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Title: Back To Billabong

Author: Mary Grant Bruce

Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7047]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on February 28, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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BACK TO BILLABONG


by


MARY GRANT BRUCE



1921




"Beyond the distant sky-line
(Now pansy-blue and clear),
We know a land is waiting,
A brown land, very dear:
A land of open spaces,
Gaunt forest, treeless plain:
And if we once have loved it
We must come back again."

(Dorothea Mackellar.)



CONTENTS

CHAP.

I.  LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W

II.  THE RAINHAMS

III.  PLAYING TRUANT

IV.  COMING HOME

V.  THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL

VI.  SAILING ORDERS

VII.  THE WATCH DOGS

VIII.  HOW TOMMY BOARDED A STRANGE TAXI

IX.  THE WELCOME OF AUSTRALIA

X.  BILLABONG

XI.  COLONIAL EXPERIENCES

XII.  ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE

XIII.  THE HOME ON THE CREEK

XIV.  THE CUNJEE RACES

XV.  HOW WALLY RODE A RACE

XVI.  BUILDING UP AGAIN




BACK TO BILLABONG



CHAPTER I

LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W


"Do the beastly old map yourself, if you want it.  I shan't,
anyhow!"

"Wilfred!"

"Aw, Wil-fred!"  The boy at the end of the schoolroom table, red-
haired, snub-nosed and defiant, mimicked the protesting tone.
"I've done it once, and I'm blessed if I do it again."

"No one would dream that it was ever meant for Africa."  The young
teacher glanced at the scrawled and blotted map before her.  "It--
it doesn't look like anything earthly.  You must do it again,
Wilfred."

"Don't you, Wilf."  Wilfred's sister leaned back in her chair,
tilting it on its hind legs.

"You have nothing to do with Wilfred's work, Avice.  Go on with
your French."

"Done it, thanks," said Avice.  "And I suppose I can speak to my
own brother if I like."

"No, you can't--in lesson time," said the teacher.

"Who's going to stop me?"

Cecilia Rainham controlled herself with an effort.

"Bring me your work," she said.

She went over the untidy French exercise with a quick eye.  When
she had finished it resembled a stormy sky--a groundwork of blue-
black, blotted writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red.  Cecilia
put down her red pencil.

"It's hopeless, Avice.  You haven't tried a bit.  And you know it
isn't hard--you did a far more difficult piece of translation
without a mistake last Friday."

"Yes, but the pantomime was coming off on Saturday," said Wilfred,
with a grin.  "Jolly little chance of tickets from Bob if she
didn't!"

"You shut up!" said Avice.

"Be quiet, both of you," Cecilia ordered, a spot of red in each
pale cheek.  "Remember, there will be other Saturdays.  Bob will do
nothing for you if I can't give him a decent report of you."  It
was the threat she hated using, but without it she was helpless.
And the red-haired pair before her knew to a fraction the extent of
her helplessness.

For the moment the threat was effective.  Avice went back to her
seat, taking with her the excited-looking French exercise, while
Wilfred sullenly recommenced a dispirited attack upon the African
coastline.  Cecilia leaned back in her chair, and took up a half-
knitted sock--to drop it hastily, as a long-drawn howl came from a
low chair by the window.

"Whatever is the matter, Queenie?"

"I per-ricked my finger," sobbed the youngest Miss Rainham.  She
stood up, tears raining down her plump cheeks.  No one, Cecilia
thought, ever cried so easily, so copiously, and so frequently as
Queenie.  As she stood holding out a very grubby forefinger, on
which appeared a minute spot of blood, great tears fell in splashes
on the dark green linoleum, while others ran down her face to join
them, and others trembled on her lower eyelids, propelled from some
artesian fount within.

"Oh, dry up, Queenie!" said Wilfred irritably.  "Anyone 'ud think
you'd cut your silly finger off!"

"Well--it'th bleed-in'!" wailed Queenie.  She dabbed the injured
member with the pillow case she was hemming, adding a scarlet touch
in pleasant contrast to its prevailing grime.

"Well--you're too big a girl to cry for a prick," said Cecilia
wearily.  "People who are nearly seven really don't cry except for
something awfully bad."

"There--I'll tell the mater you said awfully!" Avice jeered.  "Who
bites our heads off for using slang, I'd like to know?"

"You wouldn't have much head left if I bit for every slang word you
use," retorted her half-sister.  "Do get on with your French,
Avice--it's nearly half-past twelve, and you know Eliza will want
to lay the table presently.  Come here, Queenie."  She took the
pillow case, and unpicked a few stitches, which clearly indicated
that the needle had been taking giant strides.  "Just hem that last
inch or two again, and see if you can't make it look nice.  I
believe the needle only stuck into your finger because you were
making it sew so badly.  Have you got a handkerchief?--but, of
course, you haven't."  She polished the fat, tear-stained cheek
with her own.  "Now run and sit down again."

Queenie turned to go obediently enough--she was too young, and
possibly too fat, to plan, as yet, the deliberate malice in which
her brother and sister took their chief pleasure.  Unfortunately,
Wilfred arrived at the end of Africa at the wrong moment for her.
He pushed the atlas away from him with a jerk that overturned the
ink bottle, sending a stream of ink towards Avice--who, shoving her
chair backwards to escape the deluge, cannoned into Queenie, and
brought her headlong to the floor.  Howls broke out anew, mingled
with a crisp interchange of abuse between the elder pair, while
Cecilia vainly sought to lessen the inky flood with a duster.  Upon
this pleasant scene the door opened sharply.

"A nice way you keep order at lessons," said Mrs. Mark Rainham
acidly.  "And the ink all over the cloth.  Well, all I can say is,
you'll pay for a new one, Cecilia."

"I did not knock it over," said Cecilia, in a low tone.

"It's your business to look after the children, and see that they
do not destroy things," said her stepmother.

"The children will not obey me."

"Pouf!" said Mrs. Rainham.  "A mere question of management.  High-
spirited children want tact in dealing with them, that is all.  You
never trouble to exercise any tact whatever."  Her eyes dwelt
fondly on her high-spirited son, whose red head was bent
attentively over Africa while he traced a mighty mountain range
along the course of the Nile.  "Wilfred, have you nearly finished
your work?"

"Nearly, Mater," said the industrious Wilfred, manufacturing
mountains tirelessly.  "Just got to stick in a few more things."

"Say 'put,' darling, not 'stick.'  Cecilia, you might point out
those little details--that is, if you took any interest in their
English."

"Thethilia thaid 'awfully' jutht now," said Queenie, in a shrill
pipe.

"I don't doubt it," said Mrs. Rainham, bitterly.  "Of course,
anyone brought up in Paris is too grand to trouble about English--
but we think a good deal of these things in London."  A little
smile hovered on her thin lips, as Cecilia flushed, and Avice and
her brother grinned broadly.  The Mater could always make old
Cecilia go as red as a beetroot, but it was fun to watch,
especially when the sport beguiled the tedium of lessons.

A clatter of dishes on a tray heralded the approach of Eliza.

"It is time the table was clear," Mrs. Rainham said.  "Wilfred,
darling, I want you to post a letter.  Put up your work and get
your cap.  Cecilia, you had better try to clean the cloth before
lunch; it is ruined, of course, but do what you can with it.  I
will choose another the next time I am in London.  And just make
sure that the children's things are all in order for the dancing
lesson this afternoon.  Avice, did you put out your slippers to be
cleaned?"

"Forgot all about it, Mater," said Avice cheerfully.

"Silly child--and it is Jackson's day off.  Just brush them up for
her, Cecilia.  When the children have gone this afternoon, I want
you to see to the drawing-room; some people are coming in to-night,
and there are fresh flowers from Brown's to arrange."

Cecilia looked up, with a sudden flush of dismay.  The children's
dancing lesson gave her one free afternoon during the week.

"But--but I am going to meet Bob," she stammered.

"Oh, Bob will wait, no doubt; you need not keep him long, if you
hasten yourself.  Yes, Eliza, you can have the table."  Mrs.
Rainham left the room, with the children at her heels.

Cecilia whisked the lesson books hastily away; Eliza was waiting
with a lowering brow, and Eliza was by no means a person to be
offended.  Maids were scarce enough in England in the months after
the end of the war; and, even in easier times, there had been a
dreary procession of arriving and departing servants in the Rainham
household--the high-spirited characteristics of the children being
apt to pall quickly upon anyone but their mother.  In days when
there happened to be no Eliza, it was Cecilia who naturally
inherited the vacant place, adding the duties of house-maid to
those of nurse, governess, companion and general factotum; all
exacting posts, and all of them unpaid.  As Mrs. Rainham gracefully
remarked, when a girl was not earning her own living, as so many
were, but was enjoying the comfort of home, the least she could do
was to make herself useful.

"Half a minute, Eliza."  She smiled at the slatternly girl.  "Sorry
to keep you waiting; there's a river of ink gone astray here."  She
placed the soaked cloth on the waste-paper basket and polished the
top of the table vigorously.

"I'll bet it worn't you wot spilt it--but it's you wot 'as the
cleanin' up," muttered Eliza.  "Lemme rub that up now, Miss."  She
put down her tray and took the cloth from Cecilia's hand.

"Thanks, ever so, Eliza--but you've got plenty to do yourself."

"Well, if I 'ave, I ain't the on'y one wot 'as," said Eliza darkly.
Her wizened little face suddenly flushed.  "Lor, Miss," she said
confidentially, "you doan't know wot a success that 'at you trimmed
for me is.  It's a fair scream.  I wore it larst night, an' me
young man--'im wot's in the Royal Irish--well, it fair knocked 'im!
An' 'e wants me to go out wiv 'im next Benk 'Oliday--out to
'Ampstead 'Eath.  'E never got as far as arstin' me that before.
I know it was that 'at wot done it."

"Not it, Eliza," Cecilia laughed.  "It was just your hair under the
hat.  I told you how pretty it would be, if you would only brush it
more."

"Well, I never 'ad no brush till you give me your old one," said
Eliza practically.  "I did brush it, though, a nundred times every
night, till Cook reckoned I was fair cracked.  But 'air's on'y
'air, an' anyone 'as it--it's not every one 'as an 'at like that."
She clattered plates upon the table violently.  "You goin' out this
awfternoon, Miss?"

"As soon as I can, Eliza."  Cecilia's face fell.  "I must arrange
flowers first."

"I'll 'ave the vawses all ready wiv clean water for you," said
Eliza.  "An' don't you worry about the drorin'-room--I'll see as
it's nice."

"Oh, you can't, Eliza--you have no time.  I know it's silver-
cleaning afternoon."

"Aw, I'll squeeze it in some'ow."  Eliza stopped suddenly, at a
decided footstep in the passage, and began to rattle spoons and
forks with a vigour born of long practice.  Cecilia picked up the
inky cloth, and went out.

Her stepmother was standing by the hall-stand, apparently intent on
examining Wilfred's straw hat.  She spoke in a low tone as the girl
passed her.

"I wish you did not find so much pleasure in gossiping with
servants, Cecilia.  It is such a bad example for Avice.  I have
spoken about it to you before."

Cecilia did not answer.  She went upstairs with flaming cheeks, and
draped the cloth across the hand basin in the bathroom, turning the
tap vengefully.  A stream of water flowed through the wide stain.

"There's more real kindness in that poor little Cockney's finger
than there is in your whole body!" Cecilia whispered, apparently
addressing the unoffending cloth--which, having begun life as a
dingy green and black, did not seem greatly the worse for its new
decoration.  "Hateful old thing!"  A smile suddenly twitched the
corners of her mouth.  "Well, she can't stop the money for a new
cloth out of this quarter's allowance, because I've just got it.
That's luck, anyhow.  I'll give it to Bob to keep, in case she goes
through my desk again."  She poured some ammonia upon the stain,
and rubbed gingerly, surveying the result with a tilted nose.  It
was not successful.  "Shall I try petrol?  But petrol's an awful
price, and I've only got the little bottle I use for my gloves.
Anyhow, the horrible old cloth is so old and thin that it will fall
to pieces if I rub it.  Oh, it's no use bothering about it--nothing
will make it better."  She squeezed the water from the cloth and
spread the stained area over a chair to dry, looking disgustedly at
her own dyed finger-nails.  "Now for Avice's shoes before I scrub
my hands."

Avice's shoes proved a lengthy task, since the younger Miss Rainham
had apparently discovered some clay to walk through in Regent's
Park on her way home from the last dancing lesson; and well-
hardened clay resists ordinary cleaning methods, and demands edged
tools.  The luncheon bell rang loudly before Cecilia had finished.
She gave the shoes a final hurried rub, and then fell to cleansing
her hands; arriving in the dining-room, pink and breathless, some
minutes later, to find a dreary piece of tepid mutton rapidly
congealing on her plate.

"I think you might manage to be down in time for meals, Cecilia,"
was Mrs. Rainham's chilly greeting.

Cecilia said nothing.  She had long realized the uselessness of any
excuses.  To be answered merely gave her stepmother occasion for
further fault-finding--you might, as Cecilia told Bob, have a
flawless defence for the sin of the moment, but in that case Mrs.
Rainham merely changed her ground, and waxed eloquent about the sin
of yesterday, or of last Friday week, for which there might happen
to be no defence at all.  It was so difficult to avoid being a
criminal in Mrs. Rainham's eyes that Cecilia had almost given up
the attempt.  She attacked her greasy mutton and sloppy cabbage in
silence, unpleasantly conscious of her stepmother's freezing
glance.

Mrs. Rainham was a short, stout woman, with colourless, rather
pinched features, and a wealth of glorious red hair.  Some one had
once told her that her profile was classic, and she still rejoiced
in believing it, was always photographed from a side view, and wore
in the house loose and flowing garments of strange tints,
calculated to bring out the colour of her glowing tresses.
Cecilia, who worshipped colour with every bit of her artist soul,
adored her stepmother's hair as thoroughly as she detested her
dresses.  Bob, who was blunt and inartistic, merely detested her
from every point of view.  "Don't see what you find to rave about
in it," he said.  "All the warmth of her disposition has simply
gone to her head."

There was certainly little warmth in Mrs. Rainham's heart, where
her stepdaughter was concerned.  She disapproved very thoroughly of
Cecilia in every detail--of her pretty face and delicate colouring,
of the fair hair that rippled and curled and gleamed in a manner so
light-hearted as to seem distinctly out of place in the dingy room,
of the slender grace that was in vivid contrast to her own
stoutness.  She resented the very way Cecilia put on her clothes--
simple clothes, but worn with an air that made her own elaborate
dresses cheap and common by comparison.  It was so easy for her to
look well turned out; and it would never be easy to dress Avice,
who bade fair to resemble her mother in build, and had already a
passion for frills and trimmings, and a contempt for plain things.
Mrs. Rainham had an uneasy conviction that the girl who bore all
her scathing comments in silence actually dared to criticize her in
her own mind--perhaps openly to Bob, whose blue eyes held many
unspoken things as he looked at her.  Once she had overheard him
say to Cecilia:  "She looks like an over-ornamented pie!"  Cecilia
had laughed, and Mrs. Rainham had passed on, unsuspected, her mind
full of a wild surmise.  They would never dare to mean her--and
yet--that new dress of hers was plastered with queer little bits of
purposeless trimmings.  She never again wore it without that
terrible sentence creeping into her mind.  And she had been so
pleased with it, too!  An over-ornamented pie.  If she could only
have been sure they meant her!

She thought of it again as she sat looking at Cecilia.  The new
dress was lying on her bed, ready to be worn that afternoon; and
Cecilia was going to meet Bob--Bob, who had uttered the horrible
remark.  Well, at least there should be no haste about the meeting.
It would do Bob no harm to cool his heels for a little.  She set
her thin lips tightly together, as she helped the rice pudding.

The meal ended, amidst loud grumbles from Wilfred that the pudding
was rice; and Cecilia hurried off to find the flowers and arrange
them.  The florist's box was near the vases left ready by the
faithful Eliza; she cut the string with a happy exclamation of
"Daffodils!" as she lifted the lid.  Daffodils were always a joy;
this afternoon they were doubly welcome, because easy to arrange.
She sorted them into long-necked vases swiftly, carrying each vase,
when filled, to the drawing-room--a painful apartment, crowded with
knick-knacks until it resembled a bazaar stall, with knobby and
unsteady bamboo furniture and much drapery of a would-be artistic
nature.  It was stuffy and airless.  Cecilia wrinkled her pretty
nose as she entered.  Mrs. Rainham held pronounced views on the
subject of what she termed the "fresh-air fad," and declined to let
London air--a smoky commodity at best--attack her cherished
carpets; with the result that Cecilia breathed freely only in her
little attic, which had no carpet at all.

The lady of the house rustled in, in her flowing robe, as Cecilia
put the last vase into position on the piano--finding room for it
with difficulty amid a collection of photograph frames and china
ornaments.  She carried some music, and cast a critical eye round
the room.

"This place looks as if it had not been properly dusted for a
week," she remarked.  "See to it before you go, Cecilia."  She
opened the piano.  "Just come and try the accompaniment to this
song--it's rather difficult, and I want to sing it to-night."

Cecilia sat down before the piano, with woe in her heart.  Her
stepmother's delusion that she could sing was one of the minor
trials of her life.  She had been thoroughly trained in Paris,
under a master who had prophesied great things for her; now her
hours at the Rainhams' tinkly piano, playing dreary accompaniments
to sentimental songs with Mrs. Rainham's weak soprano wobbling and
flattening on the high notes, were hours of real distress, from
which she would escape feeling her teeth on edge.  Her stepmother,
however, had thoroughly enjoyed herself since the discovery that no
accompaniment presented any difficulty to Cecilia.  It saved her a
world of trouble in practising; moreover, when standing, it was far
easier to let herself go in the affecting passages, which always
suffered from scantiness of breath when she was sitting down.
Therefore she would stand beside Cecilia, pouring forth song after
song, with her head slightly on one side, and one hand resting
lightly on the piano--an attitude which, after experiment with a
mirror, she had decided upon as especially becoming.

The song of the moment did make some demands upon her attention.
It had a disconcerting way of changing from sharps to flats;
trouble being caused by the singer failing to change also.  Cecilia
took her through it patiently, going over and over again the tricky
passages, and devoutly wishing that Providence in supplying her
stepmother with boundless energy, a tireless voice and an enormous
stock of songs, had also equipped her with an ear for music.  At
length the lady desisted from her efforts.

"That's quite all right," she said, with satisfaction.  "I'll sing
it to-night.  The Simons will be here, and they do like to hear
what's new.  Go on with your dusting; I'll just run through a few
pieces, and you can tell me if I go wrong."

Cecilia hesitated, glancing at the clock.

"It is getting very late," she said.  "Eliza told me she could dust
the room."

"Eliza!" said Mrs. Rainham.  "Why, it's her silver day; she had no
business to tell you anything of the sort--and neither had you, to
ask her to do it.  Goodness knows it's hard enough to make the lazy
thing do her own work.  Just get your duster, and make sure as you
come down that the children are properly dressed for the dancing
class."  She broke into a waltz.

Cecilia ran.  Sounds of woe greeted her as she neared Avice's room,
and she entered, to find that damsel plunged in despair over a
missing button.

"It was on all right last time I wore the beastly dress," wailed
she.  "If you'd look after my clothes like Mater said you had to, I
wouldn't be late.  Whatever am I to do?  I can't make the old dress
shut with a safety pin."

"No, you certainly can't," said her half-sister.  "Never mind;
there are spare buttons for that frock, and I can sew one on."  She
accomplished the task with difficulty, since Avice appeared quite
unable to stand still.

"Now, are you ready, Avice?  Shoes, hat, gloves--where are your
gloves?  How do you ever manage to find anything in that drawer?"
She rooted swiftly in a wild chaos, and finally unearthed the
gloves.  "Yes, you'll do.  Now, where's Wilfred?"  Search revealed
Wilfred, who hated dancing, reading a "penny dreadful" in his room--
ready to start, save for the trifling detail of having neglected
to wash an extremely dirty face.  Cecilia managed to make him
repair the omission, after a struggle, and saw them off with a
thankful heart--which sank anew as she heard a neighbouring clock
strike three.  Three--and already she should be meeting Bob in Hyde
Park.  She fled for a duster, and hurried to the drawing-room.
Eliza encountered her on the way.

"Now, wotcher goin' to do wiv that duster, Miss?" she inquired.
"I told yer I'd do it for yer."

"Mrs. Rainham is waiting for me to do it, Eliza.  I'm sorry."

"Ow!"  Eliza's expression and her tilted nose spoke volumes.
"Suppose she finks I wouldn't clean 'er old silver proper.  Silver,
indeed!--'lectrer-plyte, an' common at that.  Just you cut and run
as soon as she's out of the 'ouse, Miss; I know she's goin', 'cause
'er green and yaller dress is a-airin' on 'er bed."

"It's not much good, Eliza.  I ought to be in the Park now."
Cecilia knew she should not allow the girl to speak of her mistress
so contemptuously.  But she was disheartened enough at the moment
not to care.

"Lor!" said Eliza.  "A bloomin' shyme, I calls it!"

Cecilia found her stepmother happily engaged upon a succession of
wrong notes that made her wince.  She dusted the room swiftly,
aware all the time of a watchful eye.  Occasionally came a crisp
comment:  "You didn't dust that window-sill."  "Cecilia, that table
has four legs--did you only notice two?"--the effort to speak while
playing generally bringing the performer with vigour upon a wrong
chord.  The so-called music became almost a physical torment to the
over-strained girl.

