister, and many a silent prayer was uttered.
"Now, boys, let us return home. We can do no good standing here. We'll come back in an hour or so."
"Listen!" exclaimed Tom, as the boys splashed through the water on their way home. Laying his hand on Joe's shoulder, he cried, "Do you hear that?"
"Don't hear anything but the roar of the river," replied Joe, as he stood in a listening attitude. "What was it?"
"Hark! there it is again. A cooee. Seems to come from up the river, near the Bend. Some un's in trouble."
"Now, boys, make haste and get in out of the rain," cried Mr. Blain, who had hurried along.
"Some one's crying out for help at the Bend," shouted Joe.
The minister paused on hearing this. A moment later the cry came out of the night: faint, because of the distance and the turmoil of sounds, yet clear and convincing.
"Great God! some poor soul in dire straits, and no help possible before morning!"
It would have been worse than madness to attempt any rescue till daylight. To traverse the flood, even in daytime, anywhere near the Bend, were a hazardous experiment, owing to the enormous vortices caused by the current striking a high bluff on the near side, at the elbow. The waters whirled like a merry-go-round under full steam, and boiled with an upward heave, in a fashion similar to the mud springs of Tiketere. None but the stoutest boat and most experienced rowers could dodge these seething cauldrons, which caught into their cold and cruel embrace trees, fencing, stock; anything material, in fact. The heaviest logs and tree-lengths were as wisps of straw under the influence of the mighty suction. To attempt the traverse at night were as foolhardy and impossible as that of shooting Niagara in an open boat.
A little group stood with the Blains, listening to the weird cry.
"Who d'yer think it c'd be, sir?" said one of the men, turning to the minister.
"Not any of the Bend families. We had word this afternoon saying that they had retreated to the high land before the waters reached them. God help the poor soul, whoever it is, for vain is the help of man!"
Throughout the live-long night the cry went up at intervals, like that of the minute-gun of a distressed vessel. Shortly before daybreak it ceased.
No man or woman in the township slept that night. A strict watch was kept on the river, so as to be ready for any emergency. The waters continued to advance, but at a much slower rate. Men and women cudgelled their brains to individualise the wailing cry. Most were agreed that it was a woman's cry, though some held it to be that of a child. Sometimes the voice was ghoulish, and made the flesh to creep and the heart to flutter. Then an intensely human note would prevail, full of anguish and terror, and women wept and stopped their ears, while strong men choked in the throat.
They would go out at intervals and send back a heartening cry; it was all that could be done. There were many others throughout that fearful night who were engulfed in the flood, in various parts of the river, and, swan-like, wailed their death-song in the wild waste.
Shortly after midnight the rain ceased, and the wind, which had been chopping and changing for the past few hours, settled finally in the west. This proved a conspicuous advantage. It no longer checked the flood-waters as when in the east, and there was now good hope that they would recede ere long, as the rise was almost imperceptible.
"Suddenly the Forest Monarch topples, lurches, staggers and falls with mighty crash."—See p. [43].
When day had dawned a wild, weird scene was revealed. The town had become an island. On all sides the flood-waters stretched out, covering gardens and farms, and completely blotting out the fair landscape. On the riverside the turgid stream tore along in its hurry, bearing on its dirty, foam-crested bosom, as its spoils, the household gods, farm stock, and produce of many a settler. Horses, cattle, pigs, goats, dogs, fowls: these, swept off by the encroaching waters, and carried over fences into the stream, struggled, vainly for the most part, in the rapid, death-dealing current. Haystacks, barns, wood-frame buildings intact, floated in the torrential waters, sooner or later crashing into the great trees that bore down-stream, making utter shipwreck.
CHAPTER VI
ON THE FACE OF THE WATERS
"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves."—Ps. xciii. 3.
"Where's the dad, girls?" shouted Joe Blain early in the morning, after the events recorded in the previous chapter, dashing into the room as he yelled.
"Here!" came a voice from the back verandah. Running to the spot indicated by the monosyllable, the lad in breathless accents delivered himself to his paternal relative in this fashion—
"Please, dad, can Tom, Billy, Jimmy, and I have the boat to paddle out on the back-water?"
"Um—er—well, as long as you keep in the slack water I suppose you may; but be very careful, my boy."
"Yes, dad; we'll be careful enough. It's all slack water you know, 'cept where the river water comes in; but that's a long way up, an' we'll be paddlin' mostly about this end of the slack."
An explanation is needed here in order that the reader may intelligently follow the course of events (some of them dramatic enough, and even tragic) which transpired in the course of this eventful cruise.
It has already been stated that the flood waters so surrounded Tareela as to convert the township into an island. It was so practically. Accurately speaking it formed a peninsula, with the narrowest of necks. On the river side there was a broad expanse of boiling, foaming, hurrying waters, narrowing here and there, where the banks rose above their usual height, but stretching far and wide where the river-flats intervened; sometimes touching the horizon, as it were. On the other side lay a body of water, as far removed from motion as the tumultuous stream was instinct with it. There it lay, a wide extent of placid, coffee-coloured water, broken at its surface by fence tops, belts of trees, and partially submerged houses. This great stretch was almost currentless, and the débris that floated on its bosom appeared stationary; though, as a matter of fact, there was a slight outward drift.
The secret of its placidity lay in the fact that the river waters, when they reached a certain height, backed up a blind gully that ran almost parallel with the stream for some distance, then swerved from the river, and widened out till it became a depression of considerable magnitude. This, in turn, merged into a swamp, contiguous to the township on its western side. Low-lying and occupied lands surrounded the swamp for some distance. The town end of these flats, which the river water backing up through the gully had submerged, making a long reach of stagnant waters, formed the area of the boys' row.
The minister's boat was a light yet staunchly built vessel, and belonged to the skiff variety. Her capabilities were to be put to the utmost test. Several of the town boats were moving on the face of the still waters, their occupants busily engaged in capturing the flotsam. The owners of houses, in particular, were anxiously conning their submerged property, or gathering together floating domestic articles. In this way a good deal of house property was recovered.
The boys found enjoyment in the novelty of the cruise. They pulled two oars, taking turns at the rowing. Of the non-rowers, one acted as steersman and the other as bowman for the capture of the flood spoils. Several melons and pumpkins were picked up, but they were not troubling about these. For one reason, they did not want to be encumbered with spoil of that kind, and for another they were keen on pulling about the flooded houses. Their chief and most interesting rescue was a cat and two kittens, which had found an ark of refuge on a barn door.
"I say, boys, we'll have a go at these oranges," said Joe, who was steering, as they were passing a small orangery which was half submerged. This proposal received hearty and unanimous assent. Accordingly Joe selected the most promising tree, and deftly ran alongside its outer branches.
"Look out for snakes!" cried he.
There was abundant cause for warning, for each tree contained a number of serpents, some of which are very deadly. These reptiles were flooded out of their holes in the ground, and from hollow logs and stumps, and made for the trees or any floating timber that offered refuge. Fortunately the snakes were more or less benumbed with the cold, consequently they were the reverse of lively. Had it been otherwise, to have made fast to the tree would have been foolhardy to a degree.
Agreeably to Joe's warning, every eye was skinned and on the look out. Indeed, the tree was fairly swarming with snakes of many sorts and sizes; though for the most part they consisted of "tree" and "carpet" varieties; one of the latter, lying across the top, being fully ten feet in length. These two mentioned varieties are not venomous. The farmers, for the most part, look with a friendly eye upon the carpet species; so called by reason of its tawny and black markings. The carpet snake in summer time is the best of all mousers and ratters. It winds its sinuous way into places impossible to even puss or terrier; and is always a welcome visitor to settlers' barns. There it becomes a pet, and will live on terms of friendship with its primal foe.
There were snakes of a very different order in the orange tree. Among them the "tiger," most aggressive and poisonous of all the genus. There were also specimens of the black and the brown snakes. All these are cobras, and therefore very deadly.
The snakes, as related, were all more or less torpid with cold, and not pugnaciously inclined. The boys, however, were very careful not to disturb them. There was plenty of golden fruit upon the tree, and it was in prime condition. The fruit was neatly cut off the stems by strokes of the paddle blade. When a sufficient quantity was thus plucked, and lay bobbing in the water, they were poked out from the tree by the same means, and secured. The boat lay off a little distance from the tree while the crew indulged in a feed of the luscious fruit. A visit was then paid to a plantain grove, and a quantity, both of green and ripe fruit, was secured.
"Where away now, Joe?" said Tom Hawkins, who was crouched in the bow.
"I vote," replied the one addressed, who in this, as in everything else, was leader of the band,—"I vote we pull up opposite Commodore Hill and have a look at the river." The boy forgot for the moment the promise made to his father to keep mainly about the town end of the back-water.
Commodore Hill was well up the river, and on the other side. The flooded gully by which the water obtained entrance, it has been explained, ran parallel with the river for some distance; in some places being not more than a few yards therefrom. The boys were curious to see the river stretch above the Bend; also to note the numbers of flooded-out settlers who might be camped in that vicinity. Accordingly the boat's bow is turned, and her course shaped in that direction. By this time the river had fallen several feet, and, as a consequence, there was an outward drift of the slack waters, making a gentle current.
"'Member, Joe, what your dad said about takin' the boat into the stream."
"Think I've forgot, stupid!"
"Thought I'd remind you, anyhow," replied the bowman. As a matter of fact, Tom had an uneasy feeling that his mate would not be content when they got to the mouth to remain there without having a dash at the stream.
"Listen to me; I ain't goin' to run any risks. We won't go to the mouth entrance. What we'll do is this: work up to the swamp end, have a look round, and come back again."
With this defined object in view the boat continued its voyage, helped by the current, which, the farther up they proceeded, became stronger, as was to be expected.
But one thing had happened of which the boys were in entire ignorance. And this particular happening was to produce startling and unexpected effects. At a certain spot in the gully, and at a point where it began to deviate from the general stream, there was a branch gully, which bore inwards to within a few yards of the river's brink. When the water was at its highest in the river, that in the lagoon was much higher at this point, inasmuch as the back-water was at the same level as at the entrance, some two miles higher up; the difference in height being the river's fall in that distance. Roughly speaking, the water there was about ten feet higher than that in the river.
The rush of the stream on the river side had caused the bank to give way about this point during the night, and the lagoon, or back-waters, forced themselves into the river through the new channel, which widened considerably as a consequence. On nearing this place the boys became conscious of a quickening of the current.
"My golly, Joe! this big current," said Yellow Billy, who, with Jimmy, was at the oars. "Must be goin' twenty mile."
"Twenty mile! you goose. We're goin' six or seven and that's mighty fast."
"I say, Joe," called Jimmy a second later, the boys having ceased rowing, for there was no further need, "bes' run her ashore, or we'll be carried out. By gosh, she's tearing away!"
"All right, mates, keep cool. There's the old mahogany ahead, we'll tie up there; we'll be there in a minute."
Yes, the boys would need all their coolness, for Joe was reckoning without up-to-date knowledge, and that made all the difference in the world. Rounding a clump of trees at this moment, or ever they were aware the boat fairly sucked into the channel of furiously rushing and tumultuously heaping waters that were finding their level by the newly made short-cut.
"Oh! oh! I—I say!" shouted Tom. "We're being swept into the river! Back water!"
Joe, quicker than the others, had hit the situation, and turned the boat's nose to a clump of bushes, but before the rowers could pick up their oars to help him the boat had swept past. Tom, it is true, made a frantic grasp at the bough, but the way on the boat was so strong that the branch, when the full force of the current bore on her at her momentary check, snapped like a pipe-stem, and the little craft was fair in the turgid stream, which had now the velocity of a water-race. The incident of the half-arrest, however, had turned her head up-stream, which was a providential thing. The river break-away was at most three hundred yards away. To turn the boat into the perpendicular sides of the channel was to court destruction; for, be it said, the maddened waters had excavated the banks until they rose sheer from the water's edge.
The necessities of the case came like an inspiration to Joe. The boat was drifting, as we have said, stern first, the advantage of which will be seen. Save Joe, whom the sense of responsibility braced to immediate action, the boys were speechless with consternation. One look at their blanched faces was sufficient. They were certainly alive to the dangers of the situation.
"Pull, boys! pull with all your might! We'll keep her head up. This'll check her speed a bit. It'll give her steerage way too, and save her gettin' broadside on."
The pullers put every ounce of strength into their strokes, and this was very helpful. The final rush into the cross-current was a most critical moment, and might easily have resulted in disaster. This was averted only by Joe's coolness and dexterity.
"Oars out!" cried he as the boat swept into the angry and turbulent river. Save for shipping some water, and drenching the crew with spray, the little craft weathered the river plunge. An involuntary "Oh!" came from the boys as the boat shot the rapids and soused into the river. Immediately she came under the influence of two currents; that going outward from the chute, and the swift down-river stream.
This effect was to take them instantly well out toward the centre of the flood, with a strong drift which carried the boat into the vicinity of the Bend. The river bend gave the current a direction which set across to the other side. This diagonal movement was accelerated by the chute waters, which retained their impetus, in a measure, for a considerable distance.
Downward then, and cross-wise to the northern bank, the frail craft sped, the sport and play of the watery element. Dangers stood, or rather, drifted thick around the adventurers. Picture for a moment a tiny vessel, some fifteen feet over all, whose timbers are of the proverbial egg-shell thickness, shot into an angry, bubbling cauldron, whose tumultuous waters heaved and swirled, hissed and roared, in inarticulate sound and motion.
That, in itself, were an experience of sufficient magnitude to quicken the blood, test the nerves, and try the courage of the hardiest waterman. Add to the perils of that situation a thousand floating dangers, any one of which might crush that tiny, drifting cockle-shell out of existence, and you have the position which faced and surrounded the affrighted lads on the demon-ridden waters.
CHAPTER VII
THE DEATH OF THE FOREST MONARCH
"There's the white-box and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There's many another, but dearest to me,
And king of them all is the stringy-bark tree."
HENRY LAWSON.
As several years had intervened between the present and the last flood of considerable dimension, every creek, gully, and river-flat of the upper reaches were contributing their quota of fallen timber, which in the interval had encumbered the earth. In addition, the flood-waters had torn many a giant eucalyptus, roots and all, from its earthhold, and had borne it on its heaving and rebellious bosom, a mere plaything of its vengeful humour.
Up to the present a monarch of the forest, whose rugged bole bears indubitable evidence of its antiquity, stands skywards with its head in the clouds. The Philistines are upon it. Its innumerable roots, lateral and vertical, hold with frantic clutch to mother earth, as it grimly wrestles with its Gargantuan foe. But the earth, which for years innumerable has mothered the forest lord, furnishing his daily portion of meat and drink, nourishing and cherishing him till he bulks in girth and height as Saul among the prophets, proving faithful in every tussle with wind and flood heretofore, now turns traitor. The soil dissolves in the swirling waters as they ravish the earth. Above and underneath the roots it melts, and is carried away in the thickening stream. The hold of the old monarch is weakening. His limbs are trembling. His strong body, that has withstood the pressure of a thousand fights with the hereditary foe, vibrates and sways now, as his remorseless antagonist grips him in cruel embrace.
His old comrades higher up, who have fallen earlier in this battle of giants, come drifting along, battered and torn; veritable shipwrecks, dismantled and broken. One floating leviathan, flood-driven, sweeps onward full upon his writhing form ... a violent shock and shudder that runs from root to topmost leaf ... a last wrestle, strong, heroic, and pitiful! ... Then, betrayed and spent, under the last straw, as it were, of the fateful impact of his wrecked mate—now converted into a battering-ram—the grand old hero-king yields. His foe has sought and found, like one in the olden time, his vulnerability in his heel. Overborne at last, but not yet broken, he shakes his lofty head in the quiver of mortal spasm. Suddenly he topples, lurches, staggers, and falls with a mighty crash, which is, indeed, a resounding death-cry. Striking the enemy with a last, concentrated, savage blow, he splits her bosom, and sends great spurts of her muddy blood, spray-like, a hundred feet in air. But the wound heals as speedily as delivered, and from thence he passes quickly, in company with his defeated brothers, an inert mass of strewn wreckage, to form, farther down upon the skurrying waters, a floating barricade of death-dealing timbers. And so on and on, till the blue sea is reached, where it is heaved to and fro, a rudderless hulk upon the bosom of the ocean; until it is stranded at last as flotsam and jetsam upon the beach.
By skilful manipulation of oars and rudder the boys managed to evade the timber masses. The numerous whirlpools constituted a great danger. Once or twice they were almost sucked under as they circled in a vortex. Their position was extremely perilous. The greatest danger lay from contact with the isolated logs and tree-trunks that sped down with great velocity, appearing and disappearing in the vicious eddies, rotating with the swirling stream, and popping up porpoise-like in unexpected quarters. On one occasion, in dodging a mass of driftwood, they ran right on to a big tree. Fortunately the tree was sinking at the time of impact under the influence of an under-current, and, at Joe's sharp command, the rowers rushed the boat across the submerged tree-bole. Scarcely had they crossed the line ere the submarine monster rolled upward, till at least half its length was out of the water. It was a narrow squeak. To have been caught on its rising movement would have meant utter shipwreck.
It has been stated that owing to the river bend, and from other causes, the current set diagonally across to the other side. Drawing thus towards the farther shore, the boat's crew neared a timbered point, below which the water expanded over the low-lying country for miles. So far only the thickly fringed timber belts could be seen. It was questionable if they could find any dry earth. In all likelihood, however, even should there not be any landing-place, they would find protection from the current behind the thick wood. As they got close in to the scrubby portion the boys saw, to their great disappointment, that the land was still submerged. They had hoped to find a patch of earth. All they can do now is to shelter behind the timber.
"Pull, boys, pull hard!" cried Joe, the while he turned the boat's nose towards a rear clump. His quick eye discerned an eddy formed by a point higher up. Rowing into this, the boat was eased in its downward track, and after getting well in behind the clump they were able to make headway against the stream, finally fastening to a big she-oak almost in still water. Here they were out of the tract of the current and the perils of the driftwood.
What a relief to the half-dazed and frightened boys!
Captain Joe, be it said, though fearful enough while in the roaring waters, kept all his wits about him. Often as his heart jumped into his mouth he as quickly swallowed it again. More than once his resourcefulness saved the boat from certain disaster.
"Thank God!" exclaimed he, as Tom tied the painter to a strong limb, and the boat rode easy.
"It was a touch and go, lads. Don't cry, Jimmy!" as that lad, yielding to a feeling of reaction, burst into tears. Tom was not much better, and furtively wiped his eyes under the pretence of blowing his nose. In a few minutes the boys were themselves again. The roar and rush of the waters filled their oars and souls as they lay at anchor. So deafening were the sounds that it was only by shouting they could hear one another.