"If she would only stop--if she would only go away!" she found
herself murmuring, over and over.  Even the thought of Bob waiting
in Hyde Park in the chill east wind became dim beside that horrible
piano, banging and tinkling in her ear.  She dusted mechanically,
picking up one cheap ornament after another--leaving the collection
upon the piano until the last, in the hope that by the time she
reached it the thirst for music would have departed from the
performer.  But Mrs. Rainham's tea appointment was not yet; she was
thoroughly enjoying herself, the charm of her own execution added
to the knowledge that Cecilia was miserable, and Bob waiting
somewhere, with what patience he might.  She held on to the bitter
end, while the girl dusted the piano's burden with a set face.
Then she finished a long and painful run, and shut the piano with a
bang.

"There--I've had quite a nice practice, and it isn't often the
drawing-room gets really decently dusted," she remarked.  "Nothing
like the eye of the mistress; I think I must practise every day
while you are dusting, Cecilia.  Oh, and, Cecilia, give the legs of
the piano a good rubbing.  Dear me, I must go and dress."

Cecilia dragged herself upstairs a few minutes later.  All the
spring was gone out of her; it really did not seem to matter much
now whether she met Bob or not; she was too tired to care.  This
was only a sample of many days; so it had been for two years--so it
would be for two more, until she was twenty-one, and her own
mistress.  But it did not seem possible that she could endure
through another two years.

She reached her own room, and was about to shut the door, when the
harsh voice rasped upwards.

"Cecilia!  Cecilia!  Come here a minute."

The girl went down slowly.  Mrs. Rainham was standing before her
mirror.

"Just come and hook my dress, Cecilia.  This new dressmaker has a
knack of making everything hard to fasten.  There--see that you
start with the right hook and eye."

At the moment, physical contact with her stepmother was almost the
last straw for the girl.  She obeyed in silence, shrinking back as
far as she could from the stout, over-scented body and the powdered
face with the thin lips.  Mrs. Rainham watched her with a little
smile.

"Yes, that's all right," she said.  "Now, my hat, Cecilia--it's in
the bandbox under the bed.  I can't stoop in this dress, that's the
worst of it.  And my gloves are in that box on the chest of
drawers--the white pair.  Hurry, Cecilia, my appointment is for
four o'clock."

"Mine was for three o'clock," said the girl in a low voice.

"Oh, well, you should manage your work better.  I always tell you
that.  Nothing like method in getting through every day.  However,
Bob is only your brother--it would be more serious if it was a
young man you were meeting.  Brothers don't matter much."

Cecilia flamed round upon her.

"Bob is more to me than anyone in the world," she cried.  "And I
would rather keep any other man waiting."

"Really?  But I shouldn't think it very likely that you'll ever
have to trouble about other young men, Cecilia; you're not the
sort.  Too thin and scraggy."  Mrs. Rainham surveyed her own
generous proportions in the glass, and gathered up her gloves with
a pleased air.  For the moment she could not possibly believe that
anyone could have referred to her as "an over-ornamented pie."
"Good-bye, Cecilia; don't be late for tea."  She sailed down the
stairs.

Even the bang of the hall door failed to convey any relief to
Cecilia.  For the second time she toiled upstairs, to the bare
freshness of her little room.  Generally, it had a tonic effect
upon her; to-day it seemed that nothing could help her.  She leaned
her head against the window, a wave of homesick loneliness flooding
all her soul.  So deep were its waters that she did not hear the
hall door open and close again, and presently swift feet pounding
up the stairs.  Someone battered on her door.

"Cecilia!  Are you there?"

She ran to open the door.  Bob stood there, a short, muscular
fellow, in Air Force blue, with twinkling eyes.  She put out her
hands to him with a little pitiful gesture.

"Don't say that horrible name again," she whispered.  "If anyone
else calls me Cecilia I'll just go mad."

Bob came in, and flung a brotherly arm round her shoulders.

"Has it been so beastly?" he said.  "Poor little Tommy.  Oh, Tommy,
I saw the over-ornamented pie sailing down the street, and I dived
into a side alley until she'd gone out of range.  I guessed from
her proud and happy face that you'd been scarified."

"Scarified!" murmured Cecilia.  But Bob was not listening.  His
face was radiant.

"I couldn't wait in the park any longer," he said.  "I had to come
and tell you.  Tommy, old thing--I'm demobilized!"



CHAPTER II

THE RAINHAMS


It was one of Mrs. Mark Rainham's grievances that, comparatively
late in her married life, she should suddenly find herself brought
into association with the children of her husband's first marriage.
They were problems that Fate had previously removed from her path;
she found it extremely annoying--at first--that Fate should cease
to be so tactful, casting upon her a burden long borne by other
shoulders.  It was not until she had accepted Mark Rainham, eleven
years before, that she found out the very existence of Bob and
Cecilia; she resented the manner of the discovery, even as she
resented the children themselves.  Not that she ever dreamed of
breaking off her engagement on their account.  She was a milliner
in a Kensington shop, and to marry Mark Rainham, who was vaguely
"something in the city," and belonged to a good club, and dressed
well, was a distinct step in the social scale, and two unknown
children were not going to make her draw back.  But to mother them
was quite another question.

Luckily, Fate had a compassionate eye upon the young Rainhams, and
was quite willing to second their stepmother's resolve that they
should come into her life as little as possible.  Their father had
never concerned himself greatly about them.  A lazy and selfish
man, he had always been willing to shelve the care of his small son
and daughter--babies were not in his line, and the aunt who had
brought up their mother was only too anxious to take Bob and
Cecilia when that girl-mother had slipped away from life, leaving a
week-old Cecilia and a sturdy, solemn Bob of three.

The arrangement suited Mark Rainham very well.  Aunt Margaret's
house at Twickenham was big enough for half a dozen babies; the
children went there, with their nurse, and he was free to slip back
into bachelor ways, living in comfortable chambers within easy
reach of his club and not too far, with a good train service, from
a golf links.  The regular week-end visits to the babies suffered
occasional interruptions, and gradually grew fewer and fewer, until
he became to the children a vague and mysterious person named Papa,
who dropped from the skies now and then, asked them a number of
silly questions, talked with great politeness to Aunt Margaret--
who, they instinctively felt, liked him no better than they did--
and then disappeared, whereupon every one was immensely relieved.
Even the fact that he generally brought them a packet of expensive
sweets was as nothing beside the harrowing knowledge that they must
kiss him, thereby having their faces brushed with a large and
scrubby moustache.  Aunt Margaret and nurse did not have to endure
this infliction--which seemed to Bob and Cecilia obviously unfair.
But the visits did not often happen--not enough to disturb
seriously an existence crammed with interesting things like puppies
and kittens, the pony cart, boats on the river that ran just beyond
the lawn, occasional trips to London and the Zoo, and delirious
fortnights at the seaside or on Devonshire moors.  Cecilia had
never known even Bobby's shadowy memories of their own mother.
Aunt Margaret was everything that mattered, and the person called
Papa was merely an unpleasant incident.  Other little boys and
girls whom they knew owned, in their houses, delightful people
named Daddy and Mother; but Cecilia and Bob quite understood that
every one could not have the same things, for possibly these
fortunate children had no puppies or pony carts.  Nurse had pointed
out this, so that it was perfectly clear.

It was when Cecilia was eight and Bob eleven, that their father
married again.  To the children it meant nothing; to Aunt Margaret
it was a bomb.  If Mark Rainham had happened to die, or go to the
North Pole, she would have borne the occurrence calmly; but that he
should take a step which might mean separating her from her beloved
babies shook her to her foundations.  Even when she was assured
that the new Mrs. Rainham disliked children, and had not the
slightest intention of adding Bob and Cecilia to her household,
Aunt Margaret remained uneasy.  The red-haired person, as she
mentally labelled her, might change her mind.  Mark Rainham was wax
in her hands, and would always do as he was told.  Aunt Margaret,
goaded by fear, became heroic.  She let the beloved house at
Twickenham while Mr. and Mrs. Rainham were still on their
honeymoon; packed up the children, her maids, nurse, the parrot and
most of the puppies; and kept all her plans a profound secret until
she was safely established in Paris.

To the average Londoner, Paris is very far off.  There are, of
course, very many people who run across the Channel as easily as a
Melbourne man may week-end in Gippsland or Bendigo, but the
suburban section of London is not fond of voyaging across a strip
of water with unpleasant possibilities in the way of choppiness, to
a strange country where most of the inhabitants have the bad taste
not to speak English.  Neither Mark Rainham nor his new wife had
ever been in France, and to them it seemed, as Aunt Margaret had
shrewdly hoped it would, almost as though the Twickenham household
had gone to the North Pole.  A great relief fell upon them, since
there could now be no question of assuming duties when those duties
were suddenly beyond their reach.  And Aunt Margaret's letter was
convincing--such a good offer, suddenly, for the Twickenham house;
such excellent educational opportunities for the children, in the
shape of semi-English schools, where Bob and Cecilia might mix with
English children and retain their nationality while acquiring
Parisian French.  If Mark Rainham felt any inward resentment at the
summary disposal of his son and daughter, he did not show it; as of
old, it was easier to let things slide.  Aunt Margaret was given a
free hand, save that at fourteen Bob returned to school in England;
an arrangement that mattered little, since all his holidays were
spent at the new home at Fontainebleau--a house which, even to the
parrot, was highly reminiscent of Twickenham.

Bob and Cecilia found life extremely interesting.  They were
cheery, happy-go-lucky youngsters, with an immense capacity for
enjoyment; and Aunt Margaret, while much too shrewd an old lady to
spoil children, delighted in giving them a good time.  They found
plenty of friends in the little English community in Paris, as well
as among their French neighbours.  Paris itself was full of
fascination; then there were wonderful excursions far afield--
holidays in Brussels, in the South of France, even winter sporting
in Switzerland.  Aunt Margaret was determined that her nurselings
should miss nothing that she could give them.  The duty letters
which she insisted on their writing, once a month, to their father
told of happenings that seemed strangely remote from the humdrum
life of London.  "By Jove, the old lady gives those youngsters a
good time!" Mark Rainham would comment, tossing them across the
table to his wife.  He did not guess at the dull rage that filled
her as she read them--the unreasoning jealousy that these children
should have opportunities so far beyond any that were likely to
occur for her own, who squabbled angrily over their breakfast while
she read.

"She seems to have any amount of money to spend on gadding about,"
she would say unpleasantly.

"Oh, pots of money.  Wish to goodness I had some of it," her
husband would answer.  Money was always scarce in the Rainham
household.

When the thunderbolt of war fell upon the world, Aunt Margaret,
after the first pangs of panic, stiffened her back, and declined to
leave France.  England, she declared, was not much safer than
anywhere else; and was it likely that she and Cecilia would run
away when Bob was coming back?  Bob, just eighteen, captain of his
school training corps, stroke of its racing boat, and a mighty man
of valour at football, slid naturally into khaki within a month of
the outbreak of war, putting aside toys, with all the glad company
of boys of the Empire, until such time as the Hun should be taught
that he had no place among white men.  Aunt Margaret and Cecilia,
knitting frantically at socks and mufflers and Balaclava helmets,
were desperately proud of him, and compared his photograph, in
uniform, with all the pictures of Etienne and Henri and Armand, and
other French boys who had played with him under the trees at
Fontainebleau, and had now marched away to join him at the greater
game.  It was difficult to realize that they were not still little
boys in blouses and knickerbockers--difficult even when they
swooped down from time to time on short leave, filling the quiet
houses with pranks and laughter that were wholly boyish.  Even when
Bob had two stars on his cuff, and wore the ribbon of the Military
Cross, it would have astonished Aunt Margaret and Cecilia very much
had anyone suggested that he was grown up.

Indeed, Aunt Margaret was never to think of him as anything but
"one of the children."  Illness, sudden and fierce, fell upon her
after a long spell of duty at the hospital where she worked from
the first few months of the war--working as cook, since she had no
nursing experience, and was, she remarked, too old to learn a new
trade.  Brave as she was, there was no battling for her against the
new foe; she faded out of life after a few days, holding Cecilia's
hand very tightly until the end.

Bob, obtaining leave with much difficulty, arrived a few days
later, to find a piteous Cecilia, white-faced, stunned and
bewildered.  She pleaded desperately against leaving France; amidst
all the horror and chaos that had fallen upon her, it seemed
unthinkable that she should put the sea between herself and Bob.
But to remain was impossible.  Aunt Margaret's English maids wanted
to go back to their friends, and a girl of seventeen could scarcely
stay alone in a country torn by two years of war.  Besides, Aunt
Margaret's affairs were queerly indefinite; there seemed very
little money where there had formerly been plenty.  There was no
alternative for Cecilia but England--and England meant the Rainham
household, and such welcome as it might choose to give her.

She was still bewildered when they made the brief journey across
the Channel--a new Channel, peopled only with war-ships of every
kind, from grim Dreadnoughts to submarines; with aircraft, bearing
the red, white and blue circles of Britain, floating and circling
overhead.  Last time Cecilia had crossed, it had been with Aunt
Margaret on a big turbine mail boat; they had reached Calais just
as an excursion steamer from Margate came up, gay with flags and
light dresses, with a band playing ragtime on the well-deck, and
people dancing to a concertina at the stern.  Now they zig-zagged
across, sometimes at full speed, sometimes stopping dead or
altering their course in obedience to the destroyer nosing ahead of
them through the Channel mist; and she could see the face of the
captain on the bridge, strained and anxious.  There were so few
civilians on board that Cecilia and the two old servants were
greeted with curious stares; nearly all the passengers were in
uniform, their boots caked with the mud of the trenches, their
khaki soiled with the grime of war.  It was all rather dream-like
to Cecilia; and London itself was a very bad dream; darkened and
silent, with the great beams of searchlights playing back and forth
over the black skies in search of marauding Zeppelins.  And then
came her father's stiff greeting, and the silent drive to the tall,
narrow house in Lancaster Gate, where Mrs. Rainham met her coldly.
In after years Cecilia never could think without a shudder of that
first meal in her father's house--the struggle to eat, the lagging
talk round the table, with Avice and Wilfred, frankly hostile,
staring at her in silence, and her stepmother's pale eyes
appraising every detail of her dress.  It was almost like happiness
again to find herself alone, later; in a dingy little attic bedroom
that smelt as though it had never known an open window--a sorry
little hole, but still, out of the reach of those unblinking eyes.

For the first year Cecilia had struggled to get away to earn her
own living.  But a very few weeks served to show Mrs. Rainham that
chance had sent her, in the person of the girl whose coming she had
sullenly resented, a very useful buffer against any period of
domestic stress.  Aunt Margaret had trained Cecilia thoroughly in
all housewifely virtues, and her half-French education had given
her much that was lacking in the stodgy damsels of Mrs. Rainham's
acquaintance.  She was quick and courteous and willing; responding,
moreover, to the lash of the tongue--after her first wide-eyed
stare of utter amazement--exactly as a well-bred colt responds to a
deftly-used whip.  "I'll keep her," was Mrs. Rainham's inward
resolve.  "And she'll earn her keep too!"

There was no doubt that Cecilia did that.  Wilfred and Avice saw to
it, even had not their mother been fully capable of exacting the
last ounce from the only helper she had ever had who had not the
power to give her a week's notice.  Cecilia's first requests to be
allowed to take up work outside had been shelved vaguely.  "We'll
find some nice war-work for you presently". . . and meanwhile, the
household was short-handed, Mrs. Rainham was overstrained--Cecilia
found later that her stepmother was always "overstrained" whenever
she spoke of leaving home--and duties multiplied about her and
hemmed her in.  Mrs. Rainham was clever; the net closed round the
girl so gradually that she scarcely realized its meshes until they
were drawn tightly.  Even Bob helped.  "You're awfully young to
start work on your own account," he wrote.  "Can't you stick it for
a bit, if they are decent to you?"  And, rather than cause him any
extra worry, Cecilia decided that she must "stick it."

Of her father she saw little.  He was, just as she remembered him
in her far-back childhood at Twickenham, vague and colourless.
Rather to her horror, she found that the ordeal of being kissed by
his large and scrubby moustache was just as unpleasant as ever.
Cecilia had no idea of how he earned his living--he ate his
breakfast hurriedly, concealed behind the Daily Mail, and then
disappeared, bound for some mysterious place in the city--the part
of London that was always full of mystery to Cecilia.  Golf was the
one thing that roused him to any enthusiasm, and golf was even more
of a mystery than the city.  Cecilia knew that it was played with
assorted weapons, kept in a bag, and used for smiting a small ball
over great expanses of country, but beyond these facts her
knowledge stopped.  Mrs. Rainham had set her to clean the clubs one
day, but her father, appearing unexpectedly, had taken them from
her hands with something like roughness.  "No, by Jove!" he said.
"You do a good many odd jobs in this house, but I'm hanged if you
shall clean my golf sticks."  Cecilia did not realize that the
assumed roughness covered something very like shame.

Money matters were rather confusing.  A lawyer--also in the city--
paid her a small sum quarterly--enough to dress on, and for minor
expenses.  Bob wrote that Aunt Margaret's affairs were in a beastly
tangle.  An annuity had died with her, and many of her investments
had been hit by the war, and had ceased to pay dividends--had even,
it seemed, ceased to be valuable at all.  There was a small
allowance for Bob also, and some day, if luck should turn, there
might be a little more.  Bob did not say that his own allowance was
being hoarded for Cecilia, in case he "went west."  He lived on his
pay, and even managed to save something out of that, being a youth
of simple tastes.  His battalion had been practically wiped out of
existence in the third year of the war, and after a peaceful month
in a north country hospital, near an aerodrome, the call of the air
was too much for him--he joined the cheerful band of flying men,
and soon filled his letters to Cecilia with a bewildering mixture
of technicalities and aviation slang that left her gasping.  But he
got his wings in a very short time, and she was prouder of him than
ever--and more than ever desperately afraid for him.

The children's daily governess, a down-trodden person, left after
Cecilia had been in England for a few months, and the girl stepped
naturally into the vacant position until some one else should be
found.  She had no idea that Mrs. Rainham made no effort at all to
discover any other successor to Miss Simpkins.  Where, indeed, Mrs.
Rainham demanded of herself, would she be likely to find anyone
with such qualifications--young, docile, with every advantage of a
modern education, speaking French like a native, and above and
beyond all else, requiring no pay?  It would be flying in the face
of Providence to ignore such a chance.  Wherefore Cecilia continued
to lead her step-sisters and brother in the paths of learning, and
life became a thing of utter weariness.  For Mrs. Rainham, though
shrewd enough to get what she wanted, in the main was not a far-
sighted woman; and in her unreasoning dislike and jealousy of
Cecilia she failed to see that she defeated her own ends by making
her a drudge.  Whatever benefit the girl might have given the
children was lost in their contempt for her.  She had no authority,
no power to enforce a command, or to give a punishment, and the
children quickly discovered that, so long as they gave her the
merest show of obedience in their mother's presence, any
shortcomings in education would be laid at Cecilia's door.  Lesson
time became a period of rare sport for the young Rainhams; it was
so easy to bait the new sister with cheap taunts, to watch the
quick blood mount to the very roots of her fair hair, to do just as
little as possible, and then to see her blamed for the result.
Mrs. Rainham's bitter tongue grew more and more uncontrolled as
time went on and she felt the girl more fully in her power.  And
Cecilia lived through each day with tight-shut lips, conscious of
one clear thing in her mist of unhappy bewilderment--that Bob must
not know: Bob, who would probably leave his job of skimming through
the air of her beloved France after the Hun, and snatch an hour to
fly to England and annihilate the entire Rainham household,
returning with Cecilia tucked away somewhere in his aeroplane.  It
was a pleasant dream, and served to carry her through more than one
hard moment.  But it did not always serve; and there were nights
when Cecilia mounted to her attic with dragging footsteps, to sit
by her window in the darkness, gripping her courage with both
hands, afraid to let herself think of the dear, happy past; of Aunt
Margaret, whose very voice was love; least of all of Bob, perhaps
even now flying in the dark over the German lines.  There was but
one thing that she could hold to: she voiced it to herself, over
and over with clenched hands, "It can't last for ever!  It can't
last for ever!"

And then, after the long years of clutching anxiety, came the
Armistice, and Cecilia forgot all her troubles in its overwhelming
relief.  No one would shoot at Bob any longer; there were no more
hideous, squat guns, with muzzles yawning skywards, ready to shell
him as he skimmed high overhead, like a swallow in the blue.
Therefore she sang as she went about her work, undismayed by the
laboured witticisms of Avice and Wilfred, or by Mrs. Rainham's
venom, which increased with the realization that her victim might
possibly slip from her grasp, since Bob would come home, and Bob
was a person to be reckoned with.  Certainly Bob had scarcely any
money; moreover, Cecilia was not of age, and, therefore, still
under her father's control.  But Mrs. Rainham felt vaguely uneasy,
and visions floated before her of the old days when governesses and
maids had departed with unpleasant frequency, leaving her to face
all sorts of disagreeable consequences.  She set her thin lips,
vowing inwardly that Cecilia should remain.

Nevertheless it was a relief to her that early demobilization did
not come for Bob.  At the time of the Armistice he was attached to
an Australian flying squadron, and for some months remained abroad;
then he was sent back to England, and employed in training younger
fliers at a Surrey aerodrome.  This had its drawbacks in Mrs.
Rainham's eyes, since he was often able to run up to London, and,
to Bob, London merely meant Cecilia.  It was only a question of
time before he discovered something of what life at Lancaster Gate
meant--his enlightenment beginning upon an afternoon when, arriving
unexpectedly, and being left by Eliza to find Cecilia for himself,
he had the good fortune to overhear Mrs. Rainham in one of her best
efforts--a "wigging" to which Avice and Wilfred were listening
delightedly, and which included not only Cecilia's sin of the
moment, but her upbringing, her French education, her "foreign
fashion of speaking," and her sinful extravagance in shoes.  These,
and other matters, were furnishing Mrs. Rainham with ample material
for a bitter discourse when she became aware of another presence in
the room, and her eloquence faltered at the sight of Bob's
astonished anger.

Mrs. Rainham did not recall with any enjoyment the interview which
followed--Cecilia and the children having been brushed out of the
way by the indignant soldier.  Things which had been puzzling to
Bob were suddenly made clear--traces of distress which Cecilia had
often explained away vaguely, the children's half-contemptuous
manner towards her, even Eliza's tone in speaking of her--a queer
blend of anger and pity.  Mrs. Rainham held her ground to some
extent, but the brother's questions were hard to parry, and some of
his comments stung.

"Well, I'll take her away," he stormed at length.  "It's evident
that she does not give you satisfaction, and she certainly isn't
happy.  She had better come away with me to-day."

"Ah," said his stepmother freezingly, "and where will you take
her?"

Bob hesitated.

"There are plenty of places--" he began.

"Not for a young girl alone.  Cecilia is very ignorant of England;
you could not be with her.  Your father would not hear of it.  You
must remember that Cecilia is under his control until she is
twenty-one."

"My father has never bothered about either of us," Bob said
bitterly.  "He surely won't object if I take her off your hands."

"He will certainly not permit any such thing.  Whatever arrangement
he made during your aunt's lifetime was quite a different matter.
If you attempt to take Cecilia from his control you commit an
illegal action," said Mrs. Rainham--hoping she was on safe ground.
To her relief Bob did not contradict her.  English law and its
mysteries were beyond him.

"I don't see that that matters," he began doubtfully.  His
stepmother cut him short.

"You would very soon find that it matters a good deal," she said
coldly.  "It would be quite simple for your father to get some kind
of legal injunction, forbidding you to interfere with your sister.
Home training is what she needs, and we are determined that she
shall get it.  You will only unsettle and injure her by trying to
induce her to disobey us."

The hard voice fell like lead on the boy's ears.  He felt very
helpless; if he did indeed snatch his sister away from this
extremely unpleasant home, and their father had only to stretch out
a long, legal tentacle and claw her back, it was clear that her
position would be harder than ever.  He could only give in, at any
rate, for the present, and in his anxiety for the little sister
whom Aunt Margaret had always trained him to protect, he humbled
himself to beg for better treatment for her.  "No one ever was
angry with her," he said.  "She'll do anything for you if you're
decent to her."

"She might give less cause for annoyance if she had had a little
more severity," said Mrs. Rainham with an unspoken sneer at poor
Aunt Margaret.  "You had better advise her to do her best in return
for the very comfortable home we give her."  With which Bob had to
endeavour to be content, for the present.  He went off to find
Cecilia, with a lowering brow, leaving his stepmother not nearly so
easy in her mind as she seemed.  For Bob had a square jaw, and was
apt to talk little and do a good deal; and his affection for
Cecilia was, in Mrs. Rainham's eyes, little short of ridiculous.

Thereafter, the brother and sister took counsel together and made
great plans for the future, when once the Air Force should decide
that it had no further wish to keep Captain Robert Rainham from
earning his living on terra firma.  What that future was to be for
Bob was very difficult to plan.  Aunt Margaret had intended him for
a profession; but the time for that had gone by, even had the money
been still available.  "I'm half glad that it isn't," Bob said; "I
don't see how a fellow could go back to swotting over books after
being really alive for nearly five years."  There seemed nothing
but "the land" in some shape or form; they were not very clear
about it, but Bob was strenuously "keeping his ears open"--like so
many lads of his rank in the early months of 1919, when the future
that had seemed so indefinite during the years of war suddenly
loomed up, very large and menacing.  Cecilia had less anxiety; she
had a cheerful faith that Bob would manage something--a three-
roomed cottage somewhere in the country, where he could look after
sheep, or crops, or something of the kind, while she cooked and
mended for him, and grew such flowers as had bloomed in the dear
garden at Fontainebleau.  Sheep and crops, she was convinced, grew
themselves, in the main; a person of Bob's ability would surely
find little difficulty in superintending the process.  And,
whatever happened, nothing could be worse than life in Lancaster
Gate.

Neither of them ever thought of appealing to their father, either
for advice or for help.  He remained, as he had always been to
them, utterly colourless; a kind of well-bred shadow of his wife,
taking no part in her hard treatment of Cecilia, but lifting not a
finger to save her.  He did not look happy; indeed, he seldom
spoke--it was not necessary, when Mrs. Rainham held the floor.  He
had a tiny den which he used as a smoking-room, and there he spent
most of his time when at home, being blessed in the fact that his
wife disliked the smell of smoke, and refused to allow it in her
drawing-room.  Nobody took much notice of him.  The younger
children treated him with cool indifference; Bob met him with a
kind of strained and uncomfortable civility.

Curiously enough, it was only Eliza who divined in him a secret
hankering after his eldest daughter--Cecilia, who would have been
very much astonished had anyone hinted at such a thing to her.  The
sharp eyes of the little Cockney were not to be deceived in any
matter concerning the only person in the house who treated her as
if she were a human being and not a grate-cleaning automaton.

"You see 'im foller 'er wiv 'is eyes, that's all," said Eliza to
Cook, in the privacy of their joint bedroom.  "Fair 'ungry he
looks, sometimes."

"No need for 'im to be 'ungry, if 'e 'ad the sperrit of a man,"
said Cook practically.  "Ain't she 'is daughter?"

"Well, yes, in a manner of speakin'," said Eliza doubtfully.  "But
there ain't much of father an' daughter about them two.  I'd ruther
'ave my ole man, down W'itechapel way; 'e can belt yer a fair
terror, w'en 'e's drunk, but 'e'll allers tike yer out an' buy yer
a kipper arterwards.  Thet's on'y decent, fatherly feelin'."

"Well, Master don't belt 'er, does 'e?"

"No; but 'e don't buy 'er the kipper, neither.  An' I'd ruther 'ave
the beltin' from my ole man, even wivout no kipper, than 'ave us
allers lookin' at each other as if we was wooden images.  Even a
beltin' shows as 'ow a man 'as some regard for 'is daughter."

"It do," said Cook.  "Pity is, you ain't 'ad more of it, that's the
only thing!"



CHAPTER III

PLAYING TRUANT


"Demobilized!  Oh, Bob--truly?"

"Truly and really," said Bob.  "At least, I shall be in twenty-
seven days.  Got my orders.  Show up for the last time on the
fifteenth of next month.  Get patted on the head, and told to run
away and play.  That's the programme, I believe, Tommy.  The
question is--What shall we play at?"

Cecilia brushed the hair from her brow.

"I don't know," she said vaguely.  "It's too big to think of; and I
can't think in this awful house, anyhow.  Take me out, quick,
please, Bobby."

"Sure," said Bob, regarding her with an understanding eye.  "But
you want to change or something, don't you, old girl?"

"Why, yes, I suppose I do," said Cecilia, with a watery smile,
looking at her schoolroom overall.  "I forgot clothes.  I've had a
somewhat packed morning."

"You look as if this had been your busy day," remarked Bob.
"Right-oh, old girl; jump into your things, and I'll wait on the
mat.  Any chance of the she-dragon coming back?"

"No; she's gone out to tea."

"More power to her," said Bob cheerfully.  "And the dragon
puppies?"

"Oh, they're safely out of the way.  I won't be five minutes, Bob.
Don't shut the door tight--you might disappear before I opened it."

"Not much," said Bob, through the crack of the door.  "I'm a
fixture.  Want any shoes cleaned?"

"No, thanks, Bobby dear.  I have everything ready."

"From what the other fellows say about their sisters, I'm inclined
to believe that you're an ornament to your sex," remarked Bob.
"When you say five minutes, it really does mean not more than five
and a half, as a rule; other girls seem to mean three-quarters of
an hour."

"I get all my things ready the night before when I'm going to meet
you," said Cecilia.  "Catch me losing any time on my one day out.
You can come back again--my coat's on the hanger there, Bobby."  He
put her into it deftly, and she leaned back against him.  "If you
knew how good it is to see you again--and you smell of clean fresh
air and good tobacco and Russia leather, and all sorts of nice
things."

"Good gracious, I'll excite attention in the street!" grinned Bob.
"I didn't imagine I was a walking scent-factory!"

"Neither you are--but everything in this house smells of coal-smoke
and cabbage-water and general fustiness, and you're a nice change,
that's all," said Cecilia.  They ran downstairs together light-
heartedly, and let themselves out into the street.

"Do we catch a train or a 'bus?"

"Oh, can't we walk?" Cecilia said.  "I think if I walked hard I
might forget Mrs. Rainham."

"I'd hate you to remember her," Bob said.  "Tell me what she has
been doing, anyhow, and then we won't think of her any more."

"It doesn't sound much," Cecilia said.  "There never is anything
very much.  Only it goes on all the time."  She told him the story
of her day, and managed to make herself laugh now and then over it.
But Bob did not laugh.  His good-humoured young face was set and
angry.

"There isn't a whole lot in it, is there?" Cecilia finished.  "And
no one would think I was badly off--especially when the thing that
hit me hardest of all was just dusting that awful drawing-room
while she plays her awful tunes.  Yes, I know I shouldn't say
awful, and that no lady says it--that must be true because Mrs.
Rainham frequently tells me so--but it's such a relief to say
whatever I feel like."

"You can say what you jolly well please," said Bob wrathfully.
"Who's she, I'd like to know, to tell us what to say?  And she kept
you there all the afternoon, when she knew you were due to meet
me!--my hat, she is a venomous old bird!  And now it's half-past
four, and what time does she expect you back?"

"Oh--the usual thing; the children's tea-time at six.  She told me
not to be late."

Bob set his jaw.

"Well, you won't be late, because you won't be there," he said.
"No going back to tea for you.  We'll have dinner at the Petit
Riche in Soho, and then we'll do a theatre, and then I'll take you
home and we'll face the music.  Are you game?"

Cecilia laughed.

"Game?  Why, of course--but there will be awful scenes, Bobby."

"Well, what can she do to you?" asked Bob practically.  "You're too
big to beat, or she'd certainly do it; she can't stop your pay,
because you don't get any; and as you have your meals with the
youngsters, she can't dock your rations.  That doesn't leave her
much beside her tongue.  Of course, she can do a good deal with
that; do you think you can stand it?"

"Oh, yes," said Cecilia.  "You see, I generally have it, so it
really doesn't matter much.  But if she forbids me to go out with
you again, Bobby?"

Bob pondered.

"Well--you're nineteen," he said.  "And the very first minute I
can, I'm going to take you away from her altogether.  If you were a
kid I wouldn't let you defy her.  But, hang it all, Tommy, I'm not
going to let her punish you as though you were ten.  If she forbids
you to meet me--well, you must just take French leave, that's all."

"Oh, Bob, you are a satisfying person!" said Cecilia, with a sigh.

"Well, I don't know--it's you who will have to stand the racket,"
said Bob.  "I only wish I could take my share, old girl.  But,
please goodness, it won't be for long."

"Bob," said Cecilia, and paused.  "What about that statement of
hers--that it would be illegal for you to take me away?  Do you
think it's true?"

"I've asked our Major, and he's a bit doubtful," said Bob.  "All
the other fellows say it's utter nonsense.  But I'm going to ask
the old lawyer chap who has charge of Aunt Margaret's money--he'll
tell me.  We won't bother about it, Tommy; if I can't get you
politely, I'll steal you.  Just forget the she-dragon and all her
works."

"But have you thought about what you are going to do?"

"I don't think of much else, and that's the truth, Tommy," said her
brother ruefully.  "You see, there's mighty little in sight.  I
could get a clerkship, I suppose.  I could certainly get work as a
day labourer.  But I don't see much in either of those possibilities
towards a little home with you, which is what I want.  I'm going to
answer every advertisement I can find for fellows wanted on farms."
He straightened his square shoulders.  "Tommy, there must be plenty
of work for any chap as strong as an ox, as I am."

"I'm sure there's work," said Cecilia.  "But the men who want jobs
don't generally advertise themselves as 'complete with sister.'
I'm what's technically known as an encumbrance, Bob."

"You!" said Bob.  "You're just part of the firm, so don't you
forget it.  Didn't we always arrange that we should stick
together?"

"We did--but it may not be easy to manage," Cecilia said,
doubtfully.  "Perhaps we could get some job together; I could do
inside work, or teach, or sew."

"No!" said Bob explosively.  "If I can't earn enough for us both, I
ought to be shot, Aunt Margaret didn't bring you up to work."

"But the world has turned upside down since Aunt Margaret died,"
said Cecilia.  "And I have worked pretty hard for the last two
years, Bob; and it hasn't hurt me."

"It has made you older--and you ought to be only a kid yet," said
Bob wistfully.  "You haven't had any of the fun girls naturally
ought to have.  I don't want you to slave all your time, Tommy."

"Bless you!" said his sister.  "But I wouldn't care a bit, as long
as it was near you--and not in Lancaster Gate."

They had turned across Hyde Park, where a big company of girl
guides was drilling, watched by a crowd of curious on-lookers.
Across a belt of grass some boy scouts were performing similar
evolutions, marching with all the extra polish and swagger they
could command, just to show the guides that girls were all very
well in their way, but that no one with skirts could really hope to
do credit to a uniform.  Cecilia paused to watch them.

"Thank goodness, the children can come and drill in the park
again!" she said.  "I hated to come here before the armistice--
soldiers, soldiers, drilling everywhere, and guns and searchlight
fixings.  Whenever I saw a squad drilling it made me think of you,
and of course I felt sure you'd be killed!"

"I do like people who look on the bright side of life!" said Bob
laughing.  "And whenever you saw an aeroplane I suppose you made
sure I was crashing somewhere?"

"Certainly I did," said his sister with dignity.

"Women are queer things," Bob remarked.  "If you had these
unpleasant beliefs, how did you manage to write as cheerfully as
you did?  Your letters were a scream--I used to read bits of 'em
out to the fellows."

"You had no business to do any such thing," said Cecilia, blushing.

"Well, I did, anyhow.  They used to make 'em yell.  How did you
manage them?"

"Well, it was no good assuring you you'd be killed," said Cecilia
practically.  "I thought it was more sensible to try to make you
laugh."

"You certainly did that," said Bob.  "I fancied from your letters
that life with the she-dragon was one huge joke, and that Papa was
nice and companionable, and the kids, sweet little darlings who ate
from your hand.  And all the time you were just the poor old toad
under the harrow!"

"I'm not a toad!" rejoined his sister indignantly.  "Don't you
think you could find pleasanter things to compare me to?"

"Toads aren't bad," said Bob, laughing.  "Ever seen the nice old
fellow in the Zoo who shoots out a tongue a yard long and picks up
a grub every time?  He's quite interesting."

"I certainly never had any inclination to do any such thing,"
Cecilia laughed.

They had turned into Piccadilly and were walking down, watching the
crowded motor traffic racing north and south.  Suddenly Bob
straightened up and saluted smartly, as a tall staff officer,
wearing a general's badges, ran down the steps of a big club, and
nearly cannoned into Cecilia.

"I beg your pardon!" he said--and then, noticing Bob--"How are you,
Rainham?"  He dived into a waiting taxi, and was whisked away.

"Did he bump you?" inquired Bob.

"No--though it would be almost a privilege to be bumped by anyone
as splendid as that!" Cecilia answered.  "He knows you, too!--who
is he, Bobby?"

"That's General Harran, the Australian," said Bob proudly.  "He's a
great man.  I've run into him occasionally since I've been with the
Australians in France."

"He looks nice."

"He is nice," replied Bob.  "Awful martinet about duty, but he
treats every one under him jolly well.  Never forgets a face or a
name, and he's always got a decent word for everybody.  He's had
some quite long talks to me, when we were waiting for some 'plane
or other to come back."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Cecilia, who considered it a privilege for
anyone to talk to her brother.

Bob regarded her in amazement.

"Good gracious!" he ejaculated.  "Why, he's a major-general; I can
tell you, most men of his rank haven't any use for small fry like
me--to talk to, that is."

Cecilia had a flash of memory.

"Isn't he the general who was close by when you brought that German
aeroplane down behind our lines?  Didn't he say nice things to you
about it?"

"Oh, that was only in the way of business," said Bob somewhat
confused.  "The whole thing was only a bit of luck--and, of course,
it was luck, too, that he was there.  But he is just as nice to
fellows who haven't had a chance like that."

Out of the crowd two more figures in Air Force uniform came,
charging at Bob with outstretched hands.

"By Jove, old chap!  What luck to meet you!"

They shook hands tumultuously, and Bob made them known to Cecilia--
comrades he had not seen for months, but with whom he had shared
many strange experiences in the years of war.  They fell into quick
talk, full of the queer jargon of the air.  The newcomers, it
appeared, had been with the army of occupation in Germany; there
seemed a thousand things they urgently desired to tell Bob within
the next few minutes.  One turned to Cecilia, presently, with a
laughing interpretation of some highly technical bit of slang.

"Oh, you needn't bother to translate to Tommy," Bob said.  "She
knows all about it."

The other boys suddenly gave her all their attention.

"Are you Tommy?  But we know you awfully well."

"Me?"  Cecilia turned pink.

"Rather.  We used to hear your letters."

The pink deepened to a fine scarlet.

"Bob!" said his sister reproachfully.  "You really shouldn't."

"Oh, don't say that," said the taller boy, by name Harrison.  "They
were a godsend--there used to be jolly little to laugh about,
pretty often, and your letters made us all yell.  Didn't they,
Billy?"

"They did," said Billy, who was small and curly-haired--and
incidentally a captain, with a little row of medal ribbons.
"Jolliest letters ever.  We passed a vote of thanks to you in the
mess, Miss Tommy, after old Bob here had gone.  Some one was to
write and tell him about it, but I don't believe anyone ever did.
I say, you must have had a cheery time--all the funny things that
ever happened seemed to come your way."

Cecilia stammered something, her scarlet confusion deepening.  A
rather grim vision of the war years swept across her mind--of the
ceaseless quest in papers and journals, and wherever people talked,
for "funny things" to tell Bob; and of how, when fact and rumour
gave out, she used to sit by her attic window at night, deliberately
inventing merry jests.  It had closely resembled a job of hard work
at the time; but apparently it had served its purpose well.  She
had made them laugh; and some one had told her that no greater
service could be rendered to the boys who risked death, and worse
than death, during every hour of the day and night.  But it was
extremely difficult to talk about it afterwards.

Bob took pity on her.

"I'll tell you just what sort of a cheery time she had, some time
or other," he remarked.  "What are you fellows doing this evening?"

"We were just going to ask you the same thing," declared Billy.
"Can't we all go and play about somewhere?  We've just landed, and
we want to be looked after.  Any theatres in this little town
still?"

"Cheer-oh!" ejaculated Billy.  "Let's all go and find out."

So they went, and managed very successfully to forget war and even
stepmothers.  They were all little more than children in enjoyment
of simple pleasures still, since war had fallen upon them at the
very threshold of life, cutting them off from all the cheery
happenings that are the natural inheritance of all young things.
The years that would ordinarily have seen them growing tired of
play had been spent in grim tasks; now they were children again,
clamouring for the playtime they had lost.  They found enormous
pleasure in the funny little French restaurant, where Madame, a
lady whose sympathies were as boundless as her waist, welcomed them
with wide smiles, delighting in the broken French of Billy and
Harrison, and deftly tempting them to fresh excursions in her
language.  She put a question in infantile French to Bob presently,
whereupon that guileless youth, with a childlike smile, answered
her with a flood of idiomatic phrases, in an accent purer than her
own--collapsing with helpless laughter at her amazed face.  After
which, Madame neglected her other patrons to hover about their
table like a stout, presiding goddess, guiding them gently to the
best dishes on the menu, and occasionally putting aside their own
selection with a hasty, "Mon-non; you vill not like that one to-
day."  She patted Cecilia in a motherly fashion at parting, and
their bill was only about half what it should have been.

They found a musical comedy, and laughed their way through it--
Billy and Harrison had apparently no cares in the world, and Bob
and Cecilia were caught up in the whirl of their high spirits, so
that anything became a huge joke.  The evening flew by on airy
wings, when Billy insisted on taking them to supper after the
theatre.  Cecilia allowed herself a fleeting vision of Mrs.
Rainham, and then, deciding that she might as well be hanged for a
sheep as a lamb, followed gaily.  And supper was so cheery a meal
that she forgot all about time--until, just at the end, she caught
sight of the restaurant clock.

"Half-past eleven!  Oh, Bobby!"

"Well, if it is--you poor little old Cinderella," said Bob.

But he hurried her away, for all that, amid a chorus of farewells
and efforts, on the part of Billy and Harrison, to arrange further
meetings.  They ran to the nearest tube station, and dived into its
depths; and, after being whisked underground for a few minutes,
emerged into the cool night.  Cecilia slipped her arm through her
brother's as they hurried along the empty street.

"Now, you keep your nose in the air," Bobby told her.  "You aren't
exactly a kid now, and she can't really do anything to you.  Oh, by
Jove--I was thinking, in the theatre, she might interfere with our
letters."

"She's quite equal to it," said Cecilia.