Stretching inland, and reaching to the distant hills, nothing was to be seen but a waste of waters, with here and there a bushy hillock, a miniature island. What remained of the settlers' houses looked like so many Noah's arks. Moving figures could be seen on one which lay a long way off. They were the unfortunate owners, who, by delaying their retreat until too late, were driven on to the very ridge pole for safety. Fortunately they were in still water; so at least it seemed from the distance; consequently their position was not alarming. Tree marks showed the river to be falling at a fairly rapid rate.
"Now then, boys, let's hold a council of war!"
"Wot's that, Joe?"
"It's what they say in soldiering when the generals get into a fix," chipped in Tom.
"Oh, gollies! let us get home as quick as possible. If we don't they'll think we're drownded an'——"
"Look here, Jimmy, stow that rot! If we start talking in that fashion, we'll get unnerved. Billy, you first! Tell us what you think about the situation."
"Long's we're here we're safe. There's a 'possum in the spout above us. I'll climb up and get 'im for tucka."
"We can't cook 'possum in the boat, Billy. No dry wood; no matches. You're right enough about safety, though. These trees have borne the brunt of the flood stream at its highest, and things are getting easier. Jimmy, what do you think of it?"
"I—I—I dunno. Oh, my poor m-other!" cried Jimmy, whose emotions again overpowered him.
"Didn't I tell you to stow that water-cart business? Dry up, or I'll jolly well tan your hide for you, you soft milksop!"
Joe's severity was partly assumed. He was fighting himself about home thoughts. He knew the folly of giving way at this crisis to such a natural sentiment.
"You, Tom! You've a notion, I'm sure," said Joe to his chum.
"My opinion, chaps, is that we ought to be very thankful for bein' where we are, an' stay here a bit anyways. It'd be madness to attempt to recross the river. What's to prevent us pullin' over there?" pointing to a hillock nearly a mile away inland.
"Tom's right, boys. We must make up our minds, hard as it is, to camp on this side to-day. It'd be easy enough to do as Tom says, row over to that island. Supposin', though, the water went down a lot during the night; we might have to drag the boat over a lot of mud to get to the river-bank to-morrow. Bes' stay where we——"
"S-s-h! Listen a moment, Joe," interjected Tom from the bow of the boat. "What noise's that?"
"Don't hear anythin' 'cept the river. What sort o' noise, Tom?"
"I heered it, Joe," said Yellow Billy. "Bear cryin', I bin thinkin'. Heer it now."
All the boys could hear the sounds now, faint enough, yet distinct above the flood roar.
"Bear, I 'speck! Have a good look round, boys."
All eyes were bent in the direction of the sound. They scanned the trees for that strange, pouch-bearing—half bear, half sloth—animal called the native bear. Strictly speaking, it is neither bear nor sloth, being a perfectly harmless, tailless marsupial of the koala genus. Its cry is intensely, and often pathetically, human.
For some time the search was unrewarded; while ever and anon a cry, strangely like an infant's wail, came to the ears of the searchers.
"P'r'aps, after all, it's only the wind in the river oaks; or is it a——"
"Look, boys! look, look!" cried Tom excitedly. "What's that over at the edge of the timber, up there in a fork?"
"Whereaway, Tom?"
"See the clump beyond the back-water, out in the stream?"
"M—y-e-s, I see. Why, yes, my word! I do believe it's a——"
CHAPTER VIII
WHAT THE TREE HELD
"Thereafter grew the wind; and chafing deaths
In distant waters, sent a troubled cry
Across the slumbrous forest; and the chill
Of coming rain was on the sleeper's brow."
HENRY KENDALL.
"James!" exclaimed Mrs. Blain to her husband during this eventful morning, "it's dinner-time and those lads are not back. I hope nothing has happened."
"What do you expect could have happened, you dear old fidget? I'm going to the post, however, and I'll have a look round."
Could Mr. Blain have beheld the lads at this particular time, the calm of his deep nature would have been broken up in a fashion rare to his experience; for at this moment the boat and its occupants are being borne on the rapids, presently to be flung upon the riotous and foam-crested waves of the river.
In moving along the street the minister met several persons who had been out on the back-water during the morning. All had seen the boys at one time or another. One of the latest in, who had been farther up than most of the others, had passed the boys on his return not long before. They were then heading up the swamp way.
"Don't fear, Mr. Blain, the boys know how to take care of themselves. Dinner's calling 'em loudly enough by this time, I wager ye."
Dinner-time came and went, but no boys. As the afternoon wore on the mother's fears deepened until they became well-nigh unendurable. The minister, rowed by two of the neighbours, set out to find the truants and fetch them back.
"Don't lose faith, dear! They're up to some prank, the thoughtless scamps! I'll fetch them home none the worse, to laugh at your fears."
Following Tom's index-finger, the boys fastened their eyes upon a clump of river oaks that stood on the edge of the woods.
High up in a fork of one of the largest trees, they could see what looked at first like a huge bundle of clothes fluttering in the wind. After a short while the bundle seemed to take a somewhat definite shape.
"What in the name of goodness is it all? Seems like a lot of old clothes jammed in the tree forks. Are you sure that the squall, or squeak, or squeal, or whatever it was, came from that direction?"
"Yes, I think so," replied Tom. "Listen, there it's again!" A thin, treble cry rose faintly above the din of the flood waters.
"See a woman's foot!"
The speaker was the half-caste, whose eyesight, owing to his half-wild nature, was much keener than his fellows'.
"A woman's foot, Billy! What do you mean? You don't mean to say really, that——!"
"See hand too! Look along bark. See fingers!"
Thus directed, the three boys looked, and saw, though but indistinctly, what appeared to be a hand grasping the tree-trunk, a foot, also, was revealed at intervals by the fluttering garment.
After a short, staring silence, a flood of mental light broke upon Joe. "I see now. Why, it's the poor soul we heard cooeeing last night!"
Yes, there had been plenty of speculation in the village as to who it could be, and exactly where the voice came from. None of those who heard the piteous wail that was borne across the floods in the black and wild darkness of that night would forget it for many a long day to come.
The mystery is now solved. The boys are horror-stricken at the sight and its sequent thought. They are now convinced that a woman is fixed in the tree. Without reasoning the matter out, they identify her as the one whose cry over night produced such a sensation in the township, and to locate which the police boat with a strong crew had started out at daybreak, but without success.
Is she alive or dead? The strange cry did not seem to be that of a woman. There was something so eerie, so shocking in the thought, that the lads were fear-possessed for some moments. Joe, as usual, recovered himself first.
"It's a woman sure enough! It's a human being, at any rate. An', boys, we've got to rescue her if she is alive. The cry can only come from her, I'm sure, so that there must be some life left still. How to do it I can't just see at this moment. We must think a bit."
Think a bit they did. Camped as they were at the lower end of the timber, it would be a matter of comparative ease to work up through the trees in the slack water, till they arrived opposite to the clump that stood out in the stream. There the real difficulties would begin. The rush of waters was still so strong, and the space for the play of the boat so small, that it became evident the rescue would be accompanied by some alarming risks.
One of two things must be done: either wait until the waters receded sufficiently to enable the rescuers to wade to the clump, or make an immediate dash.
"How long d'you think it'd be before we could wade across, Joe?"
"Dunno, Billy. Beckon there's eight or nine foot of water out there. Might be less. At any rate it'd be hours."
"Hours!" cried Tom. "An' s'posin' that poor creature's still alive?"
"That settles it!" exclaimed Joe, rising in his seat in excitement. "Boys, what's to be done must be done quickly."
Seemingly all were agreed. At least no objection was offered to this proposal, or, rather, mandate. So it was resolved, after some cogitation, to pull the boat through the timber to a point some distance higher up than the isolated clump. From thence the course would be outwards until the river current was met; an estimated distance of a hundred yards. The boat was to be headed against the current when in the stream influence. A vigorous row would be necessary to neutralise the current, to be modified so as to allow the craft to drift slowly down-stream. Then, when opposite the clump, a dash for the tree whereon the unfortunate woman was lying was to be made.
Inasmuch as this tree was almost in the centre of the group, and the stream still ran with violence, it was easy to see that without skilful management, and some luck, the boat might be stove in against a tree-bole; or, worse still, might be impaled upon a submerged snag. Any accident, such as missing way at a critical moment, or the snapping of an oar blade, might be fraught with the most disastrous consequences.
During the short conference Jimmy Flynn had kept silence. Towards the end, as Joe set forth the attendant dangers, he became considerably perturbed. After sundry wrigglings and contortions, rubbing of hands and licking of lips, these visual twistings found voice.
"I say, Joe! don't—er—yer think that—er—we'd better wait a bit?"
"Why?" chorused the boys.
"Oh—I—I dunno. Well—er—p'raps some other boat'll come over from the township d'reckly an'—an'——"
"And s'pose no boat comes along?"
"Well, then, I—I—er—vote—that we—er——"
"By jing! Jimmy," interposed Tom, with a jeer, "who'd 'a' thought you'd 'a' showed the white feather!"
"White feather yourself, Hawkins!" returned the fearful but now angry boy.
"Jimmy!" broke in Yellow Billy unexpectedly, for as a rule the half-caste was taciturn—the taciturnity of modesty in his case. Billy, while carrying some of the defects of aboriginal descent, was a kind-hearted and easily contented lad. "Jimmy!" said he, in a soft, quiet tone, "s'pose your mother was over there?"
Jimmy Flynn, who was sitting with a sullen, hang-dog expression, quivered as though he had received an electric shock. There was within him a consciousness of the truth of Tom's term. He was a coward, and the very notion of it angered him, and at the same time made him resentful. He shrank from the undertaking. None of the boys were in love with it, for that matter. Jimmy only, among the four, allowed his fear to overmaster him.
These few words of Billy, uttered in a quiet, even tone, went straight to the boy's heart. His sullen brows lifted. The angry resentment which had disfigured his face vanished. Straightening his bent figure, he seized the oar lying by his side. Then, squaring his shoulders, as he inclined forward to grip the water, he said quietly, "Let her go."
Immediately on releasing the boat Joe steered her in a semicircular course, keeping out back where the standing timber was thinnest. The boys pulled slowly, for there was always the danger of snags. They were in fairly slack water, and so had no need to exert themselves; besides which, it were wise to husband their strength for the supreme moment.
Tom and Jimmy, both expert oarsmen, were the rowers. Yellow Billy was stationed in the bow, with instructions to keep a keen look out for snags. He was armed with a stout pole in order that he might fend the boat on any critical occasion, or when the rudder might be inoperative. It formed a very useful instrument in Billy's practised hands, and enabled him to ward off the craft from many dangers that did not appear until the boat was almost upon them. As it was there were several ominous scrapes, as the boat rasped over submerged branches. Fortunately they reached the point determined upon without any accident.
They paused here a moment before leaving the slack water for the swiftly running stream.
"Now, boys," said Joe, after a brief survey, "sit steady, and pull for all you're worth. Mind you, no flurry. Keep an even stroke. Got the painter coiled, Billy?"
"All right, Joe."
"Pull then, boys, and stick to it like grim death to a diseased nigger."
The boat having got good way on, Joe headed her out a little, when she immediately encountered the current.
"Lay to it, my lads, lay to it!"
The boys "lay to" with such vigour that the rapid current was counterbalanced, and she hung in the stream, neither making headway nor drifting.
"Easy a little, my hearties! We must let her drift down gradually. Mustn't let her get out of hand, though."
In swinging the boat into the channel Joe kept her nose up-stream, and as near the slack water as possible. The boys easing a trifle at Joe's command, the current became the stronger of the two forces, and the little craft drifted slowly. Blain eagerly scanned the clump for an opening. This cluster, it may be remarked, was about two hundred yards long and fifty or so wide. In some parts the timber was thickly scattered, in others the trees were bunched together.
The boat is now about fifty yards above the tree containing the supposed woman.
"That's right, chaps, keep up as you're doin'! We must drift very slowly lest we miss the chance of popping in. It's too thick to venture in here. It's thinnin' out, though," exclaimed Joe, as the boat neared the point abreast the tree.
"Here's an opening, I do believe. Be ready, Billy! Pull, lads! pull, pull! Look out all!"
The boat lay anglewise, so that the current worked upon her quarter. Seeing a fair opening, Joe urged the rowers to do their utmost. So hard did they pull that the current, playing upon her quarter as she hung a few minutes stationary, forced her through the gap and towards the tree. The manoeuvre was splendidly executed. The boat was now within five yards or so of the tree, the boys putting every ounce of strength into their strokes. A minute or less now and they will either be fast to the tree or drifting down on to a solid block of timber just below.
Yellow Billy, who had crouched in the bow, now rose up quietly, rope in hand, ready to act promptly in the decisive moment. By good fortune a limb projected about five feet above the water, and branched out some distance from the tree. Joe worked the boat straight up-stream, and then called on the rowers to ease the barest trifle. The craft swung very slowly down, until she was fairly under the limb.
"Sling the painter over the branch an' make fast, Billy!" cried Joe, as the stern drifted under. "Pull now, you beggars, a last spurt!"
Billy whipped the rope round the limb, and made fast in a flash; the rowers, by a few desperate strokes, keeping the boat stationary.
"Hold her there a second. Let the loop lie loose an' edge it to the trunk, Billy!"
Joe thus worked the boat over until she was just at the rear of the tree.
"Ease her off gently now, boys. Steady still! A wrench might snap the painter."
The boys accordingly eased off gradually, and finally stopped.
"Two of you come aft, it'll ease the strain."
This done, the boat, which by burying her nose deep in the water was straining heavily on the rope, trimmed herself, and offered but the minimum resistance to the racing waters.
The tree-bole, which presented a somewhat broad surface, divided the waters, creating a narrow zone of neutral water in its wake. In this eddying area the boat rode securely, making it an easy matter for the bowman to keep her nose up against the tree.
And now each boy bent an upward glance to the fork.
CHAPTER IX
THE RESCUE
"Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods."
TENNYSON'S Ulysses.
Fortunately the she-oak was one of the largest of its kind, and forked out into four branches twenty feet or so from the ground. This formed a rough cage, in which one could be held very securely if not comfortably.
In this fork, partially covered with a blanket, was huddled the form of a human creature, presumably a woman; one hand stretched along the trunk as in a painful grip, the legs hanging loosely. There was no movement of limb or body. What if she were dead?
A sudden chill accompanied this thought. The situation was decidedly uncanny, and bred awesome, not to say fearsome, feelings.
Four boys in a boat! Out on the flood-wastes, and in a particularly perilous position! The insistent noises of the rushing tide; the hollow moan of the wind in the foliage of the she-oaks; shut out from all help; missed now at home, and that thing above!
All these combined to create a creeping chill in each boy, which in a manner half-paralysed them.
Joe, as usual, recovered more quickly than the others. Gazing at the object above awhile, and then examining the trunk of the tree with his eyes, he broke the spell of silence.
"Take my place, Tom. Some un's got to go at once to that poor soul aloft. Pray God we're in time to save her. Keep her up tight against the trunk, Jimmy, an' I'll swing on to the limb."
Suiting his action to the word, Joe clambered on to the limb, and from thence proceeded to climb the tree.
The woman was fixed at the junction of the forks, and her feet and legs hung loosely down on each side of a minor fork. One arm, as before described, was wound round the main limb, while the other firmly grasped her breast. Her head was supported in the V of a branch.
On mounting to the spot, Joe raised himself higher by grasping two of the tree-forks, and, twisting his legs round the trunk, steadied himself while he gazed into the face of the dead. It was the first time in his life that he had looked upon death. The set expression that met his gaze, so full of anguish, so pitifully pleading, fairly shocked him out of his self-possession. Little wonder at his turning sick and faint. He clutched the branch frantically as he swayed a moment, and beads of cold sweat stood thick upon his forehead. Indeed, so near fainting was he that his sight began to fade, and the whole world receded from him. Strange noises buzzed in his ears. Bringing all the reserve forces of his will to the front, he was beginning to gain the ascendency over his weakness, when a strange cry startled him into full consciousness.
"Why! she's not dead after all, thank God!" The thought of life made all the difference to Joe. In a moment his vision is as clear as ever, and his spirits rise high at the sounds of life. "Yes, see!" whispered the lad, "there's a movement of the breast. Hurrah, boys!"
cried he to his comrades, looking down and waving with one hand at the same time. "She's not dead after all!"
The boys at this set up a hearty shout indicative of their relief and joy.
"Oh yes!" he muttered reassuringly to himself as he took the second look, "the poor creature's alive. Her eyes are half open. Her chest is heaving. Wake up, ma'am! Rescue is at hand. Me an' the boys in the boat below are goin' to take you down an' row you across to the township."
The woman made no response to this appeal and plan of salvation. "Is she really alive?" The eyes are half closed and seemingly peering; the form is rigid, the face immobile. There was naught of that expression in this countenance that Joe, from hearsay, was wont to associate with death—the peace that passeth understanding. Yet as the lad gazed at this apparently inanimate object there was a movement of the body. The blanket, bunched into many folds across the breast, stirred visibly.
Again that eerie, inarticulate cry!
Disengaging one hand from the tree, the boy stretched it forth to the woman's breast, which, covered as it was with the clothes, had all the seeming of life and movement.
Joe was in the very act of removing a fold of the blanket, when suddenly, and without the slightest warning, there rose up into the lad's face an angry, hissing, venomous snake, the deadliest of its kind. Its beady eyes glittered; its forked tongue shot in and out with inconceivable rapidity; its sibilant hiss was accompanied with a musky odour, sickening in the extreme; its head and body for half its length were erect, and bent forward from the neck, vibrating and swaying in a rhythmic movement. The reptile was within striking distance. In another second that almost invisible death-stroke will be dealt; invisible, that is, by reason of its lightning-like speed.
But this deadly intention is defeated by an involuntary movement on Joe's part. This young man, for the briefest of brief moments, clung to the tree with a rigid grasp; eyes staring in amazement and terror, with mouth wide open in automatic gape. Any attempt to defend himself were useless in the most absolute sense of that term. In another tick, before he can move a hand, these poison fangs will be deep buried in his horror-stricken face, so temptingly near. The only hope for the lad lay in doing a disappearing trick. And this happened. Had it been premeditated, however swiftly, the time taken to make up his mind, and to telegraph the resolution formed in the brain to the nerve cells and muscles, would have been sufficient for the lightning stroke to fall.