"Just what she'd revel in doing.  Well, you can easily find out.
I'll write to you to-morrow, and again the next day--just ordinary
letters, with nothing particular in them except an arrangement to
meet next Saturday.  If you don't get them you'll know she's
getting at the mail first."

"What shall I do, then?"

"Drop me a line--or, better still, wire to me," said Bob.  "Just
say, 'Address elsewhere.'  Then I'll write to you at Mr.
M'Clinton's; the old solicitor chap in Lincoln's Inn; and you'll
have to go there and get the letters.  You know his address, don't
you?"

"Oh, yes.  I have to write to him every quarter when he sends me my
allowance.  You'll explain to him, then, Bob, or he'll simply
redirect your letters here."

"Oh, of course.  I want to go and see the old chap, anyhow, to talk
over Aunt Margaret's affairs.  I might as well know a little more
about them.  Tommy, the she-dragon can't actually lock you up, can
she?"

"No--it couldn't be done," said Cecilia.  "Modern houses aren't
built with dungeons and things.  Moreover, if she tried to keep me
in the house she would have to take the children out for their
walks herself; and she simply hates walking."

"Then you can certainly post to me, and get my letters, and I'll be
up again as soon as ever I can.  Buck up, old girl--it can't be for
long now."

They turned in at the Rainhams' front gate, and Cecilia glanced up
apprehensively.  All the windows were in darkness; the grey front
of the house loomed forbiddingly in the faint moonlight.

"You're coming in, aren't you?" she asked, her hand tightening on
his arm.

"Rather--we'll take the edge off her tongue together."  Bob rang
the bell.  "Wonder if they have all gone to bed.  The place looks
pretty dark."

"She's probably in the little room at the back--the one she calls
her boudoir."

"Horrible little den, full of bamboo and draperies and pampas
grass--I know," nodded Bob.  "Well, either she's asleep or she
thinks it's fun to keep us on the mat.  I'll try her again."  He
pressed the bell, and the sound of its whirring echoed through the
silent house.



CHAPTER IV

COMING HOME


The bolt grated, as if grudgingly, and slowly the door opened as
far as the limits of its chain would permit, and Mrs. Rainham's
face appeared in the aperture.  She glared at them for a minute
without speaking.

"So you have come home?" she said at last.  The chain fell, and the
door opened.  "I wonder you trouble to come home at all.  May I ask
where you have been?"

"She has been with me, Mrs. Rainham," Bob said cheerfully.  "May I
come in?"

Mrs. Rainham did not move.  She held the door half open, blocking
the way.

"It is far too late for me to ask you in," she answered frigidly.
"Cecilia can explain her conduct, I presume."

"Oh, there's really nothing to explain," Bob answered.  "It was so
late when she got out this afternoon that I kept her--why, it was
after half-past four before she was dressed."

"I told her to be in for tea."

"Yes; but I felt sure you couldn't realize how late she was in
getting out," said Bob in a voice of honey.

"That was entirely her own mismanagement--" began the hard tones.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Rainham; really it wasn't," said Cecilia mildly.
"Your accompaniments, you remember--your dress--your music," she
stopped, in amazement at herself.  It was rarely indeed that she
answered any accusation of her stepmother's.  But to be on the mat
at midnight, with Bob in support, seemed to give her extraordinary
courage.

"You see, Mrs. Rainham, there seems to have been quite a number of
little details that Cecilia couldn't mismanage," said Bob,
following up the advantage.  It was happily evident that his
stepmother's rage was preventing her from speaking, and, as he
remarked later, there was no knowing when he would ever get such a
chance again.  "She really needed rest.  I'm sure you'll agree that
every one is entitled to some free time.  Of course, you couldn't
possibly have realized that it was a week since she had been off
duty."

"It's her business to do what I tell her," said Mrs. Rainham,
finding her voice, in an explosive fashion that made a passing
policeman glance up curiously.  "She knew I had company, and
expected her help.  I had to see to the children's tea myself.  And
how do I know where she's been?--gallivanting round to all sorts of
places!  I tell you, young lady, you needn't think you're going to
walk in here at midnight as if nothing was the matter."

"I never expected to," said Cecilia cheerfully.  "But it was worth
it."

Bob regarded her in solemn admiration.

"I don't think we gallivanted at all reprehensibly," he said.
"Just dinner and a theatre.  I haven't made much claim to her time
during the last four years, Mrs. Rainham; surely I'm entitled to a
little of it now."

"You!"  Mrs. Rainham's tone was vicious.  "You don't give her a
home, do you?  And as long as I do, she'll do what I tell her."

"No; I don't give her a home--yet," said Bob very quietly.  "But I
very soon will, I assure you; and meanwhile, she earns a good deal
more than her keep in her father's house.  You can't treat her
worse than your servants--"

Cecilia suddenly turned to him.

"Ah, don't, Bob darling.  It doesn't matter--truly--not a bit."
With the end of the long penance before her, it seemed beyond the
power of the angry woman in the doorway to hurt her much.  What she
could not bear was that their happy evening should be spoiled by
hard and cruel words at its close.  Bob's face, that had been so
merry, was sterner than she had ever seen it, all its boyishness
gone.  She put up her own face, and kissed him.

"Good night--you mustn't stay any longer.  I'll be all right."  She
whispered a few quick words of French, begging him to go, and Bob,
though unwillingly, gave in.

"All right," he said.  "Go to bed, little 'un.  I'll do as I
promised about writing."  He saluted Mrs. Rainham stiffly.  "You'll
remember, Mrs. Rainham, that she stayed out solely at my wish--I
take full responsibility, and I'll be ready to tell my father so."
The door closed behind Cecilia, and he strode away down the street,
biting his lip.  He felt abominably as though he had deserted the
little sister--and yet, what else could he do?  One could not
remain for ever, brawling on a doorstep at midnight--and Tommy had
begged him to go.  Still--

"Hang it!" he said viciously.  "If she were only a decent Hun to
fight!"

In the grim house in Lancaster Gate Cecilia was facing the music
alone.  She listened unmoved, as she had listened many times
before, to the catalogue of her sins and misdeeds--only she had
never seen her stepmother quite so angry.  Finally, a door above
opened, and Mark Rainham looked out, his dull, colourless face
weakly irritable.

"I wish you'd stop that noise, and let the girl go to bed," he
said.  "Come here, Cecilia."

She went to him hesitating, and he looked at her with a spark of
compassion.  Then he kissed her.

"Good night," he said, as though he had called her to him simply to
say it, and not to separate her from the furious woman who stood
looking at them.  "Run off to bed, now--no more talking."  Cecilia
ran upstairs obediently.  Behind her, as she neared her attic, she
heard her stepmother's voice break out anew.

"Just fancy Papa!" she muttered.  Any mother sensations were lost
in wonder at her father's actually having intervened.  The
incredible thing had happened.  For a moment she felt a wave of
pity for him, left alone to face the shrill voice.  Then she
shrugged her shoulders.

"Ah, well--he married her," she said.  "I suppose he has had it
many a time.  Perhaps he knows how to stop it--I don't!"  She
laughed, turning the key in the lock, and sitting down beside the
open window.  The glamour of her happy evening was still upon her;
even the scene with her stepmother had not had power to chase it
away.  The scene was only to be expected; the laughter of the
evening was worth so every-day a penalty.  And the end of Mrs.
Rainham's rule was nearly in sight.  Not even to herself for a
moment would she admit that there was any possibility of Bob
failing to "make good" and take her away.

She went downstairs next morning to an atmosphere of sullen
resentment.  Her father gave her a brief, abstracted nod, in
response to her greeting, and went on with his bacon and his Daily
Mail; her stepmother's forbidding expression checked any attempt at
conversation.  The children stared at her with a kind of malevolent
curiosity; they knew that a storm had been brewing for her the
night before, and longed to know just how thoroughly she had
"caught it."  Eliza, bringing in singed and belated toast, looked
at her with pity, tinged with admiration.  Cook and she had been
awakened at midnight by what was evidently, in the words of Cook,
"a perfickly 'orrible bust-up," and knowing Cecilia to have been
its object, Eliza looked at her as one may look who expects to see
the scars of battle.  Finding none, but receiving instead a
cheerful smile, she returned to the kitchen, and reported to Cook
that Miss Cecilia was "nuffink less than a neroine."

But as that day and the next wore on, Cecilia found it difficult to
be cheerful.  That she was in disgrace was very evident, Mrs.
Rainham said no more about her sins of the night before; instead,
she showed her displeasure by a kind of cold rudeness that gave a
subtle insult to her smallest remark.  The children were manifestly
delighted.  Cecilia was more or less in the position of a beetle on
a pin, and theirs was the precious opportunity of seeing her
wriggle.  Wherefore they adopted their mother's tone, openly defied
her, and turned school-hours into a pandemonium.

Cecilia at last gave up the attempt to keep order.  She opened her
desk and took out her knitting.

"Well, this is all very pleasant," she said, calmly.  "You seem
determined to do no work at all, so I can only hope that in time
you will get tired of being idle.  I can't attempt to teach you any
more.  I am quite ready, however, if you bring your lessons to me."

"You'll get into a nice row from the Mater," jeered Wilfred.

"Very possibly.  She may even punish me by finding another
governess," said Cecilia, with a twinkle.  "However that may be, I
do not feel compelled to talk to such rude little children as you
any more.  When you are able to speak politely you may come to me
for anything you want; until then, I shall not answer you."  She
bent her attention to the mysteries of heel-turning.

The children were taken aback.  To pinprick with rudeness a victim
who answered back was entertaining; but there was small fun in
baiting anybody who sat silently knitting with a half-smile of
contempt at the corners of her mouth.  They gave it up after a
time, and considered the question of going out; a pleasant thing to
do, only that their mother had laid upon them a special injunction
not to leave Cecilia, and she was in a mood that made disobedience
extremely dangerous.  Cecilia quite understood that she was being
watched.  No letters had yet come from Bob, and she knew that her
stepmother had been hovering near the letter-box whenever the
postman had called.  Mrs. Rainham had accompanied them on their
walk the day before; a remark of Avice's revealed that she meant to
do so again to-day.

"It's all so silly," the girl said to herself.  "If I chose to dive
into a tube station or board a motor-bus she couldn't stop me;
and she can't go on watching me and intercepting my letters
indefinitely.  I suppose she will get tired of it after a while."
But meanwhile she found the spying rather amusing.  Avice popped up
unexpectedly if she went near the front door; Wilfred's bullet head
peeped in through the window whenever she fancied herself alone in
the schoolroom.  Only her attic was safe--since to spy upon it
would have required an aeroplane.

The third day brought no letter from Bob.  Cecilia asked for her
mail when she went down to breakfast, and was met by a blank stare
from her stepmother--"I suppose if there had been any letters for
you they would be on your plate."  She flushed a little under the
girl's direct gaze, and turned her attention to Queenie's table
manners, which were at all times peculiar; and Cecilia sat down
with a faint smile.  It was time to obey orders and telegraph to
Bob.

She planned how to do it, during a long morning when the children
actually did some work--since to be rude or idle meant that their
teacher immediately retired into her shell of silence, and knitted,
and life became too dull.  To employ Eliza was her first thought--
rejected, since it seemed unlikely that Eliza would be able to get
time off to go out.  If Mrs. Rainham's well-known dislike for
walking proved too strong for her desire to watch her stepdaughter,
it would be easy enough to do it during the afternoon; but this
hope proved vain, for when she appeared in the hall with her
charges at three o'clock the lady of the house sailed from the
drawing-room, ready for the march.  They moved off in procession;
Mrs. Rainham leading the way, with Avice and Wilfred, while Cecilia
brought up the rear, holding Queenie's podgy hand.

She had telegraph forms in her desk, and the message, already
written, and even stamped, was in the pocket of her coat.  There
was nothing for it but to act boldly, and accordingly, when they
entered a street in which there was a post office, she let Queenie
lag until they were a little distance behind the others.  Then, as
they reached the post office, she turned sharply in.

"Wait a minute, Queenie."

She thrust her message across the counter hurriedly.  The clerk on
duty was provokingly slow; he finished checking a document, and
then lounged across to the window and took the form, running over
it leisurely.

"Oh, you've got the stamps on.  All right," he said, and turned
away just as quick steps were heard, and Mrs. Rainham bustled in,
panting.

"What are you doing?"

Cecilia met her with steady eyes.

"Nothing wrong, I assure you."  She had had visions of covering her
real purpose by buying stamps--but rejected it with a shrug.

"Thethilia gave the man a pieth of paper!" said Queenie shrilly.

"What was it?  I demand to know!" cried Mrs. Rainham.  She turned
to the clerk, who stood open-mouthed, holding the telegram in his
hand.  "Show me that telegram.  I am this young lady's guardian."

The clerk grinned broadly.  The stout and angry lady made no appeal
to him, and Cecilia was a pretty girl, and moreover her telegram
was for a flying captain.  The clerk wore a returned soldier's
badge himself.  He fell back on Regulations.

"Can't be done, ma'am.  The message is all in order."

"Let me see it."

"Much as my billet's worth, if I did," said the clerk.  "Property
of the Postmaster-General now, ma'am.  Couldn't even give it back
to the young lady."

"I'll report you!" Mrs. Rainham fumed.

"Do, ma'am.  I'll get patted on the head for doin' me duty."  The
clerk's grin widened.  Cecilia wished him good afternoon gravely,
and slipped out of the office, pursued by her stepmother.

"What was in that telegram?"

"It was to my brother."

"What was in it?"

"It was to Bob, and that is guarantee that there was nothing wrong
in it," Cecilia said steadily.  "It was on private business."

"You have no right to have any business that I do not know about."

Cecilia found her temper rising.

"My father may have the power to say that--I do not know," she
said.  "But you have none, Mrs. Rainham."

"I'll let you see whether I have the right!" her stepmother blazed.
"For two pins, young lady, I'd lock you up."

Cecilia laughed outright.

"Ah, that's not done now," she said.  "You really couldn't, Mrs.
Rainham--especially as I have done nothing wrong."  She dropped her
voice--passers-by were looking with interest at the elder woman's
face.  "Why not let me go?  You do not approve of me--let me find
another position."

"You'll stay in your father's house," Mrs. Rainham said.  "We'll
see what the law has to say to your leaving with your precious Bob.
Your father's your legal guardian, and in his control you stay
until you're twenty-one, and be very thankful to make yourself
useful.  The law will deal with Bob if he tries to take you away--
you're a minor, and it'd be abduction."  The word had a pleasantly
legal flavour; she repeated it with emphasis.  "Abduction; that's
what it is, and there's a nice penalty for it.  Now you know, and
if you don't want to get Bob into trouble, you'd best be careful."

Cecilia had grown rather white.  The law was a great and terrible
instrument, of which she knew nothing.  It seemed to have swallowed
up Aunt Margaret's money; it might very well have left her
defenceless.  Her stepmother seemed familiar with its powers, and
able to evoke them at will; and though she did not trust her, there
was something in her glib utterance that struck fear into the
girl's heart.  She did not answer, and Mrs. Rainham followed up her
advantage.

"We'll go home," she said.  "And you make up your mind to tell me
what was in that telegram, and not to have any secrets from me.
One thing I can tell you--until you decide to behave yourself--Bob
shan't show his nose in my house, and you shan't go out to meet
him, either.  He only leads you into mischief; I don't consider he
has at all a good influence over you.  The sooner he's away
somewhere, earning his own living in a proper manner, the better
for every one; and it'll be many a long day before he can give you
as good a home as you've got now."  She paused for breath.
"Anyhow, he's not going to have the chance," she finished grimly.



CHAPTER V

THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL


"Is Mr. M'Clinton in?"

The clerk, in a species of rabbit hutch, glanced out curiously at
the young flying officer.

"Yes; but he's very busy.  Have you an appointment?"

"No--I got leave unexpectedly.  Just take him my card, will you?"

The clerk handed the card to another clerk, who passed it to an
office-boy, who disappeared with it behind a heavy oaken door.  He
came back presently.

"Mr. M'Clinton will see you in ten minutes, if you can wait, sir."

"I'll wait," said Bob, sitting down upon a high stool.  "Got a
paper?"

"To-day's Times is here, sir."  He whisked off, to return in a
moment with the paper, neatly folded.

"You'll find a more comfortable seat behind the screen, sir."

"Thanks," said Bob, regarding him with interest--he was so dapper,
so alert, so all that an office-boy in a staid lawyer's
establishment ought to be.  "How old might you be?"

"Fourteen, sir."

"And are you going to grow into a lawyer?"

"I'm afraid I'll never do that, sir," said the office-boy gravely.
"I may be head clerk, perhaps.  But--" he stopped, confused.

"But what?"

"I'd rather fly, sir, than anything in the world!"  He looked
worshippingly at Bob's uniform.  "If the war had only not stopped
before I was old enough, I might have had a chance!"

"Oh, you'll have plenty of chances," Bob told him consolingly.  "In
five years' time you'll be taking Mr. M'Clinton's confidential
papers across to Paris in an aeroplane--and bringing him back a
reply before lunch!"

"Do you think so, sir?"  The office-boy's eyes danced.  Suddenly he
resumed his professional gravity.

"I must get back to my work, sir."  He disappeared behind another
partition; the office seemed to Bob to be divided into water-tight
compartments, in each of which he imagined that a budding lawyer or
head clerk was being brought up by hand.  It was all rather grim
and solid and forbidding.  To Bob the law had always been full of
mystery; this grey, silent office, in the heart of the city, was a
fitting place for it.  He felt a little chill at his heart, a
foreboding that no comfort could come of his mission there.

The inner door opened, after a little while, and a woman in black
came out.  She passed hurriedly through the outer office, pulling
down her veil over a face that showed traces of tears.  Bob looked
after her compassionately.

"Poor soul!" he thought.  "She's had her gruel, evidently.  Now I
suppose I'll get mine."

A bell whirred sharply.  The alert office-boy sprang to the
summons, returning immediately.

"Mr. M'Clinton can see you now, sir."

Bob followed him through the oaken door, and along a narrow passage
to a room where a spare, grizzled man sat at a huge roll-top desk.
He rose as the boy shut the door behind his visitor.

"Well, Captain Rainham.  How do you do?"

Bob gripped the lean hand offered him--it felt like a claw in his
great palm.  Then he sat down and looked uncomfortably at the
lawyer.

"I had thought to have seen you here before, Captain."

"I suppose I should have shown up," said Bob--concealing the fact
that the idea had never occurred to him.  "But I've been very busy
since I've been back to England."

"And what brings you now?"

"I'm all but demobilized," Bob told him, "and I'm trying to get
employment."

"What--in this office?"

"Heavens, no!" ejaculated Bob, and at once turned a fine red.
"That is--I beg your pardon, sir; but I'm afraid I'm not cut out
for an office.  I want to get something to do in the country, where
I can support my sister."

"Your sister?  But does not your father support her?  She is an
inmate of his house, is she not?"

"Very much so," said Bob bitterly.  "She's governess, and lady-
help, and a good many other things.  You couldn't call it a home.
Besides, we have always been together.  I want to take her away."

"And what does your father say?"

"He says she mustn't go.  At least, that's what my stepmother says,
so my father will certainly say it too."

"Your sister is under age, I think?"

"She's just nineteen--I'm over twenty-two.  Can my father prevent
her going with me, sir?"

"Mph," said the lawyer, pondering.  "Do I gather that the young
lady is unhappy?"

"If she isn't, it's because she has pluck enough for six people,
and because she always hopes to get away."

"And do you consider that you could support her?"

"I don't know," said Bob unhappily.  "I would certainly have
thought I could, but there seems mighty little chance for a fellow
whose only qualification is that he's been fighting Huns for nearly
five years.  I've answered advertisements and interviewed people
until my brain reels; but there's nothing in it, and I can't leave
Tommy there."

"Tommy?" queried the lawyer blankly.

Bob laughed.

"My sister, I mean, sir.  Her name's Cecilia, but, of course, we've
never called her that.  Even Aunt Margaret called her Tommy."

Mr. M'Clinton made no reply.  He thought deeply for a few moments.
Then he looked up, and there was a glint of kindness in his hard
grey eyes.

"I think you had better tell me all about it, Captain Rainham.
Would it assist you to smoke?"

"Thanks awfully, sir," said Bob, accepting the proffered cigarette.
He plunged into his story; and if at times it was a trifle
incoherent, principally from honest wrath, yet on the whole
Cecilia's case lost nothing in the telling.  The lawyer nodded from
time to time, comprehendingly.

"Aye," he said at last, when Bob paused.  "Just so, just so.  And
why did you come to me, Captain?"

"I want your advice, sir," Bob answered.  "And I should like to
know something about my aunt's property--if I can hope for any help
from that source.  I should have more chance of success if I had a
little capital to start with.  But I understand that most of it was
lost.  My father seemed very disappointed over the small amount she
left."  He hesitated.  "But apart from money, I should like to know
if I am within the law in taking my sister away."

Mr. M'Clinton thought deeply before replying.

"I had better speak frankly to you, Captain Rainham," he said.
"Your aunt, as you probably know, did not like your father.  I am
not sure that she actually distrusted him.  But she considered him
weak and indolent, and she recognized that he was completely under
the thumb of his second wife.  Your late aunt, my old friend, had
an abhorrence for that lady that was quaint, considering that she
had scarcely ever seen her."  He permitted himself the ghost of a
smile.  "She was deeply afraid of any of her property coming under
the control of your father--and through him, of his wife.  And so
she tied up her money very carefully.  She left direct to you and
your sister certain assets.  The rest of her property she left, in
trust, to me."

"To you, sir?"

"Aye.  Very carefully tied up, too," said Mr. M'Clinton, with a
twinkle.  "I can't make ducks and drakes of it, no matter how much
I may wish to.  It is tied up until your sister comes of age.  Then
my trust ceases."

"By Jove!"  Bob stared at him.  "Then--do we get something?"

"Certainly.  Unfortunately, many of your aunt's investments were
very hard hit through the war.  Certain stocks which paid large
dividends ceased to pay altogether; others fell to very little.
The sum left to you and your sister for immediate use should have
been very much larger, but all that is left of it is the small
allowance paid to you both.  I imagine that a smart young officer
like yourself found it scarcely sufficient for tobacco."

"I've saved it all," said Bob simply.  "A bit more, too."

"Saved it!" said the lawyer in blank amazement.  "Do you tell me,
now?  You lived on your pay?"

"Flying pay's pretty good," said Bob.  "And there was always Tommy
to think of, you know, sir.  I had to put something away for her,
in case I crashed."

"Dear me," said Mr. M'Clinton.  "Your aunt had great confidence in
you as a boy, and it seems she was justified.  I'm very glad to
hear this, Captain, for it enables me to do with a clear conscience
something which I have the power to do.  There is a discretionary
clause in your aunt's will, which gives me power to realize a
certain sum of money, should you need it.  I could hand you over
about three thousand pounds."

"Three thousand!"  Bob stared at him blankly.

"Aye.  And I see no reason why I should not do it--provided I am
satisfied as to the use you will make of it.  As a matter of form I
should like a letter from your commanding officer, testifying to
your general character."

"That's easy enough," said Bob.  "But--three thousand!  My hat,
what a difference it will make to Tommy and me!  Poor old Aunt
Margaret--I might have known she'd look after us."

"She loved you very dearly.  And now, Captain, about your sister."

"She's the big thing," said Bob.  "Can I kidnap her?"

"It's rather difficult to say just how your father might act.  Left
to himself, I do not believe he would do anything.  But urged by
your stepmother, he might make trouble.  And the good lady is more
likely to make trouble if she suspects that there is any money
coming to your sister."

"That's very certain," Bob remarked.  "I wish to goodness I could
get her right out of England, sir.  How about Canada?"

The lawyer pondered.

"Do you know any one there?"

"Not a soul.  But I suppose one could get introductions.  And one
can always get Government expert advice there, I believe, to
prevent one chucking away one's money foolishly."

Mr. M'Clinton nodded approvingly.

"I don't know, but you might do worse," he said.  "I believe in
these new countries for young people; the old ones are getting
overcrowded and worn out.  And your relations are likely to give
trouble if you are within their reach.  A terrible woman, that
stepmother of yours; a terrible woman.  She came to see me with
your father; he said nothing, but she talked like a mill-race.
Miss Tommy has my full sympathy.  A brawling woman in a wide house,
as the Scripture says.  I reproach myself, Captain, that I did not
inquire personally into Miss Tommy's well-being.  She told you
nothing of her trials, you say, during the war?"

"Not a word.  Wrote as if life were a howling joke always.  I only
found out for myself by accident a few months ago."

"A brave lassie.  Well, I'll do what I can to help you, Captain.
I'll keep a lookout for a likely land investment for your money,
and endeavour to prepare a good legal statement to frighten Mrs.
Rainham if she objects to your taking your sister away.  Much may
be done by bluffing, especially if you do it very solemnly and
quietly.  So keep a good heart, and come and see me next time
you're in London.  Miss Tommy will be in any day, I presume, after
the telegram you told me about?"

"Sure to be," said Bob.  "She'll be anxious for her letters.  I'm
leaving one for her, if you don't mind, and I'll write to her again
to-night."  He got up, holding out his hand.  "Good-bye--and I
don't know how to thank you, sir."

"Bless the boy--you've nothing to thank me for," said the lawyer.
"Just send me that letter from your commanding officer, and
remember that there's no wild hurry about plans--Miss Tommy can
stand for a few weeks longer what she has borne for two years."

"I suppose she can--but I don't want her to," Bob said.

The brisk office-boy showed him out, and he marched down the grey
streets near Lincoln's Inn with his chin well up.  Life had taken a
sudden and magical turn for the better.  Three thousand pounds!--
surely that meant no roughing it for Tommy, but a comfortable home
and a chance of success in life.  It seemed a sum of enormous
possibilities.  Everything was very vague still, but at least the
money was certain--it seemed like fairy gold.  He felt a sudden
desire to get away somewhere, with Tommy, away from crowded England
to a country where a man could breathe; his heart rejoiced at the
idea, just as he had often exulted when his aeroplane had lifted
him away from the crowded, buzzing camp, into the wide, free places
of the air.  Canada called to him temptingly.  His brain was
seething with plans to go there when, waiting for a chance to cross
a crowded thoroughfare, he heard his own name.

"Asleep, Rainham?"

Bob looked up with a start.  General Harran, the Australian, was
beside him, also waiting for a break in the crawling string of
motor-buses and taxi-cabs.  He was smiling under his close-clipped
moustache.

"I beg your pardon, sir," stammered the boy, coming to the salute
stiffly.  "I was in a brown study, I believe."

"You looked it.  I spoke to you twice before you heard me.  What is
it?--demobilization problems?"

"Just that, sir," said Bob, grinning.  "Most of us have got them, I
suppose--fellows of my age, anyhow.  It's a bit difficult to come
down to earth again, after years spent in the air."

"Very difficult," Harran agreed gravely.  He glanced down with
interest at the alert face and square-built figure of the boy
beside him.  There were so many of them, these boys who had played
with Death for years.  They have saved their country from horror
and ruin, and now it seemed very doubtful if their country wanted
them.  They were in every town in England, looking for work; their
pitiful, plucky advertisements greeted the eye in every newspaper.
The problem of their future interested General Harran keenly.  He
liked his boys; their freshness and pluck and unspoiled enthusiasm
had been a tonic to him during the long years of war.  Now it hurt
him that they should be looking for the right to live.

"I'm just going to lunch, Rainham," he said.  "Would you care to
come with me?"

Bob lifted a quaintly astonished face.

"Thanks, awfully, sir," he stammered.

"Then jump on this 'bus, and we'll go to my club," said the
General, swinging his lean, athletic body up the stairs of a
passing motor-'bus as he spoke.  Bob followed, and they sped,
rocking, through the packed traffic until the General, who had sat
in silence, jumped up, threaded his way downstairs, and dropped to
the ground again from the footboard of the hurrying 'bus--with a
brief shake of the head to the conductor, who was prepared to check
the speed of his craft to accommodate a passenger with such
distinguished badges of rank.  Bob was on the ground almost as
quickly, and they turned out of the crowded street into a quieter
one that presently led them into a silent square, where dignified
grey houses looked out upon green trees, and the only traffic was
that of gliding motors.  General Harran led the way into one of the
grey houses, up the steps of which officers were constantly coming
and going.  A grizzled porter in uniform, with the Crimean medal on
his tunic, swung the door open and came smartly to attention as
they passed through.  The General greeted him kindly.

"How are you, O'Shea?  The rheumatism better?"

"It is, sir, thank you."  They passed on, through a great hall
lined with oil-paintings of famous soldiers, and trophies of big
game from all over the world; for this was a Service club, bearing
a proud record of soldier and sailor members for a hundred years.
Presently they were in the dining-room, already crowded.  The
waiter found them a little table in a quiet corner.

There was a sprinkling of men whom Bob already knew; he caught
several friendly nods of recognition us he glanced round.  Then
General Harran pointed out others to him--Generals, whose names
were household words in England--a notable Admiral, and a Captain
with the V.C. ribbon--earned at Zeebrugge.  He seemed to know every
one, and once or twice he left his seat to speak to a friend--
during which absence Bob's friends shot him amazed glances, with
eyebrows raised in astonishment that he should be lunching with a
real Major-General.  Bob was somewhat tongue-tied with bewilderment
over the fact himself.  But when their cold beef came, General
Harran soon put him at his ease, leading him to talk of himself and
his plans with quiet tact.  Before Bob fairly realized it he had
unfolded all his little story--even to Tommy and her hardships.
The General listened with interest.

"And was it Tommy I saw you with on Saturday?"

"Yes, sir.  She was awfully interested because it was you," blurted
Bob.  "You see, she and I have always been pals.  I'm jolly keen to
get some place to take her to."

"And you think of Canada.  Why?"

"Well--I really don't know, except that it would be out of reach of
England and unpleasantness," Bob answered.  "And my money would go
a lot further there than here, wouldn't it, sir?  Three thousand
won't buy much of a place in England--not to make one's living by,
I mean."

"That's true.  I advise every youngster to get out to one of the
new countries, and, of course, a man with a little capital has a
far greater chance.  But why Canada?  Why not Australia?"

"There's no reason why not," said Bob laughing.  "Only it seems
further away.  I don't know more of one country than the other--
except the sort of vague idea we all have that Canada is all cold
and Australia all heat!"

General Harran laughed.

"Yes--the average Englishman's ideas about the new countries are
pretty sketchy," he said.  "People always talk to me about the
fearfully hot climate of Australia, and seem mildly surprised if I
remark that we have about a dozen different climates, and that we
have snow and ice, and very decent winter sports, in Victoria.  I
don't think they believe me, either.  But seriously, Rainham, if
you have no more leaning towards one country than the other, why
not think of Australia?  I could help you there, if you like."

"You, sir!" Bob stammered.

"Well, I can pull strings.  I dare say I could manage a passage out
for you and your sister--you see, you were serving with the
Australians, and you're both desirable immigrants--young and
energetic people with a little capital.  That would be all right, I
think, especially now that the first rush is over.  And I could
give you plenty of introductions in Australia to the right sort of
people.  You ought to see something of the country, and what the
life and work are, before investing your money.  It would be easy
enough to get you on to a station or big farm--you to learn the
business, and your sister to teach or help in the house.  She
wouldn't mind that for about a year, with nice people, would she?"

"Not she!" said Bob.  "It was her own idea, in fact; only I didn't
want to let her work.  But I can see that it might be best.  Only I
don't know how to thank you, sir--I never imagined--"

General Harran cut him short.

"Don't worry about that.  If I can help you, or any of the flying
boys, out of a difficulty, and at the same time get the right type
of settlers for Australia--she needs them badly--then I'm doing a
double-barrelled job that I like.  But see here--do I understand
that what you really want to do is to take your sister without
giving your father warning?  To kidnap her, in short?"

"I don't see anything else to do, sir.  I spoke to him a while ago
about taking her away, and he only hummed and hawed and said he'd
consult Mrs. Rainham.  And my stepmother will never let her go as
long as she can keep her as a drudge.  We owe them nothing--he's
never been a father to us, and as for my stepmother--well, she
should owe Tommy for two years' hard work.  But honestly, to all
intents and purposes, they are strangers to us--it seems absolutely
ridiculous that we should be controlled by them."

"You say your aunt's family lawyer approves?"

"Yes, or he wouldn't let me have the money.  I could get him to see
you, sir, if you like; though I don't see why you should be
bothered about us," said Bob flushing.

"Give me his address--I'll look in on him next time I'm in
Lincoln's Inn," said the General.  "Your own, too.  Now, if I get
you and your sister passages on a troopship, can you start at short
notice--say forty-eight hours?"

Bob gasped, but recovered himself.  After all, his training in the
air had taught him to make swift decisions.

"Any time after the fifteenth, sir.  I'll be demobilized then, and
a free agent.  I'll get my kit beforehand."

"Don't get much," counselled the General.  "You can travel in
uniform--take flannels for the tropics; everything you need in
Australia you can get just as well, or better, out there.  Most
fellows who go out take tons of unnecessary stuff.  Come into the
smoking-room and give me a few more details."

They came out upon the steps of the club a little later.  Bob's
head was whirling.  He tried to stammer out more thanks and was cut
short, kindly but decisively.

"That's all right, my boy.  I'll send you letters of introduction
to various people who will help you, and a bit of advice about
where to go when you land.  Tell your sister not to be nervous--she
isn't going to a wild country, and the people there are much the
same as anywhere else.  Now, good-bye, and good luck"; and Bob
found himself walking across the Square in a kind of solemn
amazement.

"This morning I was thinking of getting taken on as a farm hand in
Devonshire, with Tommy somewhere handy in a labourer's cottage," he
pondered.  "And now I'm a bloated capitalist, and Tommy and I are
going across the world to Australia as calmly as if we were off to
Margate for the day!  Well, I suppose it's only a dream, and I'll
wake up soon.  I guess I'd better go back and tell Mr. M'Clinton;
and I've got to see Tommy somehow."  He bent his brows over the
problem as he turned towards Lincoln's Inn.



CHAPTER VI

SAILING ORDERS


"Are you there, miss?"

The sepulchral whisper came faintly to Cecilia's ears as she sat in
her little room, sewing a frock of Queenie's.  The children were
out in the garden at the back of the house.  Mrs. Rainham was
practising in the drawing-room.  The sound of a high trill floated
upwards as she opened the door.

"What is it, Eliza?"

"It's a letter, miss.  A kid brought it to the kitchen door--a bit
of a boy.  Arsked for me as if 'e'd known me all 'is life--called
me Elizer!  'E's waitin' for an answer.  I'll wait in me room,
miss, till you calls me."  The little Cockney girl slipped away,
revelling in furthering any scheme to defeat Mrs. Rainham and help
Cecilia.

Cecilia opened the letter hurriedly.  It contained only one line.

"Can you come at once to Lincoln's Inn?  Important.--BOB."

Cecilia knitted her brows.  It was nearly a month since the
memorable evening when she and Bob had revolted; and though she was
still made to feel herself in disgrace, and she knew her letters
were watched, the close spying upon her movements had somewhat
relaxed.  It had been too uncomfortable for Mrs. Rainham to keep it
up, since it made heavy demands upon her own time, and interfered
with too many plans; moreover, in spite of it, Cecilia had slipped
away from the house two or three times, going and coming openly,
and replying to any questions by the simple answer that she had
been to meet Bob.  Angry outbreaks on the part of her stepmother
she received in utter silence, against which the waves of Mrs.
Rainham's wrath spent themselves in vain.

Indeed, the girl lived in a kind of waking dream of happy
anticipation, beside which none of the trials of life in Lancaster
Gate had power to trouble her.  For on her first stolen visit to
Mr. M'Clinton's office the wonderful plan of flight to Australia
had been revealed to her, and the joy of the prospect blotted out
everything else.  Mr. M'Clinton, watching her face, had been amazed
by the wave of delight that had swept over it.

"You like it, then?" he had said.  "You are not afraid to go so
far?"

"Afraid--with Bob?  Oh, the farther I can get from England the
better," she had answered.  "I have no friends here; nothing to
leave, except the memory of two bad years.  And out there I should
feel safe--she could not get a policeman to bring me back."  There
was no need to ask who "she" was.

Cecilia had made her preparations secretly.  She had not much to
do--Aunt Margaret had always kept her well dressed, and the simple
and pretty things she had worn two years before, and which had
never been unpacked since she put on mourning for her aunt, still
fitted her, and were perfectly good.  It had never seemed worth
while to leave off wearing mourning in Lancaster Gate--only when
Bob had come home had she unpacked some of her old wardrobe.  Much
was packed still, and in store under Mr. M'Clinton's direction,
together with many of Aunt Margaret's personal possessions.  It was
as well that it was so, since Mrs. Rainham had managed to annex a
proportion of Cecilia's things for Avice.  To Lancaster Gate she
had only taken a couple of trunks, not dreaming of staying there
more than a short time.  So packing and flitting would be easy,
given ordinary luck and the certain co-operation of Eliza.  Her few
necessary purchases had been made on one of her hurried excursions
with Bob; she had not dared to have the things sent home, and they
had been consigned in a tin uniform case to Bob's care.

She pondered over his note now, knitting her brows.  It would be
easy enough to act defiantly and go at once; but if this meant that
the final flight were near at hand she did not wish to excite anew
her stepmother's anger and suspicion.  Then, as she hesitated, she
heard a heavy step on the stairs, and she crushed the note
hurriedly into her pocket.

Mrs. Rainham came into the room without the formality of knocking--
a formality she had never observed where Cecilia was concerned.
The afternoon post had just come, and she carried some letters in
her hand.

"Cecilia, I want you to put on your things and go to Balding's for
me," she said, her voice more civil than it had been for a month.
"I'm asked up to Liverpool for a few days; my sister there is
giving a big At Home--an awfully big thing, with the Lady Mayoress
and all the Best People at it--and she wants me to go up.  I
suppose she'll want me to sing."

"That is nice," said Cecilia, speaking with more truth than Mrs.
Rainham guessed.  "What will you wear?"

"That's just it," said her stepmother eagerly.  "My new evening
dress isn't quite finished--we ran short of trimming.  I can't go
out, because the Simons are coming in to afternoon tea; so you just
hurry and go over to Balding's to match it.  I got it there, and
they had plenty.  Here's a bit."  She held out a fragment of gaudy
sequin trimming.  "I think you could finish the dress without me
getting in the dressmaker again--she's that run after she makes a
regular favour of coming."

"Very well," said Cecilia--who would, at the moment, have agreed to
sew anything or everything that might hasten her stepmother's
journey.  "When do you go?"

"The day after to-morrow.  I'll stay there a few days, I suppose;
not worth going so far for only one evening.  Mind, Cecilia, you're
not to have Bob here while I'm away.  When I come back, if I'm
satisfied with you, I'll see about asking him again."

"That is very good of you," said the girl slowly.

"Well, that's all right--you hurry and get ready; there's always a
chance they may have sold out, because it was a bargain line, and
if they have you'll have to try other places.  I don't know what on
earth I'll do if you can't match it."  She turned to go, and then
hesitated.  "I was thinking you might take Avice with you--but
you'll get about quicker alone, and she isn't ready.  The tubes and
buses are that crowded it's no catch to take a child about with
you."  In moments of excitement Mrs. Rainham's English was apt to
slip from her.  At other times she cultivated it carefully,
assisted by a dramatic class, which an enthusiastic maiden lady,
with leanings towards the stage, conducted each winter among
neighbouring kindred souls.

Cecilia had caught her breath in alarm, but she breathed a sigh of
relief as the stout, over-dressed figure went down the narrow
stairs, with a final injunction to hurry.  There was, indeed, no
need to give Cecilia that particular command.  She scribbled one
word, "Coming," on Bob's note, thrust it into an envelope and
addressed it hastily, and then tapped on the wall between the
servants' room and her own.

Eliza appeared with the swiftness of a Jack-in-the-box, full of
suppressed excitement.

"Lor!  I fought she was never goin'," she breathed.  "Got it ready,
Miss?  The boy'll fink I've gorn an' eloped wiv it."  She took the
envelope and pattered swiftly downstairs.

A very few moments saw Cecilia flying in her wake--to Balding's
first, as quickly as tube and motor-bus could combine to take her,
since she dared not breathe freely until Mrs. Rainham's commission
had been settled.  Balding's had never seemed so huge and so
complicated, and when she at length made her way to the right
department the suave assistant regretted that the trimming was sold
out.  It was Cecilia's face of blank dismay that made him suddenly
remember that there was possibly an odd length somewhere, and a
search revealed it, put away in a box of odds and ends.  Cecilia's
thanks were so heartfelt that the assistant was mildly surprised.

"For she don't seem the sort to wear ghastly stuff like that," he
pondered, glancing after the pretty figure in the well-cut coat and
skirt.

Outside the great shop Cecilia glanced up and caught the eye of a
taxi-driver who had just set down a fare.

"I'll be extravagant for once," she thought.  She beckoned to the
man, and in a moment was whirring through the streets in the
peculiar comfort a motor gives to anyone in a hurry in London--
since it can take direct routes instead of following the roundabout
methods of buses and underground railways.  She leaned back,
closing her eyes.  If this summons to Bob indeed meant that their
sailing orders had come, she would need all her wits and her
coolness.  For the first time she realized what her stepmother's
absence from home might mean--a thousandfold less plotting and
planning, and no risk of a horrible scene at the end.  Cecilia
loathed scenes; they had not existed in Aunt Margaret's scheme of
existence.  Since Bob's plans had become at all definite, she had
looked forward with dread to a final collision with Mrs. Rainham--
it was untold relief to know that it might not come.

She hurried up the steps of Mr. M'Clinton's office.  The alert
office boy--who had been Bob's messenger to Lancaster Gate--met
her.

"You're to go straight in, miss.  The Captain's there."

Bob was in the inner sanctum with Mr. M'Clinton.  They rose to meet
her.

"Well--are you ready, young lady?" the old man asked.

"Is it--are we to sail soon?"

"Next Saturday--and this is Monday.  Can you manage it, Tommy?"
Bob's eyes were dancing with excitement.

"Oh, Bobby--truly?"  She caught at his coat sleeve.  "When did you
hear?"

"I had a wire from General Harran this morning.  A jolly good ship,
too, Tommy; one of the big Australian liners--the Nauru.  You're
all ready, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes.  And there's the most tremendous piece of luck, Bobby--
Mrs. Rainham's going away on Wednesday!"

"Going away!  How more than tactful!" ejaculated Bob.  "Where is
she going?"

"To Liverpool."

"Liverpool?  Oh, by Jove!"  Bob ended on a low whistle, while his
face assumed a comical expression of dismay.  He turned to the
lawyer.  "Did you ever hear of anything so queer?"

"Queer?  Why?" demanded Cecilia.