What really happened was this: the apparition of the red-bellied, black snake simply petrified Joe. An awful, blood-curdling, hair-raising, galvanic shock of abject terror, contradictory as it may seem, paralysed the lad. Simultaneously with that he is falling through space, an inert mass, to be soused into the water with a splash that sent the spray flying over the boat's crew.
At the moment of the splash, Joe's mind, will, and nerve were restored to their normal activity. The instinct of self-preservation, so strong in all healthy natures, especially boys', did for the lad in an infinitesimal fraction of time as much and as effectively as though he had taken, say, half an hour to plan his procedure.
He had, however, in escaping Scylla fallen into Charybdis. As soon as Joe reached the water he made for the boat. Fortunately he did not fall into it, or this story might never have been told. He fell into the stream, some two or three yards away from the skiff. Quickly as he was carried down-stream he managed by violent efforts to reach the boat at the stern. Tom clutched him frantically by the shirt collar, enabling the swimmer to get his hands on the gunwale. Joe, thus helped, clambered into the boat or ever the boat's crew had recovered from their consternation.
"Oh, Moses!" exclaimed, or rather gasped, he, "that—was—a go. Whew!"
"My goodness! How'd yer come to fall kersplosh like that?"
"Why!" pointing up. "See! there's the beast. See him crawling out there?"
The boys, looking up, descried the snake winding its sinuous way along a lateral bough that grew up above the forks. The disturbed and excited snake, having reached the limb, wound its course till it reached a clump of bushy branches on the limb's extremity. On this it coiled itself, save the head and neck, which stood erect in vigilant attitude.
"Oh, crikey! was that there on—in the body's—the woman's body?"
"Yes, Jimmy; right in the blanket on her breast. 'Twas that brute moving under the blanket that I thought was her breathing. Oh, my!" again exclaimed the youth, with a shudder, as he thought of the imminence of the danger which confronted him a moment before.
"Is—it—her—dead, Joe?" asked Tom after an interval of silence.
"No doubt of it, boys."
"Wonder if the snake bit her?"
"May have. Anyway the poor thing is dead all right."
"What's bes' thing to do now?"
"W-e-ll, I d-o-n't know——"
Again that shrill wailing cry!
"Can't be the woman!" said Joe excitedly. "Why, she's as dead as a herrin'!"
"I have it, boys!" shouted Tom, as he jumped up excitedly and cut a caper. "It's the darned ole cat!"
A look of great relief passed over each countenance at the thought.
Tom, meanwhile, lifted up the locker lid, disclosing the rescued cat, which, together with her two bairns, were stowed in the locker shortly after being saved from the flood. The animals were snuggled together on a cornsack, and looked the very picture of contentment. The kittens were dining baby fashion, and the mother's purr declared the very excess of maternal rapture.
On seeing the boys, pussy gave a low, affectionate miaow, and made a sympathetic movement of the tail, as if to say: "Thank you a thousand times, young gentlemen, for the good deed which we never, never shall forget." And then, motherlike, proceeded to "lick" her offspring.
"It's not the cat, Tom."
"Well, what on earth, water, or air is it?"
The mystery is insoluble. As the boys look down upon the happy and contented felines, they one and all reject Tom's confident affirmation of a moment before. If not the cat, what then?
Again the tiny, shrill cry arose, but not from the cat's mouth. It came from the tree above, and as the startled youths looked up they saw the overhanging end of the blanket agitated.
"Why, why—the poor thing must really be alive after all, chaps. There's something more up there than I've discovered; so here's up again!"
Acting on this impulse, Joe again ascended the tree. Those below watched intently, their feelings strained to the utmost tension. As soon as our hero got to his former position in the forks, he received another shock. It was sudden as the other, but not so disastrous. An inarticulate and involuntary cry brought fresh alarm to his pals, who all the while were staring up, too frightened to ask any questions. The boy, despite the second shock, still clung to the tree. The woman was dead beyond all doubt, but death is counterbalanced by life. A brief and astonished survey, and the boy leans over the limb and speaks quietly to those below—
"The woman's dead, boys, but there's a baby here. It's tied to her breast. It's alive!"
Just then, as if to demonstrate the truthfulness of the statement, the babe lifted up its voice once more in a feeble cry. The scene in that tree Joe never will forget; the like he will not see again though he rival Methuselah in age. The only thing he can yet see is a little hand and arm, which have wriggled from the covering. Moving cautiously along the branch to the converging point, leaning on one fork, and placing his feet against another so as to stiffen himself, the boy was able to use his two hands. He first, and not without an inward tremor, removed the dead hand which lay upon the blanket, the stiffened fingers still clutching the clothes and holding them to the breast. The last thought and the last act of the exhausted and dying woman was to succour and to defend her little one.
Straightening the arm so that it lay by her side, Joe opened the blanket from where the little hand stuck up. There, on the breast of the dead, she lay, a sweet-faced baby girl! The little one's face was puckered up, 'tis true, and there were tears upon her pale cheeks. The cries and tears were not the symbols of pain, they were those of hunger. Joe could plainly see that all the mother's thoughts were for the child. It was snugly folded in the blanket end; then tied to her waist by a handkerchief passed round the body. The remainder of the blanket was then arranged so as to thoroughly protect the child from the inclement weather.
Untying the handkerchief, the lad folded it in a peculiar fashion like as he had seen the black gins do. Carefully lifting the babe, he laid it in the widest part, made it secure to the body under the arms, and placed it on his back, bringing the ends of the wrapper together. round his neck.
This done, he prepared for the descent. It was easily accomplished, even with the incumbrance of the child. Landing safely in the boat, which was kept well up to the tree, Joe placed her in the stern on the locker seat, where the little one lay squirming and crying piteously.
The news of the baby variously affected the boys. Jimmy Flynn, whose baby sister had died a few months before, looked very tenderly upon this nameless waif.
"Make a place on the floor for it, Joe," said he. "It'll lie there more comfortably, an' it'll be more like a cradle."
The advice was good. The coats, which the boys shed soon as they entered upon the expedition in the morning, made a soft bed for the little one. The wee mite was evidently about nine months old. For all its adventure and exposure it seemed to have suffered little, and now in its cry is only voicing the pleadings of its empty stomach. It was adequately, though very plainly dressed, and through all the rain of the preceding night had kept dry. Fortunately, too, the snake which had been curled up in one of the blanket folds had not come into actual contact with the child. There were only two things required to bring it to a condition of happy contentment: nursing and feeding.
Capable as this quartet of Australian lads were in many ways, in this they were novices. So it was with a look of ashamed helplessness that they gazed at the new passenger, as she lay in the bottom of the boat on her back, kicking her heels in the air at a great rate, and doubling her dimpled hands first into her eyes and then into her mouth. The cry went forth without ceasing, its only variation being the peculiar noise caused by an intermittent sucking of her diminutive fists.
By a happy thought of Jimmy the hunger difficulty was overcome. The boys had picked up a fine lot of oranges, as well as some dozens of plantains, in the back-water. After they had eaten a quantity they stowed the balance away in the bow locker, and completely forgot them in the exciting events which followed. Jimmy suddenly remembered the fruit. Selecting a fine specimen, he quickly peeled and quartered it. Then, seeding some of the quarters, he put one in baby's fist, guiding the same to her mouth. The sweet, juicy orange was simply nectar to the famished child. It sucked as only a hunger-bitten baby can. The boys were highly amused at the way in which she mouthed the skin, and the difficulty Jimmy encountered in unlocking her little fingers order to substitute a full for an empty quarter. It indeed a happy solution; an admirable recipe for tears and squalls. As long as baby had an orange quarter it was peaceful. After a little while Jimmy took the little one on his knee, giving furtive glances towards the others as he did so. The boys, however, under all the sad circumstances forebore to chaff. Substituting, at length, a ripe plantain for an orange section, the babe was taken to the seventh heaven of gastronomic bliss.
"The neighbours saw, far out on the wild, wreckage-strewn waters, a tiny boat with four slight figures."—See p. [69]
And the while above them in the she-oak, whose thread-like leaves make mournful music to the wind, lies the mother who has sacrificed her life for that of the babe. There is no doubt of this. The poor woman must have been exposed to the winds and waves long before she reached the tree refuge. How she got there was never known. She had almost denuded herself to protect the babe. Little wonder that at some moment of that awful night vigil the vital spark should have quitted its terror-haunted tenement.
CHAPTER X
THE RETURN
"See the conquering hero comes!
Sound the trumpet, beat the drums."
After baby's hunger was satisfied the boys' attention was given to their immediate surroundings.
"What are we goin' to do about her?" asked Tom, pointing upward as he spoke.
"It's simply impossible for us to do anything. If she were alive we would take any risk. But as things are it is beyond our power to shift the body, it is jammed so tightly. The only thing left for us to do is to inform the police when we get to the other side."
"What'll we do now, Joe?"
"Get back to our former anchorage first. River's goin' down pretty fast, I reckon; and it'll be all dry about here before morning if it recedes at the same rate. The current is not nearly so strong as it was when we came over, and that will make it easier for us to get out of the clump. There's no need for us to go back by the same course. We can take a slant across to that red gum, and when we're there we're out of the stream."
The exit from the cluster of trees was very well managed, and in a few minutes from the time of casting adrift from the she-oak the boat was out of the clump and across the narrow stream into the slack water. They continued on to their former camping place, and hitched on to the tree.
This gallant attempt at rescue, though not accomplishing what was in the minds of the boys, was not altogether a failure. Indeed, it was the reverse of that. Though but little time is consumed in reading the account of this episode, it covered a goodly portion of the day. By the time the boys had made fast to their former anchorage, the slanting sun-rays proclaimed the advance of eventide.
"Let's have a confab, chaps, on what's best to be done. I don't s'pose any of us is wanting to stick here all night. What d'you say, Tom?"
"I say pull over to the hillock on the other side of the slack. See! the water's retreated from the high ground. We could camp there, I dare say, easy enough, and get home early to-morrow morning. I don't think we ought to tackle the river to-night. I bet you it'd be a measly, tricky trip. So I vote to do as I said."
"What d'you say, Billy?"
"I say same as Tom. Plenty dry land over there. Might get matches in that house behind the hill. I'll pull 'possum outa spout, an' we'll roast 'im an' make bully feed."
Billy, as indeed were all the boys, was beginning to feel desperately hungry.
"What have you got to say, Jimmy?"
Jimmy Flynn, who had been gazing wistfully across the flood waters, turned round slowly as Joe put the question to him. "Oh, Joe! can't we get home to-night? The river isn't so bad as when we crost up at the Bend. There's not nearly so much timber goin' down now. 'Sides, it's easier crossing down here to what it was above. I give a straight vote for—home!"
"Bravo! Well done, Jimmy! You're a brick. It's just the word, an' we're the coves to do it. It's my vote too, my hearties. We've half an hour of sun left: say an hour before it's right dark. I reckon 'twill be about two mile an' a half from here to Tareela. It won't be near as difficult as up by the Bend. Yes, we'll do it, boys; an' the sooner the better. Then there's the blessed little baby, you know! Some of us would have to mind her in the night, an' what about your beauty sleep then? I reckon the kiddie would be too much for the whole boilin' of us. And I've a notion that too much fruit'll be worse for her than none at all. S'pose she gets the jim-jams! And, lastly, as father says when he's preaching, what about the old folks at home?"
There was no need to say anything further.
"I'm game, for one," said Tom.
"I'm game, for two," said Billy.
"I'm game, for three," said Jimmy.
"Put me down for the fourth," said Joe.
"Now, boys, that's settled. We'll tackle the river straight away; for better or for worse, as dad says in the marriage ceremony. And I say, chaps, let's ask God to help us."
Though there was no audible form of expression, the spirit of prayer was in each boy's heart. He who sat above the floods heard and answered.
"Billy and Jimmy are to take the oars. We want the best men at the paddles. Now then, Tom, let the painter go an' keep the pole handy for driftwood."
The painter is slipped, and the boat's head is turned riverwards. She is soon out of the slack, and feels the full force of the flood. The starting-point was nearly a mile and a half above the township, so that there was a liberal margin for drift. The river was quite a mile wide. There was still a quantity of driftwood, and many difficulties beset them which made delicate steering and skilful management incumbent. When they had travelled about half the distance, Tom, who was eagerly conning the other shore, gave a shout, pointing at the same time to a headland above the village.
"Some 'un's waving! See 'em, over there!"
Mrs. Blain was the first to spy the advancing boat. The boys' mothers had been trapsing the lagoon shore and river-side for hours, in a semi-demented manner. The minister and the others had returned after a fruitless errand. The police, with a strong crew in the Government whale-boat, were scouring the shores in the vicinity of the Bend, and had not returned. The disappearance of the boys had seemed most mysterious until the break-away was discovered. Then the accident as it really happened was immediately conjectured. The profoundest sensation was created in the village, for the boys were dearly loved by all.
The feelings of the poor parents may be but faintly imagined. Great was the relief, therefore, when Mrs. Blain, whose eyes were devouring the flood waters in her frantic eagerness to discover some hopeful sign, suddenly screamed out in an alarming manner, gesticulating wildly as she did so, and acting to outward seeming in a frenzied fashion. Other searchers, scattered along the river-bank, hearing the piercing cry, and seeing the untoward gestures of the joy-possessed woman, came running towards her, thinking for the moment that she had lost her reason.
"See, see!" screamed she, pointing to a distant spot on the waters. "They're saved, they're saved! God be praised, our lovely boys are returning all safe; yes, one, two, three, four—the darlings."
Looking in the direction indicated, the neighbours saw, far out on the wild, impetuous, wreckage-strewn waters, a tiny boat with four slight figures running the blockade; threading their course between the thousand objects which intervene and threaten destruction.
The good news is now shouted from end to end of the township, and in a few minutes the river-bank is lined with exultant and yet anxious spectators. For the joy of the discovery of the lads is almost quenched at times by sights of the perils of the passage.
The mothers of Joe, Tom, and Jimmy are grouped together, wrought up to such a pitch of anxiety as to be well-nigh silent. They noted every danger and counted every oar-stroke. The gallant rowers lifted their blades in the twilight, as the last rays sparkled on the flowing waters. Beyond a landward look the boys had no time to bestow upon the excited spectators. Eye and mind, in close conjunction, are continuously engaged in evading danger and maintaining the boat's position.
"We'll make the point," exclaimed Joe, after an interval of silence. "We'll make the point, all right. Keep her steady, lads," turning the boat's nose, as he spoke, well up stream, at an angle inclining shorewards. "Now, pull like a prize crew for five minutes an' we're there. We're out of the driftwood as it is."
The rowers needed no further stimulus. They bent to the oars like old salts.
"Capital! just the stroke! Keep it up! Hear 'em cheering!"
The cheering spurred on the boys, and in less than five minutes they landed in the midst of a wildly excited and loud-cheering crowd. And wasn't there a hugging and kissing, and hand-shaking and back-slapping!
Just as the women were up to their necks in it, to use a homely figure, some one happened to glance at the boat. The glance extorted a scream.
"A baby, a darling baby! See, see, see! a little baby in the boat!"
A moment's dazed surprise, and every one crowded to the boat. Joe, who had not moved far from the boat's nose, and who only waited for the violence of the welcome to abate a little that he might call attention to the precious freight, waved the jostling crowd back, and in a few words related the incident of the rescue.
A great wave of feeling passed over the crowd as he spoke. The women wept copiously as the scene was conjured us, and strong men unconsciously shed briny tears as the story reached its culminating point of the discovery of the helpless and orphaned babe, bound to the dead breast of her who had thus made the great sacrifice of motherhood.
While Joe was reciting the story of the rescue, Jimmy Flynn held on to his mother's arm and whispered excitedly into her ear. The narrator had hardly finished ere Mrs. Flynn stepped forward to his side and faced the crowd. Ordinarily, this woman was undemonstrative and shy. Now she is unconscious of any timidity. The moment was an inspired one; to produce which Jimmy's whisperings had played an important part.
"Mr. Blain, and friends all, give me the darling baby. It'll take the place of the one God took from me last month. The clothes'll fit——"
The bereft mother could get no further. Any woman who has lost a child will tell you why.
"My friends, you all know Mrs. Flynn, as I know her. If it were a matter of choosing between you, I should still say that no one in the town is better fitted for the sacred duty of mothering this little flood-driven stranger. None of us can say to whom the child belongs; whether there is a father or near relations. But until it is claimed by those who can prove the right to do so, the very best of all possible arrangements, and one I regard as providential, will be for Mrs. Flynn to take this baby to nourish and cherish it."
The murmurs of assent were unanimous. Joe, without any more delay, stepped into the boat, and, picking up the child—which all this time looked round, wondering in its baby way at this ado—put the little one into its foster-mother's hands.
The river baby was evidently delighted beyond measure to receive a warm motherly embrace; judging, at any rate, by the way it gooed and crowed.
As soon as she could get through the admiring throng, Mrs. Flynn hastened home, and before long the baby, washed and dressed anew, was filling its "little Mary" with sweet new milk.
CHAPTER XI
THE BREAKING-UP
"With trumping horn and juvenile huzzas,
At going home to spend their Christmas days,
And changing Learning's pains for Pleasure's toys."
TOM HOOD.
Out through the gateway of the National School, on one sultry afternoon in late December, tumbled a pack of noisy boys and scarcely less noisy girls; the while they kicked up a fine dust, yelling in an uproarious fashion. Were you, a stranger, to ask the cause of this demonstration of voice and capering limbs, you would be answered by a score of voices in rousing chorus—
"Hip, hip, hurray for Christmas Day!
School's broke up, hip, hip, hurray!"
However strongly one might be disposed to question the quality of the couplet as he listened to the trumpetings of this cluster of children, he would cheerfully admit the gusto of the proceedings as the juveniles issued pell-mell.
If truth be told, the master was no less pleased than the youngsters when the actual moment of dismissal came. Like all schools, this particular one was infected for weeks previously with a spirit of restlessness, which made it well-nigh impossible to secure the undivided attention of the children. There was no disposition for serious study, and Simpson, who was a wise teacher, attempted no coercive measures. Natural history was presented in its most attractive forms. Grammar and arithmetic were for the most part tabooed, and instead of puzzling refractory brains with arithmetical and grammatical abstractions, the children lived in the jungles of India, crossed Sahara, took a trip to the Booties, wandered into Arctic circles, or, what was equally exciting, made transcontinental trips in company with Sturt, Burke and Wills, Leichhardt, and other great Australian explorers.
Many were the schemes unfolded and plans laid by the boys during the last schooldays. The holidays would not be an undiluted playtime to any one of the boys. Many of the lads would work hard on the farms; their parents, bearing in mind the old adage of Satan and idle hands, will take good care to anticipate the sinister designs of that interfering old gentleman. The wood pile stood as an unfailing object of labour. Sheds were awaiting the whitewash brush. Fowl houses loomed expectant. Fences demanded attention. These, and many other duties about house and farm, were put off till the "holidays."