"Well, it looks as if she wanted to see the last of you, that's
all.  The Nauru sails from Liverpool."

"Bobby!"  Cecilia's face fell.  "I thought we went from Gravesend
or Tilbury, or somewhere."

"So did I.  But the General's wire says Liverpool, so it seems we
don't," said Bob.  "And that she-dragon is going there too!"

"I don't think you need really worry," Mr. M'Clinton said drily.
"Liverpool is not exactly a village.  The chances are that if you
went there, trying to meet some one, you would hunt for him for a
week in vain.  And you'll probably go straight from the train to
the docks, so that you won't be in the least likely to encounter
Mrs. Rainham."

"Why, of course, we'd never run into her in a huge place like
Liverpool," Bob said, laughing.  "Don't be afraid, Tommy--you'll
have seen the last of her when you say good-bye on Wednesday."

"It seems too good to be true," said Cecilia solemnly.  "I remember
how I felt once before, when she went away to visit her sister in
Liverpool; the beautiful relief when one woke, to think that not
all through the day would one even have to look at her.  It's
really very terrible to look at her often; her white face and hard
eyes seem to fascinate one.  Oh, I don't suppose I ought to talk
like that, especially here."  She looked shamefacedly at Mr.
M'Clinton, and blushed scarlet.

Both men laughed.

"The good lady had something of the same effect on me," Mr.
M'Clinton admitted.  "I found her a very terrible person.  Cheer
up, Miss Tommy, you've nearly finished with her.  And, now, what
about getting you away?"

Cecilia turned to her brother.

"What am I to do, Bob?"

"We'll have to go to Liverpool on Friday," Bob replied promptly.
"I can't find out the Nauru's sailing time, and it isn't safe to
leave it until Saturday.  There's a train somewhere about two
o'clock that gets up somewhere about seven or eight that evening.
Mr. M'Clinton and I don't want to leave it to the last moment to
get your luggage away from Lancaster Gate.  Can you have it ready
the night before?"

"It would really be safer to take it in the afternoon," Cecilia
said after a moment's thought.  "Mrs. Rainham's absence will make
that quite easy, for I know I can depend upon Eliza and Cook.  I
can get my trunks ready, leave them in my room, and tell Eliza you
will be there to call for them, say, at four o'clock.  Then I take
the three children out for a walk, and when we return everything is
gone.  Will that do?"

"Perfectly," said Bob, laughing.  "And four o'clock suits me all
right.  Then you'll saunter out on Friday morning with an
inoffensive brown paper parcel containing the rest of your worldly
effects, and meet me for lunch at the Euston Hotel.  Is that
clear?"

"Quite.  I suppose I had better put no address on my trunks?"

"Not a line--I'll see to that.  And don't even mention the word
'Australia' this week, just in case your eye dances unconsciously,
and sets people thinking!  I think you'd better cultivate a
downtrodden look, at any rate until Mrs Rainham is out of the
house; at present you look far too cheerful to be natural--doesn't
she, sir?"

"You have to see to it that she does not look downtrodden again,
after this week," said Mr. M'Clinton.  "Remember that, Captain--
she's going a long way, and she'll have no one but you."

"I know, sir.  But, bless you, it's me that will look downtrodden,"
said Bob with a grin.  "She bullies me horribly--always did."  He
slipped his hand through her arm, and they looked up at him with
such radiant faces that the old man smiled involuntarily.

"Ah, I think you'll be all right," he said.  "Remember, Miss Tommy,
I'll expect to hear from you--fairly often, too.  I shall not say
good-bye now--you'll see me on Friday at luncheon."

They found themselves down in the grey precincts of Lincoln's Inn,
which, it may be, had rarely seen two young things prancing along
so dementedly.  In the street they had to sober down, to outward
seeming; but there was still something about them, as they hurried
off to find a teashop to discuss final details, that made people
turn to look at them.  Even the waitress beamed on them, and
supplied them with her best cakes--and London waitresses are a
bored race.  But at the moment, neither Cecilia nor Bob could have
told you whether they were eating cakes or sausages.

"The money is all right," Bob said.  "It'll be available at a
Melbourne bank when we get there; and meanwhile, there's plenty of
ready money, with what I've saved and my war gratuity.  So if you
want anything, Tommy, you just say so, and don't go without any
pretties just because you think we'll be in the workhouse."

"Bless you--but I don't really need anything," she told him
gratefully.  "It would be nice to have a little money to spend at
the ports, but I think we ought to keep the rest for Australia,
don't you, Bob?"

"Oh, yes, of course; but you're not to go without a few pounds if
you want 'em," said Bob.  "And, Tommy, don't leave meeting me on
Friday until lunch time.  I'll be worrying if you do, just in case
things may have gone wrong.  Make it eleven o'clock at the Bond
Street tube exit, and if you're not there in half an hour I'll
jolly well go and fetch you."

"I'll be there," Cecilia nodded.  "You had better give me the half-
hour's grace, though, in case I might be held up at the last
moment.  One never knows--and Avice and Wilfred are excellent
little watchdogs."

"Anyhow, you won't have the she-dragon to reckon with, and that's a
big thing," Bob said.  "I don't see how you can have any trouble--
Papa certainly will not give you any."

"No, he won't bother," said Cecilia slowly.  "It's queer to think
how little he counts--our own father."

"A pretty shoddy apology for one, I think," Bob said bitterly.
"What has he ever done for us?  But I'd forgive him that when I
can't forgive him something else--the way he has let you be treated
these two years."

"He hasn't known everything, Bobby."

"He has known quite enough.  And if he had the spirit of a man he'd
have saved you from it.  No; we don't owe him any consideration,
Tommy; and he saw to it years ago that we should never owe him any
affection.  So we really needn't worry our heads about him.  By the
way, there are to be some Australians on the Nauru who General
Harran says may be of use to us--I don't remember their names, but
he's going to give me a letter to them.  And probably there will be
some other flying people whom I may know.  I think the voyage ought
to be rather good fun."

"I think so, too.  It will be exciting to be on a troopship,"
Cecilia said.  "But, then, anything will be heavenly after
Lancaster Gate!"

She hurried home, as soon as the little meal was over, knowing that
Mrs. Rainham would be impatiently awaiting her.  Luckily, her
success in matching the trimming made her stepmother forget how
long she had been away; and from that moment until a welcome four-
wheeler removed the mistress of the house on Wednesday, she sewed
and packed for her unceasingly.  Her journey excited Mrs. Rainham
greatly.  She talked almost affably of her sister's grandeur, and
of the certainty of meeting wealthy and gorgeously dressed people
at her party.

"Not that I'll be at all ashamed of my dress," she added, looking
at the billowy waves on which Cecilia was plastering yet more
trimming.  "Unusual and artistic, that's what it is; and it'll show
off my hair.  Don't forget the darning when I'm gone, Cecilia.
There's a tablecloth to mend, as well as the stockings.  I'll be
home on Saturday night, unless they persuade me to stay over the
week-end."

Cecilia nodded, sewing busily.

"And just see if you can't get on a bit better with the children.
You've got to make allowances for their high spirits, and treat
them tactfully.  Of course you can't expect them to be as obedient
to you as they would be to a regular governess, you being their own
half-sister, and not so much older than Avice, after all.  But tact
does wonders, especially with children."

"Yes," said Cecilia, and said no more.

"Well, just bear it in mind.  I don't suppose you'll see much of
your father, so you needn't worry about him.  But don't let Eliza
gossip and idle; she never does any work if she's not kept up to
it, and you know you're much too familiar with her.  Always keep
girls like her at a distance, and they'll work all the better,
that's what I say.  Treat her as an equal, and the next thing you
know she'll be trying on your hats!"

"I haven't caught Eliza at that yet," said Cecilia with the ghost
of a smile.

"It'll come, though, if you're not more stand-offish with her--you
mark my words.  Keep them in their place--that's what I always do
with my servants and governesses," said Mrs. Rainham without the
slightest idea that she was saying anything peculiar.  "Now, I'll
go and put my things out on my bed, and as soon as you've finished
that you can come up and pack for me."

Cecilia stood at the hall door that afternoon to watch her go--
bustling into the cab, with loud directions to the cabman, her hard
face full of self-importance and satisfaction.  The plump hand
waved a highly scented handkerchief as the clumsy four-wheeler
moved off.

"To think I'll never see you again!" breathed the girl.  "It seems
too good to be true!"

A kind of wave of relief seemed to have descended upon the house.
The children were openly exulting in having no one to obey; an
attitude which, in the circumstances, failed to trouble their half-
sister.  Eliza went about her work with a cheery face; even Cook,
down in the basement, manifested lightness of heart by singing love
songs in a cracked soprano and by making scones for afternoon tea.
Mark Rainham did not come home until late--he had announced his
intention of dining at his club.  Late in the evening he sauntered
into the dining-room, where Cecilia sat sewing.

"Still at it?" he asked.  He sat down and poked the fire.  "What
are you sewing?"

"Just darning," Cecilia told him.

He sat looking at her for a while--at the pretty face and the well-
tended hair; and who shall say what thoughts stirred in his dull
brain?

"You look a bit pale," he said at last.  "Do you go out enough?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," Cecilia answered in astonishment.  Not in
two years had he shown so much interest in her; and it braced her
to a sudden resolve.  She had never been quite satisfied to leave
him without a word; whatever he was, he was still her father.  She
put her darning on her knee, and looked at him gravely.

"You know Bob is demobilized, don't you, Papa?"

"Yes--he told me so," Mark Rainham answered.

"And you know he wants to take me away?"

Her father's eyes wavered and fell before her.

"Oh, yes--but the idea's ridiculous, I'm afraid.  You're under age,
and your stepmother won't hear of it."  He poked the fire savagely.

"But if Bob could make a home for me!  We have always been
together, you know, Papa."

"Oh, well--wait and see.  Time enough when you're twenty-one, and
your own mistress; Bob will have had a chance to make good by then.
I--I can't oppose my wife in the matter--she says she's not strong
enough to do without your help."

"But she never seems satisfied with me."

Mark Rainham rose with an irritably nervous movement.

"Oh, no one is ever perfect.  I suspect, if each of you went a
little way to meet the other, things would be better.  Your
stepmother says her nerves are all wrong, and I'm sure you do take
a great deal of trouble off her shoulders."

"Then you won't let me go?"  The girl's low voice was relentless,
and her father wriggled as though he were a beetle and she were
pinning him down.

"I--I'm afraid it's out of the question, Cecilia.  I should have to
be very satisfied first that Bob could offer you a home--and by
that time he'll probably be thinking of getting married, and won't
want you.  Why can't you settle down comfortably to living at
home?"

"There isn't any home for me apart from Bob," said the girl.

"Well, I can't help it."  Mark Rainham's voice had a hopeless tone.
He walked to the door, and then half turned.  "If you can make my
wife agree to your going, I won't forbid it.  Good night."

"Good night," said Cecilia.  The slow footsteps went up the stairs,
and she turned to her darning with a lip that curled in scorn.

"Well, that let's me out.  I don't owe you anything--not even a
good-bye note on my pincushion," she said presently; and laughed a
little.  She folded a finished pair of socks deliberately, and,
rising, stretched her arms luxuriously above her head.  "Two more
days," she whispered.  She switched off the light, and crept
noiselessly upstairs.



CHAPTER VII

THE WATCH DOGS


"Well, if you ask me, she's up to something," said Avice with
conviction.

"How d'you mean?"  Wilfred looked up curiously.

"Lots of things.  She looks all different.  First of all--look how
red she is all the time, and the excited look in her eyes."

"That's all look--look!" jeered her brother.  "Girls always have
those rotten ideas about nothing at all.  Just because Cecilia's
got a bit sunburnt, and because she's havin' an easy time 'cause
Mater's away--"

"Oh, you think because you're a boy, you know everything," retorted
his sister hotly.  "You just listen, and see if I've got rotten
ideas.  Did you know, she's kept her room locked for days?"

"Well--if she has?  That's nothing."

"You shut up and let me go on.  Yesterday she forgot, and left it
open while she was down talking to Cook, and I slipped in.  And
there was one of her great big trunks, that she always keeps in the
box room, half-packed with her things.  I nicked this necklace out
of it, too," said Avice with triumph, producing a quaint string of
Italian beads.

"Good business," said Wilfred with an appreciative grin.  "Did she
catch you?"

"Not she--I can tell you I didn't wait long, 'cause she always
comes upstairs as quick as lightning.  She did come, too, in an
awful hurry, and locked up the room--I only got out of the way just
in time.  And every minute she could, yesterday, she was up there."

"Well, I don't see much in that."

"No, but look here, I got another chance of looking into her room
this morning, and that trunk was gone!"

"Gone back to the box-room," said Wilfred with superiority.

"No, it wasn't--I went up and looked.  And her other trunk's not
there, either."

"Oh, you're dreaming!  I bet she'd just pushed it under her bed."

"Pooh!" said Avice.  "That great big trunk wouldn't go under her
bed--you know she's only got a little stretcher-bed.  And I tell
you they'd both gone.  I bet you anything she's going to run away."

"Where'd she run to?"

"Oh, somewhere with Bob."

"Well, let her go."

"Yes, and Mater 'd have to spend ever so much on a new governess;
and most likely she'd be a worse beast than Cecilia.  And no
governess we ever had did half the things Mater makes Cecilia do to
help in the house.  Why she's like an extra servant, as well as a
governess.  Mater told me all about it.  I tell you what, Wilfred,
it's our business to see she doesn't run away."

"All right," said Wilfred, "I suppose we'd better watch out.  When
do you reckon she'd go?  People generally run away at night, don't
they?"

"Well, anyone can see she's just taking advantage of Mater being
away.  Yes, of course she'd go at night.  She might have sent her
boxes away yesterday by a carrier--I bet that horrid little Eliza
would help her.  Ten to one she means to sneak out to-night--she
knows Mater will be home to-morrow."

"What a sell it will be for her if we catch her!" said Wilfred with
glee.  "I say, what about telling Pater?"

Avice looked sour.

"I did tell him something yesterday, and he only growled at me.  At
least, I said, 'Do you think Cecilia would ever be likely to run
away?'  And he just stared at me, and then he said, 'Not your
business if she does.'  So I'm not going to speak to him again."

"Well, we'd better take it in turns to watch her," Wilfred said.
"After dark's the most likely time, I suppose, but we'd better be
on the look-out all the time.  Where's she now, by the way?"

"Why, I don't know.  I say, she's been away a long time--I never
noticed," said Avice, in sudden alarm.  "She said we were to go on
with our French exercises--and that's ages ago."

"Come on and see," said Wilfred jumping up.

Outside the room he caught Avice by the arm.

"Kick off your shoes," he said.  "We'll sneak up to her room."

They crept up silently.  The door of Cecilia's room was ajar.
Peeping in, they saw her standing before her tiny looking-glass,
pinning on her hat.  A small parcel lay upon her bed, with her
gloves and parasol.  The children were very silent--but something
struck upon the girl's tightly strung nerves.  She turned swiftly
and saw them.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.  "How dare you come into my
room?"

"Why, we thought you were lost," said Avice.  "We finished our
French ages ago.  Where are you going?"

"I am going out," said Cecilia.  "I'll set you more work to do
while I'm away."

"But where are you going?"

"That has nothing to do with you.  Come down to the schoolroom."

Avice held her brother firmly by the arm.  Together they blocked
the way.

"Mater wouldn't let you go out in lesson time.  I believe you're
going to run away!"

A red spot flamed in each of Cecilia's white cheeks.

"Stand out of my way, you little horrors!" she said angrily.  She
caught up her things and advanced upon them.

"I'm hanged if you're going," said Wilfred doggedly.  He pushed her
back violently, and slammed the door.

The attic doors in Lancaster Gate, like those of many London
houses, were fitted with heavy iron bolts on the outside--a
precaution against burglars who might enter the house by rooms
ordinarily little used.  It was not the first time that Cecilia had
been bolted into her room by her step-brother.  When first she
came, it had been a favourite pastime to make her a prisoner--until
their mother had made it an offence carrying a heavy penalty, since
it had often occurred that Cecilia was locked up when she happened
to need her.

But this time Cecilia heard the heavy bolt shoot home with feelings
of despair.  It was already time for her to leave the house.  Bob
would be waiting for her in Bond Street, impatiently scanning each
crowd of passengers that the lift shot up from underground.  She
battered at the door wildly.

"Let me out!  How dare you, Wilfred?  Let me out at once!"

Wilfred laughed disagreeably.

"Not if we know it--eh, Avice?"

"Rather not," said Avice.  "What d'you think Mater'd say to us if
we let you run away?"

"Nonsense!" said Cecilia, controlling her voice with difficulty.
"I was going to meet Bob."

There was silence, and a whispered consultation.  Then Avice spoke.

"Will you give us your word of honour you weren't going to run
away?"

Words of honour meant little to the young Rainhams.  But they knew
that Cecilia held it as a commonplace of decent behaviour that
people did not tell lies.  They had, indeed, often marvelled that
she preferred to "take her gruel" rather than use any ready untruth
that would have shielded her from their mother's wrath.  Avice and
Wilfred had no such scruples on their own account: but they knew
that they could depend upon Cecilia's word.  They were, indeed,
just a little afraid of their own action in locking her up; their
mother might have condoned it as "high spirits," but their father
was not unlikely to take a different view.  So they awaited her
reply with some anxiety.

Cecilia hesitated.  Never in her life had she been so tempted.
Perhaps because the temptation was so strong she answered swiftly.

"No--I won't tell you anything of the kind.  But look here--if you
will let me out I'll give you each ten shillings."

Ten shillings!  It was wealth, and the children gasped.  Wilfred,
indeed, would have shot back the bolt instantly.  It was Avice who
caught at his arm.

"Don't you!" she whispered.  "It'll cost heaps more than that to
get a new governess--and we'll make Mater give us each ten
shillings for keeping her.  I say, we'll have to get the Pater
home."

"How?"  Wilfred looked at her blankly.

"Easy.  You go to the post office and telephone to him at his
office.  Tell him to come at once.  I'll watch here, in case Eliza
lets her out.  Run--hard as you can.  Mater'll never forgive us if
she gets away."

Wilfred clattered off obediently, awed by his sister's urgency.
Avice sat down on the head of the stairs, close to the bolted door;
and when Cecilia spoke again, repeating her offer, she answered her
in a voice unpleasantly like her mother's:

"No, you don't, my fine lady.  Wilfred's gone for the Pater--he'll
be here presently.  You just stay there quietly till he comes."

"Avice!"  The word was a wail.  "Oh, you don't know how important
it is--let me out.  I'll give you anything in the world."

"So'll Mater if I stop your little game," said Avice.  "You just
keep quiet."

Eliza's sharp little face appeared at the foot of the flight of
stairs.

"Wot's up, Miss Avice?  Anyfink wrong with Miss 'Cilia?"

"Nothing to do with you," said Avice rudely.  "I'm looking after
her."  But Cecilia's sharp ears had caught the new voice.

"Eliza!  Eliza!" she called.

The girl came up the stairs uncertainly.  Avice rose to confront
her.

"Now, you just keep off," she said.  "You're not coming past here.
The master'll be home directly, and till he comes, no one's going
up these stairs."  She raised her voice, to drown that of Cecilia,
who was speaking again.

Eliza looked at her doubtfully.  She was an undersized, wizened
little Cockney, and Avice was a big, stoutly-built girl--who held,
moreover, the advantage of a commanding position on the top step.
In an encounter of strength there was little doubt as to who would
win.  She turned in silence, cowed, and went down to the kitchen,
while Avice sang a triumphant song, partly as a chant of victory,
and partly to make sure that no one would hear the remarks that
Cecilia was steadily making.  She herself had caught one phrase--
"Tell my brother"--and her sharp little mind was busy.  Did that
mean that Bob would be coming, against its mistress's orders, to
Lancaster Gate.

In the kitchen Eliza poured out a frantic appeal to Cook.

"She's got Miss 'Cilia locked up--the little red-'eaded cat!  An'
Master Wilfred gorn to fetch the Master!  Oh, come on, Cookie
darlin', an' we'll let 'er out."

Cook shook her head slowly.

"Not good enough," she said.  "I got a pretty good place.  I ain't
goin' to risk it by 'avin' a rough-an'-tumble with the daughter of
the 'ouse on the hattic stairs.  You better leave well alone, Liza.
You done your bit, 'elpin' 'er git them trunks orf yes'day."

"Wot's the good of 'avin the trunks off if she can't go, too?"
demanded Eliza.

"Oh, she'll git another chance.  Don't worry your 'ead so much over
other people's business.  If the Master comes 'ome an' finds us
scruffin' 'is daughter, 'e'll 'and us both over to the police for
assault--an' then you'll 'ave cause for worry.  Now you git along
like a good gel--I got to mike pastry."  Cook turned away
decisively.

Wilfred had come home and had raced up the stairs.

"Did you get him?" Avice cried.

"No--he was out.  So I left a message that he was to come home at
once, 'cause something was wrong."

"That'll bring him," said Avice with satisfaction.  "Now, look
here, Wilf--I believe Bob may come.  You go and be near the front
door, to block Eliza, if he does.  Answer any ring."

"What'll I say if he comes?"

"Say she's gone out to meet him--if he thinks that, he'll hurry
back to wherever they were to meet.  Don't give him a chance to get
in.  Hurry!"

"Right," said Wilfred, obeying.  He sat down in a hall chair, and
took up a paper, with an eye wary for Eliza.  Half an hour passed
tediously, while upstairs Cecilia begged and bribed in vain.  Then
he sprang to his feet as a ring came.