There were other anticipations, however, far more highly coloured and bewitching than these. Charm the schoolboy never so wisely, his thoughts, with a dogged obstinacy or triumphant breakaway, return to the delectable things of the groves, streams, mountains, and plains. Horse, gun, dog, rod, bat, duck, quail, pigeon; perch, bream, mullet; kangaroo, wallaby, dingo, brumby, scrubber! These are the sources and instruments of pleasure; things that people the imagination, and make an earthly paradise.
Sobering down, after an unusual indulgence in larks to mark the auspicious event, Joe, Tom, and Sandy, separating from the others, sauntered to the slip-rail entrance of the school horse-paddock. Joe and Tom, at the express request of Mrs. M'Intyre, are to spend the holidays with Sandy on the station. Here all kinds of fun and alluring adventure are promised the lads. How well that promise was redeemed let the sequel bear witness.
"Now then, you fellows, don't forget that you are to be at Bullaroi on the morning of Christmas Eve without fail."
"I say, ole boss, what does eve mean?"
"Eve! Why, a—er—short for evening, I s'pose. What makes you ask, Joe?"
"Well, if Christmas Eve is evening, how can we be there in the mornin'?—you savee?"
"You're mighty smart, Blain, but did you ever know an evening that didn't have a morning to it?"
"Oh—ah—yes, I see. We're to come out on the morning of the evening. Sure it's an Irishie ye ought to be instead of a Scotchie."
"Scotchie or no Scotchie," replied Sandy, who was the essence of good-humour, "ye're not to be later than ten o'clock of the forenoon of the day before Christmas. There! Will that fit you, you pumpkin-headed son of a bald-bellied turnip?"
"Thanks, M'Intyre; I'm sure my father'll be delighted when I tell him the respectful titles you've given him," returned Joe, with mock sarcasm.
"He'll no dispute the title of his son's head, anyhow," flung back the Scotch lad, as, bridle in hand, he strolled on to round up his steed.
This parthian shot nettled Joe, but the answer he would have given remained unuttered, for at this moment his eldest sister appeared and beckoned to him in an emphatic manner, at the same time calling upon him to hurry. So, contenting himself with levelling Midshipman Easy's masonic sign at the retreating lad, he hurried along towards his sister.
"Father wants you to go down the river with him in the boat."
"Where's it to?"
"Down to Beacon Point. Tom Tyler's had a bad accident, and they've sent for the doctor; but he's away. He was called out to a bad case at Dingo Creek head station, and is not expected to be back till midday to-morrow. So they've asked father to go down, and you've to hurry along. Father's waiting down at the boat for you."
Mr. Blain was waiting at the boat with everything that was required for the trip. As soon as the lad was in, he pushed off, and, taking the stern oar, with Joe at the bow, father and son started on their twelve-mile pull.
In answer to the boy's question the minister gave some details of the accident, and, further, informed the lad that it was his intention to call at Mrs. Robinson's, distant about five miles from Tareela.
They had now settled down to a steady stroke, and as the sun was on its westering wheel, and the sting out of its slanting rays, the row became enjoyable. Mr. Blain was a sort of newsletter to the settlers, and in his trips up-stream and down-stream was frequently hailed and made the target of questioning from the riverbank.
Robinsons' was reached a little before sunset, where they were made abundantly welcome. Some years previously Mr. Robinson met his death by one of those accidents all too common in new settlements. Felling scrub timber is a risky performance. It so happened that in felling a stout fig tree, Robinson failed to notice some lawyer vines that, hanging from the high branches, had attached themselves to the bare limbs of an adjacent dead tree.
Standing at the base and watching the toppling fig tree, as it slowly swayed preparatory to its final crash, he was unaware that the cable-like vines were retarding its progress. Gathering way, however, the falling tree brought a strain upon the vine, and tore away a heavy limb of the dead tree. This falling upon the axe-man, killed him instantly.
The widow was blest with a family of boys and girls who were true grit. Misfortune breaks some people—it makes others. The latter was the truth in this case.
In all the trying times Mrs. Robinson underwent, the minister was her friend and counsellor.
CHAPTER XII
DOWN THE RIVER
"When the full moon flirts with the perigee tide,
On a track of silver away we ride,—
Oh, glorious times we have together,
My boat and I in the summer weather."
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
The boat was sighted from Robinsons' some time before its nose grated on the shingle at the landing-place.
Isaac, the younger son, a giant in stature and a prime favourite with Joe, was at the landing-stage. Seizing the bow what time it touched land, he half lifted, half dragged the boat two-thirds of her length out of the water, and made her fast to an old stump.
"Mother's so glad you've come, sir. She wants to talk with you about that boy of Maguire's, who's bin givin' us a lot of trouble."
"Won't be able to stay long, Ike. We've got to be at Beacon Point to night. We just put in for a cup of tea and a bite. Mother's inside, I suppose? I'll go in and have a chat with her."
"You'll find her in the kitchen, sir. When we saw you roundin' Piccaniny Point we knew you'd be here for tea, and mother's lookin' after things."
"I hope she won't go to any trouble. A mouthful is all we want."
"Well, you know mother, sir. She feels that nothin' is near good enough."
"Any pancakes for tea, Ike?"
"Pancakes! Why, of course. That's what mother's makin' now. She knew that'd be the first thing you'd be askin' fur, Joe."
"Rather, Ike!" said Joe, pursing his mouth and drawing in his breath with the peculiar, half-whistling, unwriteable sound which boys instinctively make when visions of goodies arise. More especially when such goodies come within measurable distance of consumption.
Master Joe had a healthy boy's appetite. The rowing exercise gave additional spice to his hunger. Pancake was at that moment the gate of entry to the boy's very material heaven.
"Tea won't be ready fur a few minutes, Joe. Let's go down to the barn. I was just goin' to rub some more mixture inter the skins when I seen your boat roundin' the point. Sorry you're goin' on, my son. When I seen you on the river I ses to meself, ses I, 'By George! Joey an' I'll have a great night at the 'possums.' I wish to goodness you'd been stayin'. There'll be a grand moon ter night, an it's very temptin'."
"By gum, ain't it just! It'd be simply, rippin'. 'Member last time I was down? That was a grand bit of sport we had. Forty-seven was it, or forty-nine? I know it took a dashed long time to skin 'em."
"Forty-seven it was. We'd do over fifty to-night."
"Well, as mother says, 'What can't be cured must be endured.' By dad! that's a grand wallaby skin! Where'd you get it?"
"Got it larst night." Ike had the Colonial drawl to perfection. "I was up at the top end of the scrub cultivation paddick, mooseying around after some cockatoos that'd bin skinnin' the corn. It was just about dusk, an' I was waitin' in the corner for the cockies, as I knew they'd soon be leavin' fur their roosts, an' my bes' charnse at 'em was on the wing. They're so 'tarnal cute, yer know, yer carn't git 'em on the corn."
"I know. Didn't I try my best to stalk 'em the last time I was down, Ike! I got three altogether, you 'member, an' you said it'd be a crest apiece to take home to the girls."
"Waal, as I was sayin', I'd sarcumvented the ole boss cockie, which was keeping watch in the dead gum-tree that stood in the middle of the patch, an' was posted in the middle of the corner expectin' them ter fly over every minit. But ole Pincher, who was chevyin' about, starts this ere boss outer the pumpkin vines; they're death on pumpkins, yer know. The dorg made a dash at 'im, an', by jings! he did streak. Greased lightnin' wasn't in it with 'im. I tried to draw a bead on 'im, but, what with the dusk an' the bushes an' stumps, I couldn't get a good line. I banged away one barril, but was yards off, I reckon.
"Pincher, he disappeared in a brace of shakes, an' I made sure the vermin ud get through a 'ole in the fence. I was makin' for 'ome, 'cause the cockies, yer know, 'ad all gone. All of a suddent I heers a yelp, an' knew ole Pinch 'ad somehow 'eaded 'im. Reckon 'e missed the 'ole, or the dorg'd never got near 'im. Anyhow, 'e was a-streakin' a bit now, an' Pinch at 'is 'eels. He was makin' fur the maize agen. I lined 'im this time all right, though it was a longish shot; about sixty-five I reckon; an' dropped 'im clean at the very edge."
"It's a prime pelt, anyway."
"Yaas, 'e was a grand ole buck fur a wally; about the biggest I've got this season."
"How many skins have you taken, Ike?"
"Two more'n I'd 'ave six dozen."
"Gettin' a good price for 'em?"
"Waal, Jack Croft, 'e offered me nine shillin' a dozen fur 'em. There are about twenty kangaroos among 'em. Jack reckoned it was a stiff price, an' 'e sed 'e'd not offer anythin' near it but fur the kangaroo skins, which 'e 'ad a fancy fur."
"Old Jack can put it on, you know."
"Oh, I know Jack all right! Me an' 'im's 'ad dealin' afore. Jacky's not too bad, but 'e knows 'ow to draw the long bow. Anyway, ole Eb Dowse's boat'll be along nex' week. He's sent word ter say as 'e'd do a deal with me fur 'em."
"Better wait an' see what Eb'll shell out for 'em, Ike, I reckon. German Harry, up the river, says he can always knock a shillin' a dozen more out of Eb than Jack."
"I ain't hurryin', Joe."
Just then the welcome supper cooee reached their ears. The boys lost no time in getting to the supper-table. Joe instinctively eyed the contents. Cold streaky bacon; a big dish of fried pumpkin and potatoes; a mountain of home-made bread, sliced; a basin of prime butter; Cape gooseberry jam galore, and amber-tinted honey in the comb. What more could any hungry lad desire?
Mary Robinson, a great tease, caught Joe's glance, and said, with an amused smile, "No pancakes to-night, Joe."
Joe was abashed for the fraction of a second. Quickly rallying, he laughingly said, "Tell another, Mary, while your mouth's hot."
"Very well, my boy! If you don't believe me ask our black tom-cat. He chased a mouse into the batter and upset the bowl; so there!"
"Mary, Mary!" remonstrated Mrs. Robinson. "There's only a grain of truth in the pound of fiction she's giving you, Joe. The cat, it is true, did chase a mouse; but it did not jump into the batter, nor was the bowl upset. The pancakes are cooked, with currans in 'em; just the sort you like; and they're keeping hot by the fire."
"Thanks awfully, Mrs. Robinson; I believe you anyway. As for Mary, she's like Sandy M'Intyre's old, toothless sheep-dog."
"How's that, Joe?" interjected Ike.
"Bark's worse than her bite."
"My stars! what originality, what refinement! Sandy's razor is not in it with master Joe Blain for sharpness. I'll remember this, though, the next time you ask me to go out to the scrub with you for passion fruit. Anyhow, there's no resemblance between you and Sandy's wonderful barker."
"Indeed!"
"No; your bark's noisy enough, but your bite's a hundred times worse—especially when pancakes are about."
With this "Roland" Mary ran out to the kitchen to get the teapot.
Joe made a royal repast, topping off with the hot pancakes at a rate which caused his father to dryly remark: "Too much pancake won't help the boat along, my boy."
Tea finished, the visitors prepare to continue their voyage. With Ike's powerful assistance the boat is shoved into the water, and her nose pointed down-stream. In due time Beacon Point is reached.
CHAPTER XIII
OFF FOR THE HOLIDAYS!
"Boyhood is the natural time for abundant play and laughter, without which rarely does high health touch young cheeks with its rose-bloom, or knit bones strongly for the fighting and the toiling that awaits them."—JOSEPH H. FLETCHER.
"Now then, Norah, look slippy with breakfast! It's half-past six, an' Sandy's to be here at seven. Said he'd leave the station at five with the spare horse for me."
"Begorrah! at the rate breakfast's cookin' it'll be midnight before it's ready. 'Tis the bastliest wood that niwer was."
"Time the fish was fryin', Norah."
"Fish, bedad! For two pins ye wuddent have anny fish. The thrubble Oi've had wid thim! Phwat for did youse lave thim in the bag all night? If ye'd put thim out on the dish, ye spalpeen, Oi'd have seen thim and claned thim long ba-fore Oi wint to bed. 'Sted of which it's tuk me two morchial hours to scale the brutes, they was that dry and hard. Be Saint Pathrick, they scales was loike porky-pine's pricklies!"
"Sorry, Norah; my fault as usual," remarked Joe good-humouredly. "Father called out to turn the horse from the lucerne just as I reached the back door. So I threw the bag down on the steps to chase the moke, an' clean forgot 'em when I came back."
"Well, Oi'll forgive ye wanst more, which makes about a million tousandth toime; but, moind ye, 'tis——"
"All serene, Norah! Oh, I say, Norry, I'd nearly forgotten it! Paddy Lacey asked me yesterday to tell you that they want you to go to the Hibernian picnic on Boxing Day. They've chartered the Firefly, an' are goin' down to the Bar."
"God's truth! 'tis only gammoning me ye are, Masther Joe. It's a young thrick ye be, indade, with yure Hayburnion picnacs."
"It's as true as true, Norah. No make-up this time. An' oh! I say, d'you know what Jimmy Flynn tole Tom Hawkins?"
"Nawthin' good, bedad!"
"Ain't it! Well, opinions differ. At any rate he was goin' to set a line on Friday night, an' as he was roundin' the point he hears somewheres ahead of him a noise between a smack an' a crack. Then comes a bit of a squeal, an' a woman's voice sings out: 'Don't, stop it!' Then there was another smack-crack, an' just as he got round the corner he sees a couple, for all the world like you and Paddy, sittin' on a log. No, 'twas Paddy that was on the log, an' you were on Paddy's——"
"Ye loi-in spalpeen! Oi'll pull yure tongue from betune yure teeth," screamed Norah, as, blushing furiously, she chased the nimble Joe out of the kitchen right into the arms of Sandy M'Intyre, as he was coming up the back doorstep.
"Hello, Sandy!"
"Hello, Joe! What's row inside? Norah givin' you the rounds of the kitchen as usual, eh?"
"Only jiggin' her about Paddy Lacey, an' got her paddy up a bit. You're up to time, Sandy, ole man. By jing! I see you've brought Curlew in. Am I to ride him? My word! it is good of your governor to let me. I thought you'd a brought the piebald."
"So I intended, but he was limpin' when he was run into the stockyard; so father says, 'Take Curlew.'"
Curlew was Mr. M'Intyre's favourite horse, and Joe was highly honoured in being allowed to ride this mettlesome but lovely paced steed.
Just then breakfast appeared. After a substantial meal Joe brought out his father's valise and strapped it to the saddle.
"All ready, Sandy? Good-bye, mother. Good-bye, father. Good-bye, girls!"
And so, with kisses and cautions from the family, the boys mounted their steeds and cantered down the street to the punt, on their way to Bullaroi, as Mr. M'Intyre's station was called.
Across the river the boys were joined by Tom Hawkins, who was to accompany them. Tom, who was mounted on a brisk pony, greeted them with a cheery cry as the punt reached the shore. A jollier trio of young Australians could not be found than this chattering, capering band, who on that brilliant morning raced along the bush track.
Plans of fun and frolic were projected during the ride, including astounding adventures that would have taken half a year to carry out. In anticipation the lads were already having tip-top fun. Tom's riotous imagination, especially, made the spoils of the gun, the rod, and the chase to assume brobdingnagian proportions.
In due course they pulled up at the slip-rails marking the Bullaroi boundary line. Thence to the white gate seen in the distance, and which fronted the homestead, a mad race ensued. In this Curlew was first, the rest nowhere. Indeed, Curlew became so excited by the gallop and the shrill shoutings of the riders that Joe, who had made no attempt to pull him till the horse was almost on the gate, found it impossible to stop his steed, which was full of running. Before the boy fully realised it, Curlew was soaring through the air, clearing the gate by at least a couple of feet. Joe, parting from the "pigskin," was sailing through space on his own account, leaving a foot or two between his sit-down and the saddle seat.
Joe, though a fair rider, was not a practised steeple-chaser. He was not a horseman, as were Sandy and Tom, who were to the manner born. Little wonder, then, that his heart rose with the horse and his rider, and for some brief moments palpitated furiously in his mouth. That mysterious and natural law of the universe called gravitation was on hand, however, and saved the situation.
Curlew's hoofs struck the ground on the descending curve as lightly as a cat. Joe's legs, which in this aerial flight had assumed the shape of an inverted V, came plop into the saddle at the right moment. But his body was thrown forward, his hands clutching frantically at the horse's neck and mane. In this condition, unable to recover his equilibrium, with but the loss of his hat, the rider is carried over the intervening distance to the stables, amid loud laughter from the station people, who had been attracted by the shouting of the boys.
Sandy cleared the gate in pursuit of Joe, but failed to catch him. Tom was obliged to haul up and open the gates, as the jump was too high for his pony. Thus the rider of Curlew came in a winner, and all three dismounted amid laughter and teasings.
"Weel, Joseph, my lad," said Mr. M'Intyre, who possessed a pawky humour, "Johnny Gilpin couldna hae done the trick better. You kep' up wi' Curlew, anyway. I thocht he was goin' to leave ye behind. Ma certie it's deeficult to say which is the winner, you or the horse. We'll juist ca' it neck an' neck."
"Take no heed to him, Joe," said Mrs. M'Intyre. She saw through the lad's apparent good-humour a sense of humiliation at his unhorsemanlike entry. "You did well to stick to him, not knowing his intention. But come away in, boys; ye'll be ready for something to eat after that ride. We're right glad to see you. Sandy was so excited last night at the prospect of your coming that I am sure he didn't sleep a wink. Why, he had the horses saddled at dawn, and was off without a bite if I hadn't stopped him and made him drink a cup of coffee."
The day was a busy one on the station. Every one was engaged in finishing off jobs and cleaning up. For during Christmas week, and until after New Year's Day, only that which was absolutely necessary in the way of work was expected.
During the previous week drafting and mustering had been the all absorbing work on the run. That finished, and a mob of "fats" despatched overland to Maitland to catch the Christmas market, the last few days were occupied in culling "boilers" and in branding calves. On this particular day all the available hands were engaged in tidying up; the whitewash bucket being in great request.
Willy and Jacky, the aboriginal boys, together with an Irish lad,—Norah's brother, in fact,—were enrolled as whitewash artists. Their special work consisted in converting dingy looking hen-roosts, dog-kennels, pigsties, milking sheds, and the like into a brilliant white. Meanwhile two of the men, with rough brooms made of stiff brushes, were sweeping the ground within a fair radius of the house.
Inside, the housework was prosecuted with great vigour. Two gins were set to work with the scrubbing brush; while in the kitchen, where Mrs. Mac and the two elder daughters were domiciled, Christmas cooking went on apace. There was, indeed, such a weighing of flour and raisins, such a slicing of candied peel, such a dressing of flesh and fowl as to make Ah Fat, the cook, fairly amazed, and to wonder how in the name of Confucius the oven was to stand the cooking strain that was being brought upon it. While from the kitchen an odoriferous perfume was wafted across the yard, assaulting all noses, and breeding high anticipation, most pleasurable from the standpoint of creature comforts.
Mr. M'Intyre, no patron of idleness either in man or boy, took the lads early in the day into the harness room, and set them to the task of cleaning the saddle and harness ware. Saddles, girths, bridles, various sets of light and heavy harness, required attention. All leather was to be well cleaned and oiled, stirrups and bits to be burnished, and broken straps to be repaired.
The pals threw themselves, con amore, into the work. It was hard to say which moved the more briskly, tongues or hands. The afternoon was well advanced before the last piece of steel and electro silver was polished, the last girth and surcingle refitted, and the whole placed on their respective brackets. This task finished, the boys felt that they had earned the promised reward—a glorious swim. Within a couple of hours of sunset the whole of the outside work was accomplished, and, for the time being, each employé was a free agent.
The homestead faced a large affluent of the river, which was known as Crocodile Creek. Why the creek was so named was a sort of a mystery. No species of the saurian tribe was ever known to infest its waters. The name may have been given to it through some fancied resemblance in its course to the aforesaid reptile.
Crocodile Creek formed a fine frontage to Bullaroi run, being distant from the homestead about a quarter of a mile. Immediately opposite, the creek widened out into a fine sheet of water some three miles long, and varying in width from one hundred to one hundred and fifty yards. There was a particular spot which stood about seven or eight feet above the water. Here Mr. M'Intyre had a spring-board constructed. The water was fully twelve feet deep at the jump off, and, added to other advantages, formed an ideal spot for bathing purposes.
Having finished their allotted tasks, the lads came bounding out of the harness-room and across the yard to the house, shouting, as they capered, "Who's for a swim?" The stockmen certainly looked, and no doubt felt, that the one thing above all others necessary for their ease and comfort after the stable and the house-yard cleaning operations was a plunge into the cool, sweet waters of the creek. If they were semi-black by reason of their employment, it was no less true that the black boys, Willy and Jacky, were semi-white.
Dennis Kineavy, the Irish lad, was the "broth of a bhoy," and all three were cram full of impishness. No sooner were the finishing touches of whitewash decoration given, than Denny, sneaking up behind Willy and Jacky, who stood off a little from the hen-roost admiring their artistic handicraft—with capacious brush well charged with the sediment of his bucket—smote them in quick succession across the bare shoulders and breech, and then, with an Irish yell, darted round the stable.
Surprised for the moment, but nothing loath, the black boys snatched their buckets, wielded their brushes, and, shouting their native war-cry, dashed off in hot pursuit; Denny dodged them successfully for a while, but was at length outflanked, and then ensued a battle royal which only ceased when the supplies of ammunition (whitewash) were exhausted.
It was at the tail-end of the fray that Sandy and his mates came racing along with the cry of, "Swim O! Swim O!"
Boys and men, black and white, were all ready and willing, nay, eager, for a jolly bogey.[#] There was a rush by the whites for towels; then, in quick procession, the motley band made for the water.
[#] "Bogey," native name for bathe.
After a plunge and a short swim to get rid of the dust and muck, an impromptu carnival was arranged. First of all came the long dive. This meant a run along the spring-board and a dive straight out. The diver in each case, when reaching the surface, had to tread water, keeping as nearly as possible to the spot of emergence.
Tom Hawkins led off, the others followed in order at twenty seconds' interval. The blacks, by reason of their native abilities in this direction, were made to do the dive with arms interlocked, Siamese twin fashion. The darkies were the whippers-in of this diving procession. Tom, who led off, faltered in his stride when leaving the spring-board. He rose to the surface at about thirty feet from the bank. Joe, who followed, dived a good ten feet farther out than Tom. Sandy, however, when he shot up through the water, was fully fifty feet from the shore. Both of the stockmen beat Joe, but were behind Sandy.
Then came the blacks, side by side. With an even, measured, and springy stride they raced down the board, which was wide enough to admit of this manoeuvre. They took the water without a splash, like a pair of frogs, leaving scarce a ripple. It was naturally thought that by being coupled in this way matters would be evened. It was the general opinion that they would fail to reach Sandy's limit, and probably not get beyond Joe's. The boys eagerly awaited their reappearance, watching the water closely for some sign. After what appeared to be an interminable period they were startled by a double cooee, and, lo! the twins, so to speak, had risen at least twenty feet beyond Sandy, or seventy feet from the shore.
Somersault diving followed the long distance trial. In thia Harry the stockman, who had been a circus rider and acrobat in his youthful days, outshone all the others.
Then came the exciting game of "catch the devil." Willy was chosen devil. It was his business to dive off the spring-board and run the gauntlet, the others being scattered in the water. To catch the aboriginal seemed a comparatively easy matter, all things considered. He was, however, a superb swimmer and trickster, diving and dodging like a cormorant. A dozen times surrounded, he marvellously eluded his pursuers. The game was at its height, and there was no knowing how long the "devil" would remain at large, when the station bell rang out a lusty summons to supper.
This brought the carnival to an instant conclusion. And now each swimmer scrambled for the shore, and soon the whole company, with clean bodies and healthy appetites, were hieing along the track. When the boys reached home they found a new arrival in the person of a young Englishman. This gentleman was out on a business tour, and, being anxious to see something of station life, was recommended to Mr. M'Intyre by a mutual friend. Mrs. M'Intyre's hospitality was proverbial, and Neville, for such was the "new chum's" name, was heartily made welcome.
The day had been a long one, and, supper ended, the boys were quite resigned to go to bed, or at least to the bedroom. The noises therefrom, after their retirement, were very suggestive of prime larks, and continued long after lights were out. The pals were domiciled, to their great delight, in a big spare room, which contained a double bed and a single one. Joe and Tom shared the former, while Sandy camped on the latter, which was, indeed, his stretcher brought in for the occasion.
Silence reigned supreme at length within, and without was broken only by the hoarse croaking of the frogs, an occasional call from a night owl, and the weird wail of the curlew.
CHAPTER XIV
CHRISTMAS FUN AND FROLIC
"It was the time when geese despond
And turkeys make their wills;
The time when Christians to a man
Forgive each other's bills.
It was the time when Christmas glee
The heart of childhood fills."
BRUNTON STEPHENS.
Daylight had barely broken. The only stir in the household is that produced by Joe, whose slumber had been disturbed by the persistent crawling of flies across his face.
There are three things in animated nature which run each other very closely for the supremacy in downright tenacity to purposeful cussedness. Pig, Hen, Fly—these three! And of the three, the cussedest and most exasperatingly tenacious to its rooted purpose of squeezing in between one's eyelids, sinking a well in the corner of one's eye, or climbing the inside walls of one's nose, is the Australian species of the common house-fly.
It is possible at times to circumvent the "gintilman wot pays the rint," and persuade him to return through the same hole in the fence which gave him escape, by appearing to be anxious to drive him out on to the plain. That is pig strategy; or rather, strategy with a pig. He is beaten, so to speak, by the law of contrairy. When all resources fail in persuading the hen that the flour-bin, or the linen basket, is not specially constructed to suit her convenience in the daily duty of egg producing, one can at the last resort requisition the services of Madame la Guillotine.
But neither strategy nor tactics, neither force nor fraud, avail anything when the early fly, with recruited energies and fiendish intent, starts on her mission of seeking whom and what she may annoy. She—it is quite safe to put the insect in the feminine gender—can be neither coaxed, persuaded, shoo'd, deceived, frightened, nor driven from her prey. The fly always wins—in the end.
Driven from Blanket Bay on this eventful Christinas morning by the incorrigible fly, Joe proceeded at once to reverse the Golden Rule, and promptly made war upon his mates on that morning which, of all the days in the year, makes for peace and goodwill among men.
Tom had sought refuge from the fly in the bed-clothes, and muffled nasal monotones made a sonorous chorale. On the other hand, Sandy, impervious to all impious fly assaults, lay on his back, mouth wide open, breathing heavily and steadily. Sandy was of the pachydermatous order. Neither mosquito nor fly troubled him. The flies evidently found his eyes to be a dry patch, while they were unable to obtain a permanent foothold at his nostrils owing to the intermittent, horse-like snorts which blew them as from the mouth of a blunderbuss. But they heavily fringed his mouth, eating with manifest relish their bacilli breakfast.
In a jiffy the bed-clothes are whipped off the slumbering lads, and in less than no time the latter, pillows in hand, make common cause against the aggressor. Joe puts up a gallant fight, but the odds are too much for him; he is driven into a corner at last and unmercifully pelted.
This prelude to the day's enjoyment concluded, the pals jump into their clothes and proceed to execute the second item on the day's programme, namely, a horseback scamper through the bush before breakfast.
Oh, the glory of it! Out from the confines of four walls into the open spaces of the world when night is merging into day; to move in the dawn of a new day; to stand enwrapped in its pearl-grey mantle ere the mounting sun has turned its soft shades to rosy brilliance; to inhale the spicy breeze which, during the night watches, having extracted the perfumes of the forest flowers, comes heavily freighted o'er gully and range, and diffuses the sweet odours as the reward of the early riser. And then—to watch the daily miracle of sunrise!
"See! the dapple-grey coursers of the morn
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs
And chase it through the sky."
Sandy, on old Rufus, kept for that work, soon rounds-up and yards several steeds from the horse-paddock. From these three are picked and saddled; and ere the rising sun has walked "o'er the dew of yon high eastern hills," the lads are scampering through bush and brake, o'er dale and hill. They chivy the silent kangaroo through the lush grass; have a glorious burst after a belated dingo; rouse screaming parrots and paroquets from their matutinal meal off the honey blossoms of box and apple trees; pulling up at last on the summit of a dome-shaped, treeless hill, from whence, with the bloom of the morning still upon it, the landscape extends in a vast stretch of undulation, broken at irregular intervals by silver ribbons of creek and river.
Belts of scrub and forest, rich pasturages and arable lands, are dotted here and there, with minute spots from which rise slender threads of smoke indicating settlers' houses; while away in the background are the purple hills and the blue mountains.
Boys are not usually considered to be impressionable creatures on the æsthetic side of things. Herein we wrong them. They may not attitudinise, nor spout poetry when under the supreme touches of nature, for the boy is too natural to be theatrical. But, without doubt, the morning and evening glories of dear old mother earth do touch their sense of beauty; and though these impressions may seem to be effaced by other and more sordid things, nevertheless they linger through the long years, called up from time to time in sweet association with days that are no more.
The lads, while they rested their steeds, stood in silent and wondering gaze, broken at last by Tom, who, pointing across the intervening spaces to the broadest of the many silver threads, exclaimed, "Tender's Tareela!" Many miles away, as the crow flies, lay the river village, a small cluster of dots, a few of which glistened in the sunlight. These shining spots indicated the "superior" houses that sported corrugated iron roofs, new in those days. For the most part the "roof-trees" were shingle or bark.
And now, homeward bound, the horsemen slither down the hillside, plunge into a pine scrub, to emerge therefrom on the border of a small plain, and chase a mob of brumbies grazing thereon. They, with snorting nostrils and waving manes, headed by a notorious grey stallion—of whom more anon—dash up a ravine into the fastnesses of the scrub, and, though followed some distance by the reckless riders, vanish from sight with a celerity possible only to wild bush-horses.
Skirting now the banks of the Crocodile, they disturb flocks of teal, widgeon, water-hen, and other aquatic birds. At length they give a view halloo, for the old homestead is in sight. This scares a flock of cockatoos that are camping in the river gums, after an early morning's poaching expedition to the adjacent maize-fields, and brings out the station dogs with a babble of barking, as they pound up the track with a final spurt.
"Breakfast ready, Ah Fat?" sings out Sandy, as the boys come rushing into the kitchen from the stables.
"Leddy? Tes, allee globble upee! Missee say no kleep anyling for bad boy. Lockee allee glub." Ah Fat's twinkling, humorous eyes redeemed his hatchet face and stolid countenance.
"It's all right, fellows. He's only pokin' borak at us," said Sandy, giving the Celestial a familiar slap. "Come along, I'm as hungry as a hunter. They've only started, I know."
The family were seated, heads were bent, and Mr. M'Intyre was saying the long Scotch grace, when the boys burst into the room with a fine clatter. The rude intrusion brought a severe remonstrance from that gentleman when the exercise was concluded. Mrs. M'Intyre—always ready to defend the boys and to champion them, to condone their faults and to extol their virtues, in which she was wise or otherwise, as the reader may decide—broke in with a Christmas greeting. For a minute there was a fusillade of "Merry Christmas to you and many of them!"
"Now, boys, take your seats before breakfast's cold."
On proceeding to their places the boys stood stock still, for there, resting against their respective chairs, stood three brand-new, double-barrel shot-guns.
"Weel, bairns!" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre, with quiet amusement, surveying the amazed boys as they gazed at the weapons. "What are ye frichtened at? Is it snakes y're lukin' upon? Why dinna ye sit doon to yure food?"
"Oh, father! mother!" cried Sandy at last, picking up his gun, pleasure beaming from his face. "This is what Harry meant when he said last night he'd brought out a parcel from the town that'd come by steamer." Then with a rush, Joe and Tom at his heels, he danced round the abashed Scotchman, and gave him a hug, repeating the dose with interest on Mrs. M'Intyre. It was hard for the boys to settle down to breakfast and dislodge their eyes from the weapons. What their souls coveted most was a gun. The clamant claims of hunger, however, are not to be disregarded; so, stacking their guns in a corner, the boys did ample justice to a generous meal.
"Did you have a pleasant ride this morning, boys?" inquired Mrs. M'Intyre. "You've not been out on the run before, Tom, have you?"
"No, ma'am. We'd a good time, though!"
"How far did you go, Sandy?"
"To the top of Bald Hummock, mother."
"Splendid view from the top, is it not, Joe?"
"Not bad, Mrs. M'Intyre."
"That's a negative descreeption o' ane o' the graundest sichts the hale deestric' can boast," said Mr. M'Intyre, with emphasis.
Joe became conscious of the banality.
"An' why did ye no' tak' Mr. Neville wi' you, boys? Ye did wrang no' to invite him to ride wi' you. I think ye owe him an apologee, Saundy."
"I'm very sorry," said the lad, turning in some confusion to Mr. Neville. "If I'd thought——"
"Oh, I shouldn't have dreamed of going out at such an early hour, my lad," replied Neville loftily. He had a somewhat affected accent and a superior air. "I nevvah exert myself before breakfast. Besides, I am not sure that I should find a safe escort in a parcel of—er—schoolboys. With the young ladies, now," he continued, fixing his monocle and bestowing a patronising stare upon Sandy's sisters, Maggie and Jessie, "I—I—should be delighted to go for a bush ride, as I think these equestrian expeditions are called in Awestralia, in the cool of the afternoon."
"We don't call them even bush rides out here, Mr. Neville," answered Jessie saucily. She resented patronage. "We call 'em spins. Boys, I vote we all go for a spin this afternoon. Let's ride as far as Ben Bolt's cave. It'll be something interesting to show Mr. Neville. Ben Bolt's a famous bushranger hereabouts, you know, and the cave is a favourite rendezvous for his gang, as well as a safe hiding-place. At least, it was so until a few months ago, when the police and black trackers discovered it, and nearly nabbed him. Fancy having a bushranger's camp on the Bullaroi boundary! But Ben never uses it now. So let's ride out to it. Are you game, boys?"
"Game!" snorted Sandy. "What's to be game about? The main thing is, will Mr. Neville care for an eighteen-mile spin? If not, we could go for a short ride down the Crocodile."
"Please don't question my ability, boy!" retorted the new chum, who resented the implication contained in Sandy's remark. "I find," continued he, addressing his host, "you good people out heah seem to think that Awestralia is the only place where horseback riding is indulged in——"
"We ride steers also, an' billies too," slyly interjected Joe, with a wink at the girls.
"And we read that they ride donkeys and—er—hobby-horses in England," chipped in Jessie, whose eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Good for you, ole Jess! Let 'em bring out their English fox-hunters an' steeple-chasers that they brag so much about, and we'll give 'em a dingo run, or a go at cutting out scrubbers,[#] an' see how they'd be with their pretty coats an' breeches, at the tail of the hunt!"
[#] Wild, unbranded cattle, frequenting scrub country,
"Are ye addressing the English nation or oor guest, Saundy?"
M'Intyre could be caustic when he willed. He had no liking for Australian blow, and hit at it as he would hit at a snake, whenever occasion arose. He now turned the laugh against his son, Jess laughing loudest of all.
"It's settled, then, that we ride out to the cave this afternoon?" said Maggie, with an inquiring eye on Neville.
"I'm shore 'twill be a pleasant jaunt, Miss M'Intyre," replied the Englishman. "I shall have pleasure in acting as your escort. But this—er—famous—er—notorious—er—highwayman, is it—er—safe? I mean—er—I'm thinking of the—er—ladies, you know."
"What's to be afraid of?" quoth Jessie. To her, risk meant spice, an added zest. Her whole heart went out to the life of the open air and the pleasures of the chase. Her greatest delight was in a mad scamper through the bush behind the dogs, in the kangaroo hunt.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. Neville; Mag and I'll protect you should the—er—famous—notorious—bushranger—highwayman turn up," went on the audacious minx. "I'd dearly love to see Ben Bolt. I think he's a lot better than many who run him down. Oh my! wouldn't it be fun if we surprised him in the cave? I'd——"
"Stop, Jess; cease your blether!" said Mr. M'Intyre sternly. "The mon may no' be as black as he's pented, but he's no' an honest mon. Misguided he may be to an extent, and no' a'thegither answerable for some of the steps in his doonward career, but a creeminal for a' that, whom the country were weel rid o'. But as for the reesk, there's na reesk in ridin' to the cave. The Sub-Inspector telt me a few days ago that Ben Bolt's gone o'er the border. News is to hand to the effect that he stuck up a Chinaman on the Brisbane road. So the cave's safe enough."
"That's settled, then," broke in Maggie. "If we leave here about four o'clock 'twill be early enough, and will give us plenty of time to get back by dark."