Bob was at the door; and suddenly Wilfred realized that he had
always been afraid of Bob.  He quailed inwardly, for never had he
seen his half-brother look as he did now--with a kind of still,
terrible anger in his eyes.

"Where's Cecilia?"

"Gone out," said the boy.

"Where?"

"Gone to meet you."

"Did she tell you so?"

"Yes, of course--how'd I know if she didn't?"

"Then that's a lie, for she wouldn't tell you.  Let me in."

"I tell you, she's gone out," said Wilfred, whose only spark of
remaining courage was due to the fact that he had prudently kept
the door on the chain.  "And Mater said you weren't to come in
here."

From the area below a shrill voice floated upwards.

"Mr. Bob!  Mr. Bob!  Daon't you believe 'im.  They got Miss 'Cilia
locked up in 'er room."

"By Jove!" said Bob between his teeth.  "Bless you, Eliza!  Open
that door, Wilfred, or I'll make it hot for you."  He thrust a foot
into the opening, with a face so threatening that Wilfred shrank
back.

"I shan't," he said.  "You're not going to get her."

"Am I not?" said Bob.  He leaned back, and then suddenly flung all
his weight against the door.  The chain was old and the links eaten
with rust--it snapped like a carrot, and the door flew open.  Bob
brushed Wilfred out of his way, and went upstairs, three at a time.

Avice blocked his path.

"You aren't coming up."

"Oh, yes, I think so," Bob said.  He stooped, with a quick
movement, and picked her up, holding her across his shoulder, while
she beat and clawed unavailingly at his back.  So holding her, he
thrust back the bolt of Cecilia's door and flung it open.

"Did you think they had got you, Tommy?"

She could only cling to his free arm for a moment speechless.  Then
she lifted her face, her voice shaking, still in fear.

"We must hurry, Bob.  They've sent for Papa."

"Have they?" said Bob, with interest.  "Well, not a regiment of
papas should stop you now, old girl.  Got everything?"

Cecilia gathered up her things, nodding.

"Then we'll leave this young lady here," said Bob.  He placed Avice
carefully on Cecilia's bed, and made for the door, having the
pleasure, as he shot the bolt, of hearing precisely what the
younger Miss Rainham thought of him and all his attributes,
including his personal appearance.

"A nice gift of language, hasn't she?" he said.  "Inherits it from
her mamma, I should think."  He put his arm round Cecilia and held
her closely as they went downstairs, his face full of the joy of
battle.  Wilfred was nowhere to be seen, but by the door Eliza
waited.  Bob slipped something into her hand.

"I expect you'll lose your place over this, Eliza," he said.
"Well, you'll get a better--I'll tell my lawyer to see to that.
He'll write to you--by the way, what's your surname?  Oh, Smithers--
I'll remember.  And thank you very much."

They shook hands with her, and passed out into the street.  Cecilia
was still too shaken to speak--but as Bob pulled her hand through
his arm and hurried her along, her self-control returned, and the
face that looked up at his presently was absolutely content.  Bob
returned the look with a little smile.

"Didn't you know I'd come?" he asked.  "You dear old stupid."

"I knew you'd come--but I thought Papa would get there first,"
Cecilia answered.  "Somehow, it seemed the end of everything."

"It isn't--it's only the beginning," Bob answered.

There was a narrow side street that made a short cut from the tube
station to the Rainhams' home; and as they passed it Mark Rainham
came hurrying up it.  Bob and Cecilia did not see him.  He looked
at them for a moment, as if reading the meaning of the two happy
faces--and then shrank back into an alley and remained hidden until
his son and daughter had passed out of sight.  They went on their
way, without dreaming that the man they dreaded was within a
stone's throw of them.

"So it was that," said Mark Rainham slowly, looking after them.
"Out of gaol, are you--poor little prisoner!  Well, good luck to
you both!"  He turned on his heel, and went back to his office.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW TOMMY BOARDED A STRANGE TAXI


"We're nearly in, Tommy."

Cecilia looked up from her corner with a start, and the book she
had been trying to read slipped to the floor of the carriage.

"I believe you were asleep," said Bob, laughing.  "Poor old Tommy,
are you very tired?"

"Oh, nothing, really.  Only I was getting a bit sleepy," his sister
answered.  "Are we late, Bob?"

"Very, the conductor says.  This train generally makes a point of
being late.  I wish it had made a struggle to be on time to-night;
it would have been jolly to get to the ship in daylight."  Bob was
strapping up rugs briskly as he talked.

"How do we get down to the ship, Bob?"

"Oh, no doubt there'll be taxis," Bob answered.  "But it may be no
end of a drive--the conductor tells me there are miles and miles of
docks, and the Nauru may be lying anywhere.  But he says there's
always a military official on duty at the station--a transport
officer, and he'll be able to tell me everything."  He did not
think it worth while to tell the tired little sister what another
man had told him, that it was very doubtful whether they would be
allowed to board any transport at night, and that Liverpool was so
crowded that to find beds in it might be an impossibility.  Bob
refused to be depressed by the prospect.  "If the worst came to the
worst, there'd be a Y.W.C.A. that would take in Tommy," he mused.
"And it wouldn't be the first time I've spent a night in the open."
Nothing seemed to matter now that they had escaped.  But, all the
same, there seemed no point in telling Tommy, who was extremely
cheerful, but also very white-faced.

They drew into an enormous station, where there seemed a dense
crowd of people, but no porters at all.  Bob piled their hand
luggage on the platform, and left Cecilia to guard it while he went
on a tour of discovery.  He hurried back to her presently.

"Come on," he said, gathering up their possessions.  "There's a big
station hotel opening on to the platforms.  I can leave you sitting
in the vestibule while I gather up the heavy luggage and find the
transport officer.  I'm afraid it's going to take some time, so
don't get worried if I don't turn up very soon.  There seem to be
about fifty thousand people struggling round the luggage vans, and
I'll have to wait my turn.  But I'll be as quick as I can."

"Don't you worry on my account," Cecilia said.  "This is ever so
comfortable.  I don't mind how long you're away!"  She laughed up
at him, sinking into a big chair in the vestibule of the hotel.
There were heavy glass doors on either side that were constantly
swinging to let people in or out; through them could be seen the
hurrying throng of people on the station, rushing to and fro under
the great electric lights, gathered round the bookstall, struggling
along under luggage, or--very occasionally--moving in the wake of a
porter with a barrow heaped with trunks.  There were soldiers
everywhere, British and Australian, and officers in every variety
of Allied uniform.

An officer came in with a lady and two tiny boys--Cecilia
recognized them as having been passengers on their train.  With
them came an old Irish priest, who had met them, and the officer
left them in his care while he also went off on the luggage quest.
The small boys were apparently untired by their journey; they
immediately began to use the swinging glass doors as playthings to
the imminent risk of their own necks, since they were too little to
be noticed by anyone coming in or out, and were nearly knocked flat
a dozen times by the swing of the doors.  The weary mother spent a
busy time in rescuing them, and was not always entirely successful--
bumps and howls testified to the doors being occasionally quicker
than the boys.  Finally, the old priest gathered up the elder, a
curly-haired, slender mite, into his arms and told him stories,
while his plump and solemn brother curled up on his mother's knee
and dozed.  It was clearly long after their bed-time.

The procession of people came and went unceasingly, the glass doors
always aswing.  In and out, in and out, men and women hurried, and
just beyond the kaleidoscope of the platforms moved and changed
restlessly under the glaring arc lights.  Cecilia's bewildered mind
grew weary of it all, and she closed her eyes.  It was some time
later that she woke with a start, to find Bob beside her.

"Sleepy old thing," he said.  "Oh, I've had such a wild time,
Tommy; to get information of any kind is as hard as to get one's
luggage.  However, I've got both.  And the first thing is we can't
go on board to-night."

"Bob!  What shall we do?"

"I was rather anxious about that same thing myself," said Bob,
"since everyone tells me that Liverpool is more jammed with people
than even London--which is saying something.  However, we've had
luck.  I went to ask in here, never imagining I had the ghost of a
chance, and they'd just had telegrams giving up two rooms.  So
we're quite all right; and so is the luggage.  I've had all the
heavy stuff handed over to a carrier to be put on the Nauru to-
morrow morning."

"You're the great manager," said Cecilia comfortably.  "Where is
the Nauru, by the way?"

"Sitting out in the river, the transport officer says.  She doesn't
come alongside until the morning; and we haven't to be on board
until three o'clock.  She's supposed to pull out about six.  So we
really needn't have left London to-day--but I think it's as well we
did."

"Yes, indeed," said Cecilia, with a shiver.  "I don't think I could
have stood another night in Lancaster Gate.  I've been awake for
three nights wondering what we should do if any hitch came in our
plans."

"Just like a woman!" said Bob, laughing.  "You always jump over
your hedges before you come to them."  He pulled her gently out of
her chair.  "Come along; I'll have these things sent up to our
rooms, and then we'll get some dinner--after which you'll go to
bed."  It was a plan which sounded supremely attractive to his
sister.

Not even the roar and rattle of the trains under the station hotel
kept Cecilia awake that night.  She slept, dreamlessly at first;
then she had a dream that she was just about to embark in a great
ship for Australia; that she was going up the gangway, when
suddenly behind her came her father and her stepmother, with Avice,
Wilfred and Queenie, who all seized her, and began to drag her
back.  She fought and struggled with them, and from the top of the
gangway came Mr. M'Clinton and Eliza, who tugged her upwards.
Between the two parties she was beginning to think she would be
torn to pieces, when suddenly came swooping from the clouds an
areoplane, curiously like a wheelbarrow, and in it Bob, who leaned
out as he dived, grasped her by the hair, and swung her aboard with
him.  They whirred away over the sea; where, she did not know, but
it did not seem greatly to matter.  They were still flying between
sea and sky when she woke, to find the sunlight streaming into her
room, and some one knocking at her door.

"Are you awake, Tommy?"  It was Bob's voice.  "Lie still, and I'll
send you up a cup of tea."

That was very pleasant, and a happy contrast to awakening in
Lancaster Gate; and breakfast a little later was delightful, in a
big sunny room, with interesting people coming and going all the
time.  Bob and Cecilia smiled at each other like two happy
children.  It was almost unbelievable that they were free; away
from tryanny and coldness, with no more plotting and planning, and
no more prying eyes.

Bob went off to interview the transport officer after breakfast,
and Cecilia found the officer's wife with the two little boys
struggling to attend to her luggage, while the children ran away
and lost themselves in the corridors or endeavoured to commit
suicide by means of the lift.  So Cecilia took command of them and
played with them until the harassed mother had finished, and came
to reclaim her offspring--this time with the worry lines smoothed
out of her face.  She sat down by Cecilia and talked, and presently
it appeared that she also was sailing in the Nauru.

"Indeed, I thought it was only wives who were going," she said.  "I
didn't know sisters were permitted."

"I believe General Harran managed our passages," Cecilia said.  "He
has been very kind to my brother."

"Well, you should have a merry voyage, for there will be scarcely
any young girls on board," said Mrs. Burton, her new friend.  "Most
of the women on the transports are brides, of course.  Ever so many
of our men have married over here."

"You are an Australian?" Cecilia asked.

"Oh, yes.  My husband isn't.  He was an old regular officer, and
returned to his regiment as soon as war broke out.  I don't think
there will be many women on board: the Nauru isn't a family ship,
you know."

"What is that?" Cecilia queried.

"Oh, a ship with hundreds of women and children--privates' wives
and families, as well as officers'.  I believe they are rather
awful to travel on--they must be terrible in rough weather.  The
non-family ships carry only a few officers' wives, as a rule: a
much more comfortable arrangement for the lucky few."

"And we are among the lucky few?"

"Yes.  I only hope my small boys won't be a nuisance.  I've never
been without a nurse for them until last night.  However, I suppose
I'll soon get into their ways."

"You must let me help you," Cecilia said.  "I love babies."  She
stroked Tim's curly head as she spoke: Dickie, his little brother,
had suddenly fallen asleep on his mother's knee.

Mrs. Burton smiled her thanks.

"Well, it is pleasant to think we shan't go on board knowing no
one," she said.  "I hope our cabins are not far apart.  Oh, here is
my husband; I hope that means all our luggage is safely on board."

Colonel Burton came up--a pleasant soldierly man, bearing the
unmistakable stamp of the regular officer.  They were still
chatting when Bob arrived, to be introduced--a ceremony which
appeared hardly necessary in the case of the colonel and himself.

"We've met at intervals since last night in various places where
they hide luggage," said the colonel.  "I'm beginning to turn faint
at the sight of a trunk!"

"It's the trunks I can't get sight of that make me tremble,"
grinned Bob.  "One of mine disappeared mysteriously this morning,
and finally, after a breathless hunt, turned up in a lamp-room--
your biggest Saratoga, Tommy!  Why anyone should have put it in a
lamp-room seems to be a conundrum that is going to excite the
station for ever.  But there it was."

"And have they really started for the ship?" asked Cecilia.

"Well--I saw them all on a lorry, checked over my list with the
driver's, and found everything right, and saw him start," said Bob,
laughing.  "More than that no man may say."

"It would simplify matters if we knew our cabin numbers," said
Colonel Burton.  "But we don't; neither does anyone, as far as I
can gather, since cabins appear to be allotted just as you go on
board--a peculiar system.  Can you imagine the ghastly heap of
miscellaneous luggage that will be dumped on the Nauru, with
frenzied owners wildly trying to sort it out!"

"It doesn't bear thinking of," said Bob, laughing.  "Come along,
Tommy, and we'll explore Liverpool."

They wandered about the crowded streets of the great port, where
may, perhaps, be seen a queerer mixture of races than anywhere in
England, since ships from all over the world ceaselesly come and go
up and down the Mersey.  Then they boarded a tram and journeyed out
of the city, among miles of beautiful houses, and, getting down at
the terminus, walked briskly for an hour, since it would be long
before there would be any land for them to walk on again.  They got
back to the hotel rather late for lunch, and very hungry; and
afterwards it was time to pack up their light luggage and get down
to the docks.  General Harran had warned them to take enough hand-
baggage to last them several nights, since it was quite possible
that their cabin trunks would be swept into the baggage room, and
fail to turn up for a week after sailing.

A taxi whisked them through streets that became more and more
crowded.  The journey was not a long one; they turned down a slope
presently, and drew up before a great gate across the end of a pier
where two policemen were on duty to prevent the entrance of anyone
without a pass.  Porters were there in singular numbers--England
had grown quite used to being without them; and Bob had just
transferred their luggage to the care of a cheerful lad with a
barrow when Cecilia gave a little start of dismay.

"Bob, I've left my watch!"

"Whew!" whistled her brother.  "Where?"

"I washed my hands just before I left my room," said the shamefaced
Cecilia.  "I remember slipping it off my wrist beside the basin."

"Well, there's no need to worry," said Bob cheerfully.  "Ten to one
it's there still.  You'll have to take the taxi and go back for it,
Tommy: I can't leave the luggage, and I may be wanted to show our
papers, besides; but you won't have any difficulty.  Come along,
and I'll see that the policeman lets you through when you come
back."

The constable was sympathetic.  He examined Cecilia's passport,
declared that he would know her anywhere again, and that she had no
cause for anxiety.

"Is it time?  Sure, ye'll be tired of waitin' on the ould pier
hours afther ye get back," he said cheerfully.  "I know thim
transports.  Why, there's not one of the throops marched in yet.
There comes the furrst lot."

A band swung round the turn of the street playing a quickstep:
behind it, a long line of Australian soldiers, marching at ease,
each man with his pack on his shoulder.  A gate with a military
sentry swung wide to admit them, and they passed on to where a high
overhead bridge carried them aboard a great liner moored to the
pier.

"'Tis the soldiers have betther treatment than the officers whin it
comes to boardin' transports," said the friendly policeman.  "They
get marched straight on board.  The officers and their belongin's
has to wait till they've gone through hivin knows what formalities.
So you needn't worry, miss, an' take your time.  The ould ship'll
be there hours yet."

The taxi driver appeared only too glad of further employment, and
Cecilia, much cheered, though still considerably ashamed of
herself, leaned back comfortably in the cab as they whisked through
the streets.  At the hotel good fortune awaited her, for a
chambermaid had just found her watch and had brought it to the
office for safe keeping.  Cecilia left her thanks, with something
more substantial, for the girl, and hurried back to the cab.

The streets seemed more thronged than ever, and presently traffic
was blocked by a line of marching men--more "diggers" on their way
to the transport.  Cecilia's chauffeur turned back into a side
street, evidently a short cut.  Half-way along it the taxi jarred
once or twice and came to a standstill.

The chauffeur got out and poked his head into the bonnet,
performing mysterious rites, while Cecilia watched him, a little
anxiously.  Presently he came round to the door.

"I'm awful sorry, miss," he said respectfully.  "The old bus has
broke down.  I'm afraid I can't get another move out of 'er--I'll
'ave to get 'er towed to a garage."

"Oh!" said Cecilia, jumping out.  "Do you think I can find another
near here?"

"You oughter pick one up easy in the street up there," said the
chauffeur.  "Plenty of 'em about 'ere.  Even if you shouldn't,
miss, you can get a tram down to the docks--any p'liceman 'll
direct you.  You could walk it, if you liked--you've loads of
time."  He touched his cap as she paid him.  "Very sorry to let you
down like this, miss--it ain't my fault.  All the taxis in England
are just about droppin' to pieces--it'll be a mercy when repair
shops get goin' again."

"It doesn't matter," Cecilia said cheerfully.  She decided that she
would walk; it would be more interesting, and the long wait on the
pier would be shortened.  She set off happily towards the main
street where the tram lines ran, feeling that short cuts were not
for strangers in a big city.

Even in the side street the shops were interesting.  She came upon
a fascinating curio shop, and stopped a moment to look at the queer
medley in its window; such a medley as may be seen in any port
where sailor-men bring home strange things from far countries.  She
was so engrossed that she failed to notice a woman who passed her,
and then, with an astonished stare, turned back.  A heavy hand fell
on her wrist.

"Cecilia!"

She turned, with a little cry.  Mrs. Rainham's face, inflamed with
sudden anger, looked into her own.  The hard grasp tightened on her
wrist.

"What are you doing here, you wicked girl?  You've run away."

At the moment no speech was possible to Cecilia.  She twisted her
arm away fiercely, freeing herself with difficulty, and turning,
ran, with her stepmother at her heels.  Once, Mrs. Rainham gasped
"Police!" after which she required all the breath to keep near the
flying girl.  The street was quiet; only one or two interested
passers-by turned to look at the race, and a street urchin shouted:
"Go it, red 'ead--she's beatin' yer!"

It follows naturally, when one person pursues another through city
streets, that the pursued falls under public suspicion and is
liable to be caught and held by any officious person.  Cecilia felt
this, and her anxiety was keen as she darted round the corner into
the next street, looking about wildly for a means of escape.  A big
van, crawling across the road, held Mrs. Rainham back for a moment,
giving her a brief respite.

Just in front of her, a block in the traffic was beginning to move.
A taxi was near her.  She held up her hand desperately, trying to
catch the driver's eye.  He shook his head, and she realized that
he was already engaged--there was a pile of luggage beside him with
big labels, and a familiar name struck her--"H.M.T. Nauru."  A
girl, leaning from the window of the taxi, met her glance, and
Cecilia took a sudden resolve.  She sprang forward, her hand on the
door.

"I am a passenger by the Nauru.  Could you take me in your car?"
she gasped.

"Why, of course," said the other girl.  "Plenty of room, isn't
there, dad?"

"Yes, certainly," said the other occupant of the cab--a big,
grizzled man, who looked at the new-comer in blank amazement.  He
had half risen, but there was no time for him to assist his self-
invited guest; she had opened the door and jumped in before his
daughter had finished speaking.  Leaning forward, Cecilia saw her
stepmother emerge from the traffic, crimson-faced, casting wild and
wrathful glances about her.  Then her wandering eye fell upon
Cecilia, and she began to run forward.  Even as she did the
chauffeur quickened his pace, and the taxi slid away, until the
running, shouting figure was lost to view.

Cecilia sat back with a gasp, and began to laugh helplessly.  The
others watched her with faces that clearly showed that they began
to suspect having entertained a lunatic unawares.

"I do beg your pardon," said Cecilia, recovering.  "It was
inexcusable.  But I was running away."

"So it seemed," said the big man, in a slow, pleasant voice.  "I
hope it wasn't from the police?"

"Oh no!"  Cecilia flushed.  "Only from my stepmother.  My own taxi
had just broken down, and she found me, and she would have made a
scene in the street--and scenes are so vulgar, are they not?  When
I saw Nauru on your luggage, you seemed to me to have dropped from
heaven."

She looked at them, her pretty face pink, her eyes dancing with
excitement.  There was something appealing about her, in the big
childish eyes, and in the well-bred voice with its faint hint of a
French accent.  The girl she looked at could hardly have been
called pretty--she was slender and long-limbed, with honest grey
eyes and a sensitive mouth that seemed always ready to break into
smiles.  A little smile hovered at its corners now, but her voice
held a note of protection.

"I don't think we need bother you to tell us," she said.  "In our
country it's a very ordinary thing to give anyone a lift, if you
have a seat to spare.  Isn't it, daddy?"

"Of course," said her father.  "And we are to be fellow-passengers,
so it was very lucky that we were there in the nick of time."