"Maidie, my pet," said Mrs. M'Intyre to her little three-year-old, a dainty, precocious miss, "what are you staring at? It's rude to stare at any one like that."
"Oh, muzzer!" exclaimed the child, turning her bright eyes mother-wards for a moment and then fixing them with a fascinated gaze upon the Englishman.
"What is it that interests you, little girl?" remarked Neville in a patronising tone. "Is it the colour of my tie?"
Maidie shook her curly head, and, without removing her eyes from Mr. Neville's face, leaned towards Jessie, who sat next to her, and whispered, "The genkilmun's got somesin' on his fevvers."
Suspended from the tip of one of Neville's incipient moustaches was a yellow string of egg-yolk. Jess had observed this for some time, with a tendency to hilarity whenever it caught her eye. Maidie's comical description added fuel to the fire of the girl's merriment, sending her into convulsive laughter. She answered looks of interrogation by pointing to the dangling egg thread, and saying as well as circumstances permitted, "Maidie says—ha—ha—ha!—that Mr. Fevv—he—he—he!—Mr. Neville's got egg on his—fev—feathers." This explanatory and ludicrous mixture created a general explosion among the young folk. The situation, however, was promptly ended by Mrs. M'Intyre, who discreetly rose on seeing that the guest did not join in the general laugh.
There was nothing much for the men-folk to do; but the boys were burning to try their new fowling-pieces, The squatter, seeing their intent, directed them to use their skill on the cockatoos and king parrots that were devastating the maize crop.
These birds, especially the former, proved wily customers, so that not many opportunities offered for testing the guns. Enough was done, though, to prove that the guns were no "slouches," and great things were predicted when the lads should "know" their respective weapons.
"Whatyer think of the new chum, Joe?" said Sandy to Blain, as they sat on a log under a low-spreading wattle tree, on the look out for a flying shot.
"Goes thirteen to the dozen, ole man, don't he? Knows a lot more'n us, he reckons, and can't help showin' it."
"Yes, he can't stand us chaps at no price. By George! Jess's got his measure, and Mag too, for that matter. They'll take his nibs down a peg or two before he goes, I bet tuppence."
"Little Maidie fitted him all right," chipped in Tom. "Fevvers—ha—ha!—yes, goose feathers."
It was evident that the visitor was not in favour with the young people. He had struck a false note. No one can be quicker than boys to detect superciliousness and to resent it. The patronising air is to them the unforgivable sin. Henceforth Neville went by the name of "Fevvers" among the boys, to the great amusement of the girls, who, unfortunately for the Englishman, had assigned him a place in prig-dom.
Neville, it must be confessed, was a bit of a prig; but at heart he was not at all a bad fellow, and there came a time not far ahead when respect supplanted contempt in the pals, and the ridiculous nickname was dropped; while he on his part discontinued the use of the irritating comparison, "the way we do things in England," which at the beginning he was for ever introducing.
The household was enjoying a siesta after the typical Christmas dinner which was partaken of at midday. Stillness reigned within the house, save the cracking of house timbers under the influence of the heat. This seductive calm and the sweet sleep of the girls was at length rudely broken by Sandy, who in the exercise of a brother's privilege shook the door violently as he shouted, "Now then, lazies, get up and dress! It's half-past three."
"Bother you, Sandy, you are a nuisance!" sleepily complained Jessie. "I—I—was having such a lovely dream. Neptune was just on the heels of a blue flyer,[#] and I was galloping alongside him. The chase led us to Blind-fall Gully, and we three took the jump together, and were almost landed on the other side when you thumped the door. I thought at first it was the thud of Kangie's tail, but no! there she was flying through——"
[#] Maiden kangaroo, a very fast runner.
"That comes of eating too much plum-duff an' mince-pie, my girl. But I say, you two, look slippy, or you'll be too late. I told Jacky to saddle Nigger for you, Jess. What'll you take, Mag? Rainbow or Sultan? They're both up."
"Don't care, Sandy. I'll take Sultan, I think. No, I'll take Rainbow. Wait a moment, p'r'aps——"
"Oh! stop your silly nonsense. I'll put the saddle on Sultan," shouted the impatient boy, as he made off through the house to the stockyard.
"Say, Sandy!" cried out Jess, who was now wide awake. "Have you roused Mr.—er—Fevvers yet?"
"'Ssh! mother'll hear you," exclaimed the boy warningly, as he returned to the door. "He didn't have a snooze. Says it's unbusinesslike to sleep in the daytime. Says they never do that in England. England be blowed, say I. An' whatyer think? Harry offered him the loan of his leggin's, but he wouldn't have 'em. Says they smell of the stockyard, ha—ha! Says they don't wear 'em in England. Listen! He's got on a pair of white duck britches, an' my crikey! they won't be white any longer. He asked Harry for his fourteen-foot stockwhip. Says he was told an 'Awestralian' horse would never budge without one. Only dad was there I'd 'a' put his saddle on Dick Swiveller, an' by jing! we'd 'a' had some sport. We'll knock fun out of him as it is, I reckon. But look alive, girls, or y'll be left behind."
CHAPTER XV
A BUSH RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
"Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
And round the world away;
Young blood will have its course, lad!
And every dog his day."
KINGSLEY.
The weather in Australia at Christmas is not ideal for riding parties. Midsummer heat and dust, together with hordes of flies, largely countervail the delights of the saddle.
The enthusiastic party that cantered along the tracks leading from the Bullaroi homestead on this particular Christmas, with one exception, made small bones about either dust or heat. Neville, however, was irritated by the dust which the horses' feet knocked up. Nor would he seek alleviation as did the others by leaving the track at every opportunity. The victim of prejudice and conventionality, expressed in terms of cussedness, he obstinately stuck to the dusty track. The boys and Jessie frisked here and there, making short cuts, jumping gullies and logs, and generally enjoying themselves. They raised, it is true, clouds of dust, to the annoyance of the new chum, as they pounded along the track on their return to the others, after having forged ahead some distance; behaving, in short, like gambolling dogs. Mag would have dearly loved the frolic, but hospitality's demands made it imperative that she—the eldest—should partner the guest.
Neville was no rider. His knowledge of the ways of the horse was of the most elementary kind. Had he had the common sense to have admitted that palpable fact, many of his painful experiences, and indeed tortures, would have been minimised, if not altogether avoided.
Like all inexperienced riders, he responded to every movement of the horse. He had no sense of balance. He held the reins shoulder high, and was for ever jerking them. When his body was not stiffly straight it inclined forward. The inevitable result was made abundantly manifest in chafed limbs and aching bones. With Neville, as with most new-chum riders, the trousers legs would work up from the bottom, displaying a section of calf, to the great amusement of the boys, who baa'd most vehemently at such times.
This, however, must be reckoned for grace in Neville: he made no complaint, nor admitted any discomfort. He was forward in his criticisms of the boys' style of riding: their seats were un-English and cowboy.
No greater contrast between the riders could well be imagined than that which the new chum and the pals presented. Theirs was to the manner born, to be confounded neither with cowboy nor military. While there is an utter absence of stiffness in the Australian style, there is at the same time nothing bordering on the truculent as affected by the cowboy. The movements are willowy and rhythmic. Horse and man are one and indivisible. This means to both the minimum of work with the maximum of ease.
How far removed from this attainment was poor Neville! His figure was of the ramrod pattern for the first few miles—ultra military, so to speak. His feet, well through the stirrups, inclined outwards at a sharp angle; his left arm, held at right angle as rigid as a semaphore, gripped the reins; while his right clutched the stockwhip with tenacious grasp. The steed, a fair pacer in experienced hands, in his became a veritable jogger. He rose and fell in springless fashion with every motion of the horse.
It was not in Neville's power to maintain that iron rigidity, and so he gradually inclined forward. His back became bowed, and his nose at times was in imminent danger of the horse's head. His arms, too, hung listlessly at either side, until at last his appearance resembled nothing so much as a doubled-up Guy Fawkes perched on a rail. Yet his dogged spirit, essentially British, half courage, half cussedness, bore him up.
Nearing the caves, the party, with the exception of Neville and his companion, raced ahead, and by the time that the latter arrived were cooling off beneath the shade of some coolibahs.
And now disaster of such a character as to shake from him the last remains of superiority and propriety, overwhelming him in the depths of humiliation, overtook poor Neville. These mortifying results were brought about by his attempted gallantry.
The selected camp, as related, was beneath the grateful shade of a cluster of coolibah[#] trees that grew on the banks of a mountain stream, close to the mouth of the caves. Seeing that Maggie was about to dismount unassisted, the youth exclaimed in eager tones, "Wait a moment, Miss M'Intyre!" and so saying, threw himself from his horse in order to do the gallant by helping his companion down, "as they do in England."
[#] Water gum trees.
Sad to say, however, so cramped and stiff were his limbs, especially his nether extremities, that the instant he touched ground his legs doubled in a powerless condition, and he fell prone to the earth. Unfortunately, the ground at the spot where he tumbled down began to slope towards the creek. In his frantic efforts to rise quickly to his feet he overbalanced himself, and began to roll down the incline. He saved himself for a second, and the impending disaster might have been averted but for the confounded stockwhip, which led to his undoing in a most effectual way. This weapon, which he still held in his clenched right hand, got entangled with his legs by some means, lasso fashion, bringing him smartly to the ground again in a fresh attempt to rise. The sloping bank at this point became almost precipitous: with a rapid turn over-and-over, he rolled down the steep gradient, crashed through an undergrowth of bushes and bracken that fringed the perpendicular bank of the creek, and shot out into its clear, deep waters.
This unrehearsed performance, taking less time to act than to relate, brought a powerful shriek from Maggie, who, arrested in her intention to dismount unaided by Neville's proffered aid, beheld from her horse the undignified collapse of her escort, with its quickly succeeding acts of comedy and tragedy.
The others, who were witnesses of this performance, hugely enjoyed it, giving a loud hurrah as the new chum splashed into the creek. There was one exception. Sandy, who was on his way to the creek with the billy can, and who realised in a moment that the discomfited Englishman had fallen into a deep pool,—the very spot where he had often fished for big perch,—threw away the billy and rushed to the spot where the unfortunate man had fallen in. Only that day had Neville declared that "my water exercises have been confined to the house bath."
Beyond the agitated surface there were no signs of their visitor in the water. Without pause, the lad took a header to the bottom, which was at least ten feet from the top, discerned the sunken man kicking and clawing, hauled him to the surface, and towed him to the bank. Here willing hands were ready to grip the victim of this misadventure and pull him to land.
As soon as he was dragged to safety, the cause of his abject helplessness in the water was revealed. The stockwhip had so encircled his legs as to prevent the free use of them, besides which the shock of the whole accident had to an extent numbed his senses.
In sooth he was a sorry sight as he lay on the turf. The immersion did not cover more than half a minute; it was long enough, though, to take him to the verge of unconsciousness and to fill his lungs and stomach with water. The boys speedily unwound the whip, and subjected Neville to some rough but wholesome treatment, during which process the water was rapidly ejected from his interior regions.
The girls, as soon as Neville was landed, discreetly withdrew. Merriment had dissolved into pity.
"Poor Mr. Neville! I'm so sorry. Isn't it a shame, Mag?"
"Seems like a dream; it all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. I'm afraid father'll be very angry about it. The poor fellow was going to be so gallant, too. 'Permit me to assist you,' he said, and the next moment——"
Here the whole scene comes up so vividly and comically that, strive as she may, Maggie cannot withhold laughter of a somewhat hysterical kind. And so, between laughter and tears, the two girls superintended the billy-boiling and tea-making business.
Meanwhile the lads, stripping Neville under the lee of the bank, wrung his clothes, and then re-dressed him, bringing him up to the fire little the worse for his cold douche. The girls quickly recognised the finer qualities of Neville's character, which broke through the crust of his artificiality in the hour of adversity.
"I'm very sorry to have caused this trouble, Miss M'Intyre. No one's to blame but myself. Your brother and his mates have been exceedingly kind to me. Indeed, I owe a debt to your brother that I can never repay, for without doubt he saved my life. I was utterly helpless with that wretched whip curled around me."
Indeed, it was true. The accident might easily have had a fatal termination, and the thought of it (for all that Neville cut such a grotesque figure in his shrunken clothes) drove the last remains of latent hilarity away. Maggie assured the forlorn-looking youth that no thanks were due to any one; that all deplored the accident, and were thankful that the finale inclined rather to the comic than the tragic.
"Take this pannikin of hot tea, Mr. Neville. Father says that whisky's not in it with tea for recruiting one's jaded energies."
As there was no need for starting on the return ride awhile, the three boys, leaving the girls and Neville at the camp, proceeded to the caves.
The caves, three in number, were connected with one another by narrow entrances. The outermost one had an inlet through a narrow crevice. This opening was concealed from the casual eye by a sentinel-like boulder which stood directly opposite, and about eighteen inches in advance of the wall of rock. It was a squeeze for any one above the average size to get through.
Before its occupation by the bushrangers the outer cave, by evident signs, formed a favourite wallaby haunt. These had been disturbed and hunted by the bushrangers, who from time to time, according to police report, used it as a hiding-place. They had often lain there when the district was filled with troopers. On one occasion, as was afterwards known, Ben Bolt and his mate, a youth of eighteen years, lay concealed for weeks. The boy had been badly wounded in the thigh during a brush with the police in the New England ranges. Ben Bolt, who was passionately attached to him, by incredible labour and consummate skill—for the pursuing police were on their tracks all the time—brought his wounded mate to the caves in order that he might lie in safety until his sores were healed.
Sandy was the only one of the lads who knew anything about the caves. In company with his father he had visited them a few weeks previously. He therefore acted as a guide to the party.
The fissure, a mere crack in the limestone rock, extended in tortuous fashion for some distance. Lengthening out and making a curve, it suddenly broadened into a chamber of respectable dimensions. At the entrance of the crevice Sandy had lit a candle, one being sufficient for the cramped passage. Before entering the cave proper, all three candles brought for that purpose were lit.
The cave was bat-inhabited. Large numbers of these uncanny creatures, which were clinging to the roof and sides, disturbed and dazzled by the light, flew about in aimless fashion, often striking the boys in their uncertain flight. Numbers of them fastened on to their clothes and limbs with their claw-like pinions.
Joe and Tom, to whom this was a new experience, were uneasy and a good bit scared. Their nervousness increased when the fluttering nocturnals more than once extinguished the lights.
"You must do as I do, boys!" sang out Sandy, who was in advance, as they walked cautiously over the uneven and stone-littered floor. Sandy had removed his hat and held it over the candle. This, while it darkened all above, gave ample light on the floor space, and protected the candle from the nocturnals. The others thereupon followed suit, and soon reached the opening on the opposite side that led to the second chamber.
This narrow passage made a stiff ascent for some yards, inclining to the left, and then extending like a funnel. Sandy was proceeding very cautiously, for the opening into the interior cave was made at about ten feet from its floor. A rough ladder of lawyer vines hung from the opening in the wall to the basement. Down this the boys speedily slipped, and found themselves in a dome-like space, bigger by far than any room, barn, or church that they had seen. The atmosphere was very chill, and the continual drip of falling water made a monotonous sound. A narrow, clear stream of running water flowed along one side, disappearing in a floor crack near the far corner.
Contrary to what one would have expected, the lime crystals were few, and for the most part small; not to be mentioned in the same breath with the matchless statuary of the far-famed Jenolan Caves. On the ground, however, were some interesting stalagmites, whose grotesque figures highly amused the boys. At the first sight, though, a fearsome feeling possessed them. They were children of the sun, and this new and cryptic experience in the cold, dark, vaulted chamber quickened their pulses and shortened their breaths.
Everything seemed to have a ghostly appearance to the pals. It was a fitting abode for spectral creatures, and they had a feeling that at any moment such might appear. This sensation, however, was of short duration. A few minutes' familiarity with their surroundings dissipated it, and the lads moved freely in their investigations.
"Didn't you say there was another cave adjoining this, Sandy?"
"Yes, I'll show it to you in a few minutes."
While the question was being asked and answered, Sandy was peering into a crevice immediately behind a huge stalagmite, and in a dark corner of the cave.
"This looks as if it might open out somewhere, but the opening's jammed with a big limestone boulder."
"Let's have a pull at it," said Tom, as he leaned forward to take hold of a projecting point.
"No go, Tom. Look at its weight! See how tightly it's wedged! You'll never budge that. It'll need a crowbar to shift it. Come along, boys, and we'll take a peep at the other cave, just to say we've seen it; then we must make tracks back."
Sandy, however, bore in mind this sealed chamber which was destined later to yield important and far-reaching results. He made for a low, narrow aperture in the wall, at a far corner, which opened directly into a vault-like ceil—a small bedroom or pantry, as the case might be.
"Here's where the rangers camped," said Sandy, when the boys had struggled through. "Here's their beds, an' there's where they had their fire."
A couple of sheets of stringy-bark, placed stretcher-fashion on crossed sapling frames, formed the sleeping-bunks of the outlaws. On these were placed a quantity of bracken which made a comfortable resting-place for men who more often than not slept upon the ground.
"I say, Sandy," remarked Joe, after standing a moment in deep thought, "this is an all-right place for hidin' in, but where'd they keep the mokes? That's what beats me."
"It beats more'n you. It beats father. It beats the police. Yes, they can't get a clue. Must have had the horses handy, too; for when the police got into the cave the time they tracked 'em here, the rangers couldn't have been gone more'n a few minutes, 'cause a fire was still burning in Ben Bolt's room, as they call it. The bobbies have searched inside and outside and all over the ridge for another opening, but can't find it."
"They've clean bunged the p'lice, the cute beggars!" exclaimed Tom, with a grin. "Wonder if they'll ever come back again. Ole Ben's a game un. They say he wears a reversible suit of different colours. An' sometimes he straps up a leg an' fastens a wooden peg on it an' stumps along, led by a dog on a string like a blind beggar."
"He's always bluffin' the police, anyway," said Joe. "The Sub-Inspector was at our place about a month ago, telling father how he an' the others were fooled not so long ago."
"Tell us, Joe."
"Well, 'twas like this. A bushman on a piebald horse rode up to the police camp out Kean's swamp way, bearing a note from Sub-Inspector Garvie, ordering them to cross the ranges an' get into Walcha secretly, as he possessed reliable information to the effect that Ben Bolt intended to stick up the bank two days later.
"It appears this same man called at the Sub's quarters earlier in the day, who was laid up with a sprained leg. This chap told how he'd been in Ben Bolt's company two nights previously. The ranger and his mate—the same boy as was wounded—came upon him as he lay by his fire in the evening, and asked permission to camp alongside. They pretended to be stockmen in search of strayed heifers, and made out that they had come across their tracks just at nightfall. As it was a goodish way to the station, they would be glad to sleep by his fire and get after the cattle at dawn.
"The man said that as soon as he spotted 'em he knew 'em, but he was too frightened to let on. He gave 'em some grub, an' then lay down in his blanket. As soon as they had scoffed the prog they lay down too, on the off side of the fire.
"The man didn't go to sleep, though he pretended to. By an' by the two men began to talk in low tones. He could hear 'em, though, pretty well, and found out that they were goin' to stick up the Walcha bank. The date they named was four days from that night. Although the chap lay as if he were dead he didn't sleep a wink. Just before daylight the coves saddled their horses, which had been short-hobbled, and singing out, 'So-long,' they galloped off.
"'And what prompted you to bring this information?' said the Sub.
"'Well, if you cop the rangers,' he answered, 'I shall expect something substantial for supplying these particulars.'
"'As for that, you'll get your share. And now you can do something further that'll help you in the matter of reward. Take this note to Sergeant Henessey, who is camping with four police and a tracker in the foothills, at the head of Kean's swamp.'
"The Sub-Inspector, who had hastily written a note of instruction to the Sergeant, handed it to the man, who said his name was Sam Kelly. Sam promised to deliver it by daybreak; which he did. As soon as the Sergeant read it, he roused up the men, and after a hasty meal it was 'Saddle up.' A few minutes later the troopers were on their way to cop the rangers. Now listen: that very day, towards evening, the Port Macquarie mail was stuck up!"
"My eye!" said Sandy, "weren't the p'lice sold! Fancy ole Ben goin' into the lion's den with his information an' then takin' the letter out to the camp, an' none of 'em cute enough to twig 'im! He's a downy cove is Ben. Ain't he, Joe?"
"They say," concluded Joe, "that the piebald he rode was his favourite horse, the blood-bay he calls Samson."
"But how was it he turned him piebald?"
"Painted patches of pipeclay on him!"
"Now, then," exclaimed Sandy, pulling out his watch, "we've only a few minutes left, an' we mustn't be late, as Mr. Neville won't be able to ride fast."
"Poor old Fevvers!" exclaimed Tom reminiscently. "This hasn't been much of a treat for him."
CHAPTER XVI
THE DINGO RAID
"What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick,
And your eager eyeballs glisten.
'Tis the wild dog's note, in the tea-tree thick,
By the river to which you listen.
* * * * *
Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best;
In this world there's room enough
For him and you and me and the rest,
And the country is awful rough."
ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.
"Here's a fine how-d'ye-do!" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre wrathfully, as he strode into the house, one hot morning shortly after the events recorded in the previous chapter. "Why sic rubbish were ever created passes understanding!"
The irate squatter, contrary to his usual habit, clattered through the hall and out on to the front verandah, slamming the door most vigorously as he made his exit.
"Whatever's stung dad this morning, Jess?" remarked Maggie to her sister, as their excited parent made his noisy intrusion.
"Something bad, you may be sure, to cause dad to parade in that fashion. I expect the blacks have been performing. They madden father at times by their 'want o' intellect,' as he calls it."
"I'll—I'll cut the livers out o' them, the sneakin' hounds! Rot 'em, I'll pizen every faither's son o' the dirty vermin!"
"Oh, father!" cried Jessie, "you surely are not going to poison the poor things?"
"Pizen 'em, that am I! Pizen's ower guid for them, thieving brutes that they are! 'Puir things,' as you ca' the wretches," continued he sarcastically, "I'll hae the life o' the hale o' them, if it tak's a' the pizen in Tareela!" barked the exasperated man.
"Then you're no father of mine!" blazed out Jessie. "What have the poor boys done that you should threaten such dreadful——"
"W-h-a-t!"
"Why, poor Willy and Jacky: what have they done that you should——"
"What on earth is the lassie haverin' aboot?" roared Mr. M'Intyre to Maggie.
"The blacks, father. Didn't you say that you were going to poison them? But I don't believe it for a——"
"The blacks! Wha's talkin' o' blacks? It's the reds, the blessed dingoes, wha've been playin' havoc wi' the calves. The blacks? Ma certie!" continued he, as the humour of the situation seized him, forcing a smile. Turning to his daughter, he exclaimed, "Ye're a fine bairn, I maun say, to be accusin' yer ain faither o' black murder!"
"Forgive me, dad!" cried the impulsive girl, as she threw her arms round his neck; "I never thought of the dingoes. I—I—I made sure the black boys had been up to tricks, and never dreamed——"
"There, there, that's enough, my lassie! It's a case of 'misunderconstumbling,' as Denny Kineavy would say. But it's enough to make ane feel wild and gingery. Eleeven fine yearlin's killed! It's the wantonness mair than the actual loss that vexes me: though the latter is bad enough, for some o' the best, of course, are sacrificeed to their slaughterin' instincts."
That evening, in conference with his chief stockman, Mr. M'Intyre laid his plans for the extermination of the pack of dingoes which had just given an exhibition of their destructive powers. In this particular instance the brutes had driven a number of yearling calves, weaners, into a blind gully. Having boxed them up in this cul de sac, the rapacious dogs found them an easy prey.
The Australian wild dog is a combination of several very excellent qualities—from the canine standpoint, that is. He possesses more sagacity than any other wild thing of the bush. Keen of sight, quick at scent, subtle of wit, noiseless in tread and bark, tenacious to rooted purpose, he pursues and stalks his quarry, whether bird or beast, with all the odds in his favour.
There he stands, this indigenous dog, with a great, broad forehead, his eyes narrowing in sinister expression; well set in body, showing big sinews and a good muscular development; strong jaws, with teeth like ivory needles; white in paw and tail-tip, bright yellow everywhere else, save the chocolate-coloured streak running along the spine from neck to tail. There he stands: but that is a figure of speech, for a more restless animal than this same dog does not exist.
Australian cattle-dogs have a world reputation, and the very best are they which by crossing inherit a strain of dingo nature. That which makes the dingo so hated by stock owners—who pursue him relentlessly—is the killing lust which possesses him. Were he to simply kill for food, and be satisfied with a victim that would furnish enough for present needs, settlers would be far more tolerant of him. The plain truth about him is that his predatory instinct is so strong as to practically intoxicate him. The sight of a flock of sheep or a bunch of calves makes him "see red," and then he simply runs amok. One snap—he does not bite in the ordinary sense—of his steel-like jaws is enough. The mouthful of flesh and muscle is torn out in an instant, and the victim invariably dies of shock. One dingo in a sheepfold will kill fifty sheep in a few minutes.
These dogs are more troublesome in bad than in good seasons. When the cattle get low in condition and weak, they become a comparatively easy prey, then the cunning of the dingoes becomes manifest. They will select their victim and drive it towards a water-hole or swamp. In dry times these are mere puddles and exceedingly boggy. The object of the canine drovers is to reduce the bullock to helplessness by bogging it. The drive will sometimes take hours, and no experienced drover could do the work more cleverly. Finally, when their quarry is down in the mire and practically helpless, he is tackled and bitten to death. In good seasons, when the cattle are strong, Mr. Dingo, save for an occasional foray on the calves, has to content himself with his natural diet—kangaroos, 'possums, and emus.
Fortunately, there was at the station at this time an eccentric bushman who combined the work of horse-breaking and dingo-trapping. Nosey George was reputed to have a sense of smell equal to that of the dingo itself. Certainly, his slouching gait made it often appear as if he were "nosing" the tracks of the game. But in truth he owed his prowess as a trapper to a pair of eyes that knew no dimness. At first sight of Nosey, one saw nothing but his nose. But when you noticed his eyes you forgot the nose, and lived in the presence of a pair of eyes that sparkled like diamonds, or as searchlights that permitted nothing to escape their scrutiny.
Nosey's feats of tracking were really marvellous. On one occasion he got on to the trail of a dingo bitch which had raided his hen-roost, and followed it for twelve miles, mostly through scrubby and rocky country that was criss-crossed with innumerable tracks of bush vermin. For all that, this human sleuth-hound tracked Mrs. Dingo to a cave in the mountains where she had five pups, and returned with six scalps.
The dingo trapper rode out early the next morning in company with Harry the stockman and the boys to the scene of the slaughter, there to devise means, for which he had received carte blanche from Mr. M'Intyre, for the capture of the raiders.
The weaners' paddock was about three miles from the house, and had an area of five thousand acres. Most of the enclosure consisted of plain, but a corner of it contained a belt of scrub; and it was in this corner, where the weaners camped for warmth in the night-time, that the drive and slaughter had been made. The beasts, most of them, lay huddled, showing evidence of mangling; others had struggled out of the gully into the scrub. After gazing awhile at the slain, Tom Hawkins broke the silence—
"I say, Nosey, ain't this a go? Poor brutes!"
"Here, you kid," cried the trapper, turning sharply on Tom, "who gave you leave to call me names? Like yer blessed cheek! How'd yer like me ter call yer monkey-face? If yer had a decent nose, I'd tweak it fer yer."
Nosey, who was very sensitive on this question of nickname, and had had many a fight over the same, made such a menacing move towards Tom that the lad shrank back in fear.
"That'll do, George," said Sandy. "Leave the boy alone. He didn't mean anything. It's what everybody calls you."
"I'm not goin' to let brats of boys miscall me, anyhow. Don't know why the boss sent you blokes, for all the good y'are!" growled the grumpy, cross-grained, but not really bad-hearted old man. "Youse better be keepin' quiet, anyways, till me an' Harry has a look round."
"Let him be," whispered Harry. "If you get his dander up he's as likely as not to chuck the whole blame thing. He always jibs at that name; carn't stand it from kids nohow."
Nosey, or to be respectful, George, now proceeded to examine the surroundings of the carcasses. Bending forward until his protuberant nose almost touched the earth, the trapper moved his eyes swiftly, now concentrating on twig or grass-blades, now wildly roving and all-comprehensive. The rest of the party were following at his heels, when he turned round and fiercely waved them back.
"All right, Nos—George!" sang out Joe. "I see; you want to keep the tracks clear. We'll stay here till you've finished."
Drawing on one side, the group watched the proceedings with great interest. The ground was hard and stony; quite unimpressionable and barren of sign to the pals' untutored sight, yet to this man of the woods, who was ignorant of the alphabet, the rough earth surface was all-revealing, and made known to him in unmistakable characters the story of the attack.
Having at length concluded his investigations, the trapper straightened his back and moved to where the others stood. Producing his knife and a plug of tobacco, he began to shred a pipeful, making no remark to the expectant onlookers.
"Reckon we'll have to drag it out o' the old un," said Harry to Joe in a low tone. Then raising his voice, the stockman began to question the man.
"Had a good look round, George?"
Nod.
"Ain't missed anything worth seeing, I bet?"
Head-shake.
"Whatyer make of it?"
"Razorback pack," replied the old man of frugal speech, as he cleaned out his pipe.
"Razorback pack? You surely don't mean it! Why, that is a matter of twelve mile or so!"
"Suppose it is; what of that?"
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Harry dubiously, yet not wishful to offend the old man's susceptibilities. "Of course you know best, George. How many of 'em do you consider they'd be?"
"Five dorgs an' two bitches."
"Good gracious, Nosey!" cried Tom the unlucky, the next moment beating a rapid retreat as the dog-trapper made a vicious dart at his caudal appendage, finally coming to grief over a fallen log which lay in the line of retreat. The pursuing foe, even, had to stop and join in the laugh raised at the ludicrous figure which Tom cut as he lay, head down, heels up.
"Beg pardon, George!" he cried breathlessly the next moment, as he recovered his original position. "It slipped out, old fellow. I—I didn't mean it."
"Come, now, George, that's handsome. You must accept the apology," interjected Joe.
The trapper nodded assent, and the incident passed.
"How do you know what pack it is, George? Blest if I can understand how you find out all these things! First you tell us the sex an' then where they come from."
"Tell it by their paws."
"By their paws! How on earth can you tell they've come all the way from Razorback by their paw marks? Mightn't it be the turkey scrub lot?"
"It carn't be, an' isn't, 'cause I knows the pack."
"How's that?"
"Got two of the vermin in the traps six months ago over at the mountains, an' a cove wot got away left two toe nails of his near hind-foot in the trap."
"Too fly for poison, eh?"
"'Twould be a waste of good strychnine over the rubbage," replied the trapper, waxing more communicative. "They know a bait better than a Christun. 'Sides, I tried them over at Razorback. Got plenty o' cats, gohanners, an' crows; an', be gosh! laid out one of my own cattle puppies, but ne'er a dingo."
"The traps'll fetch 'em, won't they, George?"
George returned no answer, but "smoled" a cryptic smile. Mounting their steeds, the party turned in the direction of home. Mr. M'Intyre received the trapper's report without interruption, and then consulted as to the best way to work their destruction.
"Hunting them is out of the question," said the squatter in reply to a remark of his son that it would be grand sport hunting them. "We'd only ruin the horses in that country and miss most o' the dingoes. Na! the traps are the best an' safest. If ony ane can catch 'em in that fashion, George is the mon. I leave the hale matter in his hands. He kens best what to do to circumvent the brutes; so go your own way to work, George. What aboot traps? Have ye enough?"
"Got seven or eight, dunno for sure. Ought to have a dozen."
"Varra weel; ane o' the laddies will ride to Tareela and get ither fower."
Accordingly, Joe and Tom mounted their horses and rode into the store for the additional traps.
A dog-trap, it should be explained, is simply an enlarged spring rat-trap, with extra strong jaws and saw-like teeth. These instruments of capture weigh about ten pounds, and are planted in likely spots. The native dog is an exceedingly suspicious animal. His reasoning faculty is large. A mere glance at his head will convince one as to his capacity, and those who have had to do with him count him as the slimmest of the slim. Hence, only by outmatching him in cunning may his adversary succeed. In this Nosey George was an adept, and Mr. M'Intyre did not overstate the facts when he declared no one to be capable of matching the dog-trapper in the art of setting lures.
The pals readily obtained leave to accompany the trapper next morning to watch the proceedings, on the understanding that they were in no way to interfere with him. Each lad had a pair of traps slung across his horse's withers, and George carried the balance on the neck and croup of his steed. They made their way to the weaners' paddock, and after a brief inspection of the carrion the trapper declared that there had been no return of the dogs.
"I didn't expect them larst night," remarked George. "They're like the blacks, can eat enough at one meal to do 'em fur days. A gorge is Chrismus to 'em."
"What do you intend doing with the dead beasts, George?"
"Leave 'em be, o' course. They'll help me more than anythin' else. Dogs'll come again to get another feed or two; an' as boss's took the weaners away to a safe paddock, they'll go fur these dead uns like winkie—likes 'em a bit high, in fact. Supposin' we burn these wretches, the vermin'll keep about their own haunts. They're out of their beat when they come over here, while they knows every stick an' stone of their run. Consequently, it gives me a better charnse with 'em on unfamiliar ground."
So saying, the cunning hunter proceeded to carry out his plan. The dingo has a well-defined method of carving his veal, so to speak. The hide of the animal is not uniformly thick. The softest and tenderest part is that underneath and between the thighs. The ravager, therefore, attacks this tenderest and most susceptible part. He tears a big hole through the skin and into the flesh in a short time, and literally eats his way into the body; until, when he and his fellow-feasters have finally finished, and cleaned paws and jaws with that self-provided serviette the tongue, nothing of the animal remains but the skin and bones—always providing that no foe appears to stay proceedings against the gourmands. This finish, of course, entails several feasts when the course happens to be a bullock, or, as in the present case, toothsome veal.
The trapper proceeded to lay a trap facing the torn portion of each carcass—that, of course, being the place of attack on each occasion of the canines' visits. After a careful consideration of the ground surrounding each beast, he dug a hole in the earth and then placed a trap in it. He next produced some sheets of the inner bark of the ti tree, which is as flexible as paper and softer. A sheet of this is laid over the gaping jaws of the trap, which is, of course, properly set. The "jaws" are now level with the ground. Over this fine earth is sprinkled until all appearance of the trap is hidden. The superfluous soil is now removed with care, and the surroundings are made to look as natural as possible. This in itself is a work of art; for the slightest appearance of disturbance or make-up alarms the wary dingo, and nullifies the trapper's design.
There is one thing, however, that Nosey George had not reckoned upon when starting his operations—the number of carcasses to be treated. It will be remembered that eleven animals were slaughtered in the dingo raid. This would mean the use of eleven traps, were every animal to be used as a lure. But it is contrary to the design of the trapper to use up all his traps in the vicinity of the beasts. Some are to be set along the line of approach. A number of carcasses, therefore, must be removed. With the help of the boys, five of the beasts are dragged about two hundred yards away, put in a heap, covered with dry wood, and then burned.
This left the trapper with several traps to use in other directions. Having laid six traps in the vicinity of the calves, he proceeded to follow up the tracks of the dogs. The first gin was laid in a soft patch of ground directly in their footmarks. This he continued at intervals, until the last one was placed at a spot about two miles distant.
"How many dingoes do you think you'll nab, George?" exclaimed Tom, as the party rode homewards in the late afternoon.
"Tell you when I visit the traps termorrer, boy."
"I say three," judged the judicious Joe.
"I say one," opined the cautious Sandy.
"I say the whole bloomin' lot," loudly proclaimed the sanguine Tom.
"I say, wait," drily remarked the wise trapper.
The trapper's prophecy was justified; for, on a visit to the traps in the early morning by the expectant and impatient boys, in the company of Nosey George, to the surprise and disgust of these same youngsters, not a trap was sprung.
The trapper, who while examining the ground had maintained a sphinx-like attitude, broke silence at length under a fusillade of questions.
"Yees want ter know, does youse, why it is no dog's copp'd? Simple enough. Dogs didn't come."
CHAPTER XVII
DINGO V. EMU: A FIGHT TO A FINISH
"Afar I mark the emu's run;
The bustard slow, in motley clad;
And, basking in his bath of sun,
The brown snake on the cattle-pad,
And the reddish black
Of a dingo's back
As he loit'ring slinks on my horse's track."
GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.
The next morning's visit told another tale.
The dingoes, having recovered from their surfeit, hunger-induced, made a second nocturnal trip to the feeding-grounds. Cunning and wary as they habitually are, they fell, some of them at least, before the wiles of the trapper. Four of their number paid the death penalty. Two female dogs were caught in the traps set about the calves. The trapped animals had not moved any great space.
It should be said that the traps are not fastened to the spot whereon they are laid; because, were they stationary, the dingo, especially the dog dingo, in his frantic efforts to escape, and by reason of his great strength, will frequently save his life at the expense of his paw. That dog, it is safe to say, will never be trapped again; as on the principle of, once bitten twice shy, he will ever eschew the most deftly constructed device of man.
"The emu failed to elude the panther-like spring."—See p. [134].
On the other hand, should there be no fastening, a strong dog will carry a trap for miles, especially if caught by the hind-leg. In order to remedy this, a device, similar to that which sailors use, called a sea anchor, is attached. A block of wood not too heavy is tied to the trap by a chain or a piece of wire. This acts as a check to the animal, besides leaving a broad trail that is easily followed up.
When the trapped dingoes were approached they set up a dismal howling, which turned to a vigorous snapping with their teeth; the while they tore the earth with their paws in vain efforts to escape.
"Put the poor wretches out of their pain," cried Sandy, after watching the agonised efforts of the canines for a few seconds.
The trapper, armed with a heavy "nulla-nulla," dispatched the brutes, and scalped them; for the district Stock Board, to induce their extermination, gave £1 per scalp, and experienced trappers like Nosey George did well at times. They concluded that there was at the least one other victim; for while the bitches were snapping and howling, answering howls of rage and sympathy could be heard in the distance along the trail.
The next act was to cremate the slain, which was speedily done. After this the group proceeded to follow the track along which the other snares were secreted. The very first trap contained a dog. It was set in the centre of a soft depression, at the edge of the scrub belt on the farther side. The dog had dragged the trap about three hundred yards, when the "anchor," fouling in some saplings, his retreat was stopped. The beast was immediately brained and scalped, and the body flung into a clump of bushes.
There was still another victim. The farthest out trap was gone. Nothing was to be seen but the trap-hole. George, however, was soon upon the trail. The country here was fairly open, and offered little obstruction to the determined dog. The track led on and on with little deviation until a course of three miles or so had been traversed. It now curved outward and down toward a patch of scrub. Nosey suddenly stopped and pointed to the ground.
"What's up, George?" exclaimed Joe, who stood nearest the trapper.
"Look an' see fur y'reself."
Bending over, Joe saw in a sandy patch the deep impress of the toes of a large bird.
"I can't make it out. What in thunder is it? Far too big for a crow; bigger even than an eagle or a bustard."
"As big as two eagles, young mutton-head," declared the old tough. "Tell 'im, Sandy."
"Why, you greeney; that's an emu track!"
"Emu!" shouted Joe in great excitement. "It's the first time I ever saw an emu track. What an enormous foot he must have."
"Ye'd know it, me boy, if ivver ye got a kick," grunted the trapper. "I've seen them break a dog's leg like a carrot."
"Blest if I don't think he's follerin' up the dingo!" continued Joe.
"Just wot 'e is a-doin' of," answered the man. "These 'ere emus is more curious nor a woman."
Joe now remembered Sandy relating how his father used to lure the emu he was stalking within shot of his fowling piece, by lying flat, and slowly waving his handkerchief from the point of his ram-rod; or even doubling his leg as he lay breast downward, and elevating his hat on the foot thus raised. With slow and hesitating yet irresistible steps, fascinated by the mysterious object, or a victim to curiosity, the bird would approach to its undoing.
This particular emu was no stranger to the dingoes, nor they to him. Never before, though, had he beheld a dingo with such an appendage, or in such difficulties. The unwonted appearance of the canine furnishes the bird with an unusual sensation, and queries in rapid succession flit through its brain. "What on earth is the matter with the limping, whimpering brute? What is that object trailing behind the horrid creature? Let me draw near and behold this great sight!" Fate has delivered his old-time enemy into his hands. That lolling, swollen tongue, those blood-shot eyes, that painful whimper, the wild despairing glances; all these loudly proclaim his downfall. "Well, what matter! He's getting his punishment now. What is there to prevent me wiping out old scores?"
And so, with cautious yet confident step the huge bird, second in size only to the ostrich, strode on at a short distance behind his enemy; and in a few minutes both are swallowed up in the scrub. The huntsmen follow well on the heels of the animals.
"I wonder if the bird's still following?" asked Tom.
"Soon see," answered the trapper, carefully examining the ground. "Not a quarter of an hour since he passed this spot: must be in the scrub still."
A minute or so brought them to the edge of the scrub. Pushing along, they were soon enwrapped in its gloom. Following the advice of George, the boys tied their horses to saplings at the outskirts of the belt, and proceeded on foot. Suddenly the trapper, who was leading, stopped dead in his tracks, and uttered a warning note in a low voice. Motioning the pals to remain where they were, he noiselessly moved forward, and was soon lost in the thick foliage ahead.
"Wonder why ole Nosey made us stay back?" muttered Tom, after the lads had stood silently awhile. "What can be in the air, now?"
"Hist!" exclaimed Sandy in a whisper; "he's returning."
At this moment the trapper reappeared.
"Follow as quiet as mice, an' ye'll see summat like wot ye've ne'er seed afore." There was an unusual gleam in the man's eye as he made this deliverance.
Cautiously and silently the party moved Indian fashion through the wood. After going in this way a hundred paces or so the hunter stopped again, and beckoned the boys, indicating a stealthy approach. Very gingerly they trod until they were abreast the man. Following his muttered directions and example, they quietly parted the intervening brushwood.
It was an unique sight on which their eyes fastened; one they would not readily forget. Beyond them was a small natural clearing, such as often occurs in the densest scrub.
It was circular in form, and about fifty yards in diameter. Here, almost in the centre of the clearing, the bird had bailed up the beast. Curiosity in the emu had grown into anger, and was at a white heat, judging from the manner in which it pirouetted and menaced the dog, keeping up the while an incessant gabble. The gabble, rightly interpreted, declared that the time of vengeance was at hand. The fates were thanked for being so kind as to furnish this fitting opportunity for paying off old scores: "Here, you sneaking thief and flying murderer, stop! It's you and I for it now; so, off with your coat and roll up your sleeves!"
Nor was Master Dingo disinclined to accept the challenge thrown down by the strutting bird. Weary as he was and full of pain, he was in no humour to eat humble-pie, or to fly before another foe. His warring instincts rose to the gage of his hereditary enemy. Many of his kind were scarred with wounds from the terrible emu kick, or deep score made by the horny toe of this formidable antagonist.
Nor could he retreat, if so inclined: behind him, to a certainty, was the monstrous biped; far more to be feared than this animated piece of impertinence, whose wicked eye squinted and winked in defiance.
Forgotten in a moment is all fear, whether of the visible bird or the invisible pursuers. Handicapped as he is, and goaded by his pain and shameful condition, the dingo fires the first shot, as it were, by making a sudden jump at the emu's throat, narrowly missing it, and still more narrowly missing the leg stroke of the bird as it made its counter-stroke.
Both bird and beast are practised in all the arts and devices of animal warfare. Each knows the tactics of the other. But for the disability of the dog through the tenacious trap the chances would be in his favour; but his exhaustion and encumbrance give the odds to the other. Still, he makes a gallant fight, and the bird needs all its wits and agility to escape his savage snaps, one of which, had he been able to lay hold, would tear out the neck from throat to breast.
The combat was at its height between these gladiators when the pursuers sighted them. The boys hold their breath in fair amazement as they eagerly watch the two figures in the sunlit arena struggling for the mastery. So engrossed are the combatants that the spectators may come out into the open and surround them, for all the notice that will be taken of them. As it is, the boys' astonishment is quickly transmuted into animal excitement and battle-lust. They take sides, and cheer, now the beast and now the bird.
But the end comes quickly and tragically enough. The pace of the conflict tells terribly upon the dingo. He is now weakening fast; can hardly see, so bloodshot are his eyes. Yes, he can hold out but little longer. Realising this, he fights purely on the defence for breath. Then, concentrating all his energies in one last irresistible stroke, he springs, arrow-like, and this time strikes fair on the bullseye—the neck of his adversary. The emu had failed to elude the panther-like spring. But now the counter-stroke!
When the dingo's fangs close vice-like upon the emu's throat the bird's fate is irrevocably sealed. The jugular vein is torn out with a mouthful of flesh and muscle, and the skin is stripped to the bosom. What time this savage and fatal stroke is given the vengeful bird, by one terrific downward blow of its powerful leg and toes, disembowels the hanging dog; and then with a lightning side-stroke, delivered full on the forehead of the prone beast, smashes in its skull. A vain attempt to crow a note of victory; a few short, uncertain, rotatory movements, life-blood gushing the while from its severed jugular, then a collapse, falling across the body of its slain adversary!
Which of the two is the victor?
The surprise of the boys, at the sudden and bloody termination of the fight, may be better imagined than described. They stared aghast for some moments at the spectacle, too dazed to move or speak. Even the hardened bushman, George, was moved.
"Well, of all the fights I ever seed, this licks creation; it's better nor cock-fightin'. Be gosh, 'twas a grand fight to a finish!"
The trapper now busies himself with the scalping-knife, and, as the boys stand around, a feeling of sadness rises within as they contemplate the slain.
"Poor brutes!" said Sandy feelingly, "I've a notion, lads, that they deserved a better fate."
"The boss wouldn't agree to that as fur as the dorgs is concerned. As fer the emu, he's neither good nor bad," grunted the old man.
"Well, after all," broke in Joe, "it's their nature, as old Simpson is always preaching to us in school. They're not to blame for following their instincts. By jings! there's no coward's blood in these poor brutes,—they're as brave as brave."
But such moralising was beyond Nosey George.
"Emus is sight enough in a way, an' only eats grass an' roots,—but dingos! they're vermin, an' any death's good enough fur them. By the hokey!" exclaimed he as he looked at the trap; "I'm blamed if here isn't the blessed paw!"
It was true. The wretched beast's foot was evidently so lacerated and broken by its efforts to escape, and in dragging the trap, that when it made the last and fatal spring the imprisoned paw parted from the leg in the very act, and that severance enabled it to reach the emu's neck. Having secured the trap and the scalp, the group retraced their steps to where they had hitched the horses.
The haul proved successful beyond measure. To secure four dingoes in one scoop was a great stroke of luck. Not so much luck, on reflection, as skilful management. An amateur might have set a hundred traps with seeming skill and not have bagged a dog. No one save a trapper like George could trap with any degree of certainty.
"I s'pose you'll bag the balance to-night," remarked Tom to the trapper when they had remounted.
"No jolly fear! Never catch any more along this line."
"How's that?"
"Why, d'yer think a dingo's no sense? Be gosh! all the calves in creation wuddent tempt what's left of the vermin to come along this track again. Wish we'd a' got the old dog, though."
"What are you going to do next?" inquired Tom.
"Fust an' foremost thing is to collect the traps, then we'll burn the weaners."
"Won't you try for the other dogs?"
"My oath, won't I?"
"Give us your programme, George, there's a good fellow."
"I'll try 'em about Razorback with the traps, as soon as they've quietened down a bit. They've been scared out of their precious wits by this 'ere business."
In due time the party arrived at the homestead. Mr. M'Intyre expressed his gratification at the result of the trapper's work, and praised his skill. He further bade George continue his work until the beasts were exterminated, promising him a liberal reward should he achieve this end.
The boys related with great gusto, to an almost incredulous household, the particulars of the fight to a finish.
The trapper fixed his camp in the hills, and employed his best endeavours to trap the remaining dingoes with but partial success, securing one only. The old dingo, which on a former occasion had left two of his claws in a trap, and now had received this additional fright through the ensnarement of his comrades, was not to be lured by any device, however crafty. George, who knew their run intimately, surrounded them with traps. 'Twas all in vain, set them never so wisely.
This defiance and immunity irritated the old man beyond endurance, and he swore by all the dignities to get their scalps, if it took him till the crack of doom.
As he was camped on the ranges, in the vicinity of Razorback, his weekly ration was taken out to him by the boys, who were keen on this matter. They had been out twice with the rations, and now were being sent out the third time. What befel them on that trip will be related in the next chapter.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE CHASE, AND ITS SEQUEL
"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,
Proclaim a hunting morn;
Before the sun rises away we go,—
The sleep of the sluggard we scorn."
OLD SONG.
"Now then, sleepies,—up you get!" cried Sandy in the early morning, as he performed his usual preliminary of whipping off the bed-clothes from the sleepy-headed Joe and Tom.
"Sun's laughing at you through the windows. Come, Master Hawkins!" cried he with a grin as he tumbled that grunting individual on to the floor, piling the bed-clothes on top of him, and then seating himself on the wriggling pile. "If soft measures won't avail I am prepared to adopt severe ones."
Tom, now thoroughly aroused, and as peppery as you like, shouted and yelled and writhed, getting his arm at last round his persecutor, the laughing Sandy, and by a violent effort pulling him on to the broad of his back, thus reversing their positions.
"You red-headed Scotchman, I'll teach you meddle with—" pommel—"me again"—pommel, pommel.
Here a cold douche arrested the uplifted arm of the irate Tom, and took his breath for a moment, as it descended upon the prone bodies, accompanied by sundry "ouchs" and shrill yells. As the boys scrambled to their feet they joined forces and rushed the dodging Joe, who, after a few ineffectual dives, was caught and jolly well punched.
The usual early morning diversion ended, the lads, rosy with health and brimming over with animal spirits—the essence of good nature for all their rough play—dressed with haste and made for the stockyard, to pick their steeds.
This occupied their time till the seven o'clock breakfast, after which they secured from the storeman the rations for the trapper.
"Now Sandy, my boy, ye'll no forget to tell George what I named at breakfast."
"M-yes, about the dingoes, father?"
"No, stupid. Didna I ask you to tell him that, dingoes or no dingoes, he is to come next week at the latest, to handle the colts?"
"Oh yes, dad, I won't forget. I expect he'll growl a bit, as he's mad on getting the dogs and the reward. He's quite cranky over it."
"He'll come richt enough if ye gie him my order."
The trapper's camp, as previously stated, was situated about eleven miles from the homestead. Four miles or so from home the track roughened, and became what is known as broken country, all hills and gullies, for the most part very rocky, and heavily wooded in places.
The boys' progress was but slow, owing to the nature of the ground, and it took them nearly three hours to reach the camp, which they found unoccupied. After cooeeing in vain for the absentee, they proceeded to light a fire in order to boil the billy, spreading the substantial lunch which Mrs. M'Intyre had furnished them.
"Bother old Nosey; wish he'd turn up!" exclaimed Sandy, when the boys had finished their repast. "We can't go till he comes. There'd be no end of a row if we went home without delivering the message."
"Oh, he'll be here before long," interjected Joe. "I vote we do a camp in the shade for an hour or two; it's hot enough to fry a steak."
This was good advice, and the boys made themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted under the shade of the trees. So the hours passed without any sign of the trapper.
"Well, I declare," exclaimed Tom for the twentieth time in the course of the last hour, "it's too bad of Nosey. I'm full up of waitin' here with nothing to do. Can't you leave a message somehow for the ole cuss?"
"How is it to be done, Hawkins?"
"Oh bother! write a note, of course."
"Well, you are a greeney, Tom. Where's the pen, ink, and paper to come from?"
"Why, hasn't ole Nosey——?"
"Old Nosey, be hanged! Of course he hasn't, any more than he's got a dress suit and a toilet mirror."
"I've got a pencil," said Joe, feeling in his pocket.
"No good in the world; where's the paper to come from; an' supposin' we had pens, ink, paper, blotting-pads, writing desks, and whatever else you like to name in the scribbling line, what good 'ud it all be?"
"Meaning——?"
"Meanin' this, you dunderheads—it's got to be read."
"Well?"
"Well!—of all the thick-heads, muddle-pates, soft-uns, hodges, and idiots that ever I came across——!"
"Here, draw it mild, young porridge-pot. There's two to one against you: mind that, you red herring!"
"I'll mind more than that, if I am the son of a Scot, which is no great disgrace, after all," replied Sandy jeeringly. "But look here and listen, chiels. I'll tell you a story—
"Once upon a time, when pigs were called swine an' monkeys chewed tobacco, there lived a bully English captain, the commander of a man o' war. This frigate, sailing up the channel on her return from foreign parts, sighted a French ship, not more'n about twice her size. Instead of closing with the Frenchy slap bang, an' givin' her what-for, she turned tail an' showed her a clean pair of heels. This outrageous proceeding on the part of a British sea-dog demanded instant investigation, and so the jolly captain was promptly court-martialled. After the case had been put by the prosecuting officer, and not denied by the prisoner, he was asked by the president of the court why he did not engage the enemy. The captain, in reply, said that he had ten reasons. 'Name them,' says the boss officer. 'The first is: I had no powder; it was all used up.' 'Enuf sed,' sings out the judge. 'We don't want the other nine. You're discharged, my man, without a stain on your character.'"
"Oh, that's all right for a yarn," cried Joe; "but I want to know what it's got to do with your father's message to Nosey?"
"Just as much as it's got to do with the grass of a duck in a forty-acre paddock," jeered Sandy.
"It's a story with a moral, boys; and as Captain Kettle—no, I mean Cuttle, says in that book of Dickens, the moral of the story lies in the application."
"Apply it, my wise man."
"Here then: old Nosey has ten reasons for not gettin' a written message."
"Name the first!"
"He can't read."
"Now then, Joe," said Tom, turning to that worthy, "what's the verdict of the court?"
"I s'pose we'll have to discharge the prisoner without a character," replied Joe with a wink.
"Blow these bally flies!" cried Tom, after an interval. "They're here in millions. Faugh!—splutter—there's one down my jolly throat. Say, Joe, what are you goin' to do?"
"Boil the billy," replied that youth laconically. "May as well do something, an' kill time."
So the hours sped until the sun was well on its descending curve in the late afternoon. Their patience was now thoroughly exhausted in waiting for the trapper. They canvassed the reasons for his non-appearance, until they were mortally sick of discussing the subject.
"Tell you what, boys, message or no message, Nosey or no Nosey," cried Sandy at last, "we must make tracks for home. We are not to blame for old George's absence. They'll be wondering what's become of us. It'll take us all our time to get there before dark as it is. At the worst, we'll have to come out to-morrow."
It took but a few minutes after this to secure the horses, saddle them, call the dog which had accompanied them to heel, and set out on the return journey.
After jogging briskly for a couple of miles or so the cattle dog, a strong wiry hound and a noted warrior among his species, began to sniff about, uttering a series of low, short barks.
"Hello, Brindle, what's up? Got 'possum scent? Bandicoot, I 'spect. Fetch him, boy!"
Just at this moment Brindle made a dash forward, what time a big dog-dingo started out from under an old log a hundred yards or so ahead. The route taken by the chase lay up a long gully. This gully was, more correctly speaking, a depression, lacking abrupt and precipitous sides, and was comparatively free from rocks.