Cecilia looked at them gratefully.  It might have been so
different, she thought; she might have flung herself on the mercy
of people who would have been suspicious and frigid, or of others
who would have treated her with familiarity and curious questioning.
These people were pleasantly matter-of-fact; glad to help, but
plainly anxious to show her that they considered her affairs none
of their business.  There was a little catch in her throat as she
answered.

"It is very good of you to take me on trust--I know I did an
unwarrantable thing.  But my brother, Captain Rainham, will explain
everything, and he will be as grateful to you as I am.  He is at
the ship now."

"Then we can hand you over to his care," said her host.  "By the
way, is there any need to guard against the--er--lady you spoke of?
Is she likely to follow you to the docks?"

"She doesn't know I'm going," said Cecilia, dimpling.  "Of course,
if it were in a novel she would leap into a swift motor and bid the
driver follow us, and be even now on our heels--"

"Goodness!" said the other girl.  She twisted so that she could
look out of the tiny window at the back; turning back with a
relieved face.

"Nothing near us but a carrier's van and a pony cart," she said.
"I shouldn't think you need worry."

"No.  I really don't think I need.  My stepmother did see me in the
taxi, but her brain doesn't move very swiftly, nor does she, for
that matter--and I'm sure she wouldn't try to follow me.  She
knows, too, that if she found me she couldn't drag me away as if I
were two years old.  Oh, I'm sure I'm safe from her now," finished
Cecilia, with a sigh of relief.

"At any rate, if she comes to the docks she will have your brother
to deal with," said the big man.  "And here we are."

They got out at the big gate where the Irish policeman greeted
Cecilia with a friendly "Did ye find it now, miss?" and beamed upon
her when she held up her wrist, with her watch safely in its place.
He examined her companions' passports, but let her through with an
airy "Sure, this young lady's all right," which made Cecilia feel
that no further proof could be needed of her respectability.  Then
Bob came hurrying to meet her.

"I was just beginning to get uneasy about you," he said.  "Did you
have any trouble?"

"My taxi broke down," Cecilia answered.  "But this lady and
gentleman most kindly gave me a seat, and saved me ever so much
trouble.  I'll tell you my story presently."

Bob turned, saluting.

"Thanks, awfully," he said.  "I wasn't too happy at letting my
little sister run about alone in a strange city, but it couldn't be
helped."

"I'm very glad we were there," said the big man.  "Now, can you
tell me where luggage should go?  My son and a friend are somewhere
on the pier, I suppose, but it doesn't seem as though finding them
would be an easy matter."

The pier, indeed, resembled a hive in which the bees have broken
loose.  Beside it lay the huge bulk of the transport, towering high
above all the dock buildings near.  Already she swarmed with
Australian soldiers, and a steady stream was still passing aboard
by the overhead gangway to the blare and crash of a regimental
march.  The pier itself was crowded with officers, with a
sprinkling of women and children--most of them looking impatient
enough at being kept ashore instead of being allowed to seek their
quarters on the ship.  Great heaps of trunks were stacked here and
there, and a crane was steadily at work swinging them aboard.

"We can't go aboard yet, nobody seems to know why," Bob said.  "An
individual called an embarkation officer, or something of the kind,
has to check our passports; he was supposed to be here before three
o'clock, but there's no sign of him yet, and every one has to wait
his convenience.  It's hard on the women with little children--the
poor mites are getting tired and cross.  Luggage can be left in the
care of the ship's hands, to be loaded; I'll show you where, sir,
if you like.  Is this yours?"  His eye fell on a truck-load of
trunks, wheeled up by a porter, and lit up suddenly as he noticed
the name on their labels.

"Oh--are you Mr. Linton?" he exclaimed.  "I believe I've got a
letter for you, from General Harran."

"Now, I was wondering where I'd heard your name before, when your
sister happened to say you were Captain Rainham," said the big man.
"How stupid of me--of course, I met Harran at my club this week,
and he told me about you."  He held out his hand, and took Bob's
warmly; then he turned to his daughter.  "Norah, it's lucky that we
have made friends with Miss Rainham already, because you know she's
in our care, after a fashion."

Norah Linton turned with a quick smile.

"I'm so glad," she said.  "I've been wondering what you would be
like, because we didn't know of anyone else on board."

"General Harran told my brother that you would befriend us, but I
did not think you would begin so early," Cecilia said.  "Just
fancy, Bob, they rescued me almost from the clutches of the she-
dragon!"

Bob jumped.

"You don't mean to say you met her?"

"I did--as soon as my cab broke down.  And I lost my head and ran
from her like a hare, and jumped into Mr. Linton's car!"

Bob regarded her with solemn amazement.

"So this is what happens when I let you go about alone!" he
ejaculated.  "Why, you might have got yourself into an awful mess--
it might have been anybody's car--"

"Yes, but it wasn't," said his sister serenely.  "You see, I looked
at Miss Linton first, and I knew it would be all right."

The Lintons laughed unrestrainedly.

"That's your look of benevolent old age, Norah," said her father.
"I've often noticed it coming on."

"I wish you'd mention it to Wally," Norah said.  "He might treat me
with more respect if you did."

"I doubt it; it isn't in Wally," said her father.  "Now, Rainham,
shall we see about this luggage?"

They handed it over to the care of deck hands, and watched it
loaded, with many other trunks, into a huge net, which the crane
seized, swung to an enormous height and then lowered gently upon
the deck of the Nauru.  Just as the operation was finished two
figures threaded their way through the crowd towards them;
immensely tall young officers, with the badge of a British regiment
on their caps.

"Hullo, dad," said the taller--a good-looking grave-faced fellow,
with a strong resemblance to Norah.  "We hardly expected you down
so early."

"Well, Norah and I had nothing to do, so we thought we might as
well come; though it appears that we would have been wiser not to
hurry," said Mr. Linton.  "Jim, I want to introduce you to two
courageous emigrants--Miss Rainham, Captain Rainham--my son."

Jim Linton shook hands, and introduced his companion, Captain
Meadows, who was dark and well built, with an exceedingly merry
eye.

"We've been trying to get round the powers that be, to make our way
on board," he said.  "The chief difficulty is that the powers that
be aren't there; everything is hung up waiting for this blessed
official.  I suppose the honest man is sleeping off the effects of
a heavy lunch."

"If he knew what hearty remarks are being made about him by over
two hundred angry people, it might disturb his rest," said Wally
Meadows.  "Come along and see them--you're only on the fringe of
the crowd here."

"Wally's been acting as nursemaid for the last half hour," Jim
said, as they made their way along the pier.  "He rescued a curly-
haired kid from a watery grave--at least, it would have been in if
he hadn't caught it by the hind leg--and after that the kid refused
to let him go."

"He was quite a jolly kid," said Wally.  "Only he seems to have
quicksilver in him, instead of blood.  I'm sorry for his mother--
she'll have a packed time for the next five weeks."  He sighed.
"Hide me, Norah--there he is now!"

The curly-haired one proved to be little Tim Burton, who detached
himself from his mother on catching sight of Wally, and trotted
across to him with a shrill cry of "There's mine officer!"--whereat
Wally swung him up on his shoulder, to his infinite delight.  Mrs.
Burton hurried up to claim her offspring, and was made known to
every one by Cecilia.

"It's such an awful wait," she said wearily.  "We came here soon
after two o'clock, thinking we would get the children on board
early for their afternoon sleep; now it's after four, and we have
stood here ever since.  It's too tantalizing with the ship looking
at us, and the poor babies are so tired.  Still, I'm not the worst
off.  Look at that poor girl."

She pointed out a white-faced girl who was sitting in a drooping
attitude on a very dirty wooden case.  She was dainty and refined
in appearance; and looking at her, one felt that the filthy case
was the most welcome thing she had found that afternoon.  Her
husband, an officer scarcely more than a boy, stood beside, trying
vainly to hush the cries of a tiny baby.  She put up her arms
wearily as they looked at her.

"Oh, give her to me, Harry."  She took the little bundle and
crooned over it; and the baby wailed on unceasingly.

"Oh!" said Norah Linton.  She took a quick stride forward.  They
watched her accost the young mother--saw the polite, yet stiff,
refusal on the English girl's face; saw Norah, with a swift decided
movement stoop down and take the baby from the reluctant arms,
putting any protest aside with a laugh.  A laugh went round the
Linton party also.

"I knew she'd get it," said Jim.

"Rather!" his friend echoed.  "But she hasn't arms enough for all
the babies who want mothering here."

There were indeed plenty of them.  Tired young mothers stood about
everywhere, with children ranging from a few months to three or
four years, all weary by this time, and most of them cross.
Harassed young husbands, unused to travelling with children--
unused, indeed, to anything but War--went hither and thither trying
to hasten the business of getting on board--coming back, after each
useless journey, to try and soothe a screaming baby or restrain a
tiny boy anxious to look over the edge of the pier.  It was only a
few minutes before Cecilia had found a mother exhausted enough to
yield up her baby without much protest; and Jim and Wally Meadows
and Bob "adopted" some of the older children, and took them off to
see the band; which diversions helped to pass the time.  But it was
after five o'clock before a stir went round the pier, and a rush of
officers towards a little wooden room at the foot of the gangway
told that the long-waited-for official had arrived.

"Well, we won't hurry," said Mr. Linton.  "Let the married men get
on first."

There were not many who did not hurry.  A few of the older officers
kept back; the majority, who were chiefly subalterns, made a dense
crowd about the little room, their long-pent impatience bursting
out at last.  Passports examined, a procession began up the
gangway; each man compelled to halt at a barrier on top, where two
officers sat allotting cabins.  It was difficult to see why both
these preliminaries could not have been managed before, instead of
being left until the moment of boarding; the final block strained
every one's patience to breaking-point.

The Lintons and the Rainhams were almost the last to board the
ship, having, not without thankfulness, relinquished their adopted
babies.  The officers allotting berths nodded comprehendingly on
hearing the names of the two girls.

"Oh yes--you're together."  He gave them their number.

"Together--how curious!" said Cecilia.

"Not a bit; you're the only unmarried ladies on board.  And they're
packed like sardines--not a vacant berth on the ship.  Over two
thousand men and two hundred officers, to say nothing of wives and
children."  He leaned back, thankful that his rush of work was
over.  "Well, when I make a long voyage I hope it won't be on a
trooper!"

"Well, that's a bad remark to begin one's journey on," said Jim
Linton, following the girls up the gangway.  "Doesn't it scare you,
Miss Rainham?"

"No," she said, with a little laugh.  "Nothing would scare me
except not going."

"Why, that's all right," he said.  His hand fell on his sister's
shoulder.  "And what about you, Nor?"

The face she turned him was so happy that words were hardly needed.

"Why--I'm going back to Billabong!" she said.



CHAPTER IX

THE WELCOME OF AUSTRALIA


A path of moonlight lay across the sea.  Into it drifted a great
ship, her engines almost stopped, so that only a dull, slow throb
came up from below, instead of the swift thud-thud of the screw
that had pounded for many weeks.  It was late; so late that most of
the ship's lights were extinguished.  But all through her was a
feeling of pulsating life, of unrest, of a kind of tense
excitement, of long-pent expectation.  There were low voices
everywhere; feet paced the decks; along the port railings on each
deck soldiers were clustered thickly, looking out across the grey,
tossing sea to a winking light that flashed and twinkled out of the
darkness like a voice that cried "Greeting!"  For it was the Point
Lonsdale light, at the sea gate of Victoria; and the men of the
Nauru were nearly home.

There was little sleep for anyone on board on that last night.
Most of the Nauru's great company were to disembark in Melbourne;
the last two days had seen a general smartening up, a mighty
polishing of leather and brass, a "rounding-up" of scattered
possessions.  The barber's shop had been besieged by shaggy crowds;
and since the barber, being but human, could not cope with more
than a small proportion of his would-be customers, amateur clipping
parties had been in full swing forward, frequently with terrifying
results.  Nobody minded.  "Git it orf, that's all that matters!"
was the motto of the long-haired.

No one knew quite when the Nauru would berth; it was wrapped in
mystery, like all movements of troopships.  So every one was ready
the night before--kit bags packed, gear stowed away, nothing left
save absolute necessaries.  Then, with the coming of dusk, unrest
settled down upon the ship, and the men marched restlessly, up and
down, or, gripping pipe stems between their teeth, stared from the
railings northwards.  And then, like a star at first, the Point
Lonsdale light twinkled out of the darkness, and a low murmur ran
round the decks--a murmur without words, since it came from men
whose only fashion of meeting any emotion is with a joke; and even
for a "digger" there is no joke ready on the lips, but only a catch
at the heart, at the first glimpse of home.

Norah Linton had tucked herself away behind a boat on the hurricane
deck, and there Cecilia Rainham found her just after dusk.  The two
girls had become sworn friends during the long voyage out, in the
close companionship of sharing a cabin--which is a kind of acid
test that generally brings out the best--and worst--of travellers.
There was something protective in Norah's nature that responded
instantly to the lonely position of the girl who was going across
the world to a strange country.  Both were motherless, but in
Norah's case the blank was softened by a father who had striven
throughout his children's lives to be father and mother alike to
them, while Cecilia had only the bitter memory of the man who had
shirked his duty until he had become less than a stranger to her.
If any pang smote her heart at the sight of Norah's worshipping
love for the tall grey "dad" for whom she was the very centre of
existence, Cecilia did not show it.  The Lintons had taken them
into their little circle at once--more, perhaps, by reason of
Cecilia's extraordinary introduction to them than through General
Harran's letter--and Bob and his sister were already grateful for
their friendship.  They were a quiet quartet, devoted to each other
in their undemonstrative fashion; Norah was on a kind of boyish
footing with Jim, the huge silent brother who was a major, with
three medal ribbons to his credit, and with Wally Meadows, his
inseparable chum, who had been almost brought up with the brother
and sister.

"They were always such bricks to me, even when I was a little scrap
of a thing," she had told Cecilia.  "They never said I was 'only a
girl,' and kept me out of things.  So I grew up more than three
parts a boy.  It was so much easier for dad to manage three boys,
you see!"

"You don't look much like a boy," Cecilia had said, looking at the
tall, slender figure and the mass of curly brown hair.  They were
getting ready for bed, and Norah was wielding a hair-brush
vigorously.

"No, but I really believe I feel like one--at least, I do whenever
I am with Jim and Wally," Norah had answered.  "And when we get
back to Billabong it will be just as it always was--we'll be three
boys together.  You know, it's the most ridiculous thing to think
of Jim and Wally as grown-ups.  Dad and I can't get accustomed to
it at all.  And as for Jim being a major!--a major sounds so
dignified and respectable, and Jim isn't a bit like that!"

"And what about Captain Meadows?"

"Oh--Wally will simply never grow up."  Norah laughed softly.
"He's like Peter Pan.  Once he nearly managed it--in that bad time
when Jim was a prisoner, and we thought he was killed.  But Jim got
back just in time to save him from anything so awful.  One of the
lovely parts of getting Jim again was to see the twinkle come back
into Wally's eyes.  You see, Wally is practically all twinkle!"

"And when you get back to Australia, what will you all do?"

Norah had looked puzzled.

"Why, I don't know that we've ever thought of it," she said.
"We'll just all go to Billabong--we don't seem to think further
than that.  Anyway, you and Bob are coming too--so we can plan it
all out then."

Looking at her, on this last night of the voyage, Cecilia wondered
whether the unknown "Billabong" would indeed be enough, after the
long years of war.  They had been children when they left; now the
boys were seasoned soldiers, with scars and honours, and such
memories as only they themselves could know; and Norah and her
father had for years conducted what they termed a "Home for Tired
People," where broken and weary men from the front had come to be
healed and tended, and sent back refitted in mind and body.  This
girl, who leaned over the rail and looked at the Point Lonsdale
light, had seen suffering and sorrow; the mourning of those who had
given up dear ones, the sick despair of young and strong men
crippled in the very dawn of life; and had helped them all.  Beside
her, in experience, Cecilia felt a child.  And yet the old bush
home, with its simple life and the pleasures that had been
everything to her in childhood, seemed everything to her now.

Cecilia went softly to her side, and Norah turned with a start.

"Hallo, Tommy!" she said, slipping her arm through the new-comer's--
Cecilia had become "Tommy" to them all in a very short time, and
her hated, if elegant, name left as a legacy to England.  "I didn't
hear you come.  Oh, Tommy, it's lovely to see home again!"

"You can't see much," said Tommy, laughing.

"No, but it's there.  I can feel it; and that old winking eye on
Point Lonsdale is saying fifty nice things a minute.  And I can
smell the gum leaves--don't you tell me I can't, Tommy, just
because your nose isn't tuned up to gum leaves yet!"

"Does it take long to tune a nose?" asked Tommy, laughing.

"Not a nice nose like yours."  Norah gave a happy little sigh.  "Do
you see that glow in the sky?  That's the lights of Melbourne.  I
went to school near Melbourne, but I never loved it much; but
somehow, it seems different now.  It's all just shouting welcomes.
And back of beyond that light is Billabong."

"I want to see Billabong," said the other girl.  "I never had a
home that meant anything like that--I want to see yours."

"And I suppose you'll just think it's an ordinary, untidy old
place--not a bit like the trim English places, where the woods look
as though they were swept and dusted before breakfast every
morning.  I suppose it is all ordinary.  But it has meant just
everything I wanted, all my life, and I can't imagine its meaning
anything less now."

"And what about Homewood--the Home for Tired People?"

"Oh, Homewood certainly is lovely," Norah said.  "I like it better
than any place in the world that isn't Billabong--and it was just
wonderful to be able to carry it on for the Tired People: dad and I
will always be thankful we had the chance.  But it never was home:
and now it's going to run itself happily without us, as a place for
partly-disabled men, with Colonel Hunt and Captain Hardress to
manage it.  It was just a single chapter in our lives, and now it
is closed.  But we're--all of us--parts of Billabong."

Some one came quietly along the deck and to the vacant place on her
other side.

"Who's talking Billabong again, old kiddie?"  Jim Linton's deep
voice was always gentle.  Norah gave his shoulder a funny little
rub with her head.

"Ah, you're just as bad as I am, so you needn't laugh at me,
Jimmy."

"I wasn't laughing at you," Jim defended himself.  "I expected to
find you ever so much worse.  I thought you'd sing anthems on the
very word Billabong all through the voyage, especially in your
bath.  Of course I don't know what Tommy has suffered!"

"Tommy doesn't need your sympathy," said that lady.  "However, she
wants to look her best for Melbourne, so she's going to bed.  Don't
hurry, Norah; I know you want to exchange greetings with that light
for hours yet!"

She slipped away, and Norah drew closer to Jim.  Presently came
Wally, on her other side, and a few moments later a deep voice
behind them said, "Not in bed yet, Norah?"--and Wally made room for
Mr. Linton.

"I couldn't go to bed, dad."

"Apparently most of the ship is of your mind--I didn't feel like
bed myself," admitted the squatter, letting his hand rest for a
moment on his daughter's shoulder.  He gave a great sigh of
happiness.  "Eh, children, it's great to be near home again!"

"My word, isn't it!" said Jim.  "Only it's hard to take in.  I keep
fancying that I'll certainly wake up in a minute and find myself in
a trench, just getting ready to go over the top.  What do you
suppose they're doing at Billabong now, Nor?"

"Asleep," said Norah promptly.  "Oh, I don't know--I don't believe
Brownie's asleep."

"I know she's not," Wally said.  He and the old nurse-housekeeper
of Billabong were sworn allies; though no one could ever quite come
up to Jim and Norah in Brownie's heart, Wally had been a close
third from the day, long years back, that he had first come to the
station, a lonely, dark-eyed little Queenslander.  "She's made the
girls scrub and polish until there's nothing left for them to rub,
and she's harried Hogg and Lee Wing until there isn't a leaf
looking crooked in all the garden, and she and Murty have planned
all about meeting you for the hundred and first time."

"And she's planning to make pikelets for you!" put in Norah.

"Bless her.  I wouldn't wonder.  She's planning the very wildest
cooking, of course--do you remember what the table used to be the
night we came home from school?  And now she's gone round all the
rooms to make sure she couldn't spend another sixpence on them, and
she's sitting by her window trying to see us all on the Nauru.
'Specially you, old Nor."

"'Tis the gift of second sight you have," said Jim admiringly.  "A
few hundred years ago you'd have got yourself ducked as a witch or
something."

"Oh, Wally and Brownie were always twin souls; no wonder each knows
what the other is thinking of," Norah said, laughing.  "It all
sounds exactly true, at any rate.  Boys, what a pity you can't land
in uniform--wouldn't they all love to see you!"

"Can't do it," Jim said.  "Too long since we were shot out of the
army; any enterprising provost-marshal could make himself obnoxious
about it."

"I know--but I'm sorry," answered Norah.  "Brownie won't be
satisfied unless she sees you in all your war paint."

"We'll put it on some night for dinner," Jim promised.  He peered
suddenly into the darkness.  "There's a moving light--it's the
pilot steamer coming out for us."

They watched the light pass slowly from the dim region that meant
the Heads, until, as the pilot boat swung out through the Rip to
where the Nauru lay, her other lights grew clear, and presently her
whole outline loomed indistinctly, suddenly close to them.  She lay
to across a little heaving strip of sea, and presently the pilot
was being pulled across to them by a couple of men and was coming
nimbly up the Nauru's ladder, hand over hand.  He nodded cheerily
at his welcome--a fusillade of greetings from every "digger" who
could find a place at the railings, and a larger number who could
not, but contented themselves with shouting sweet nothings from
behind their comrades.  A lean youngster near Jim Linton looked
down enviously at the retreating boat.

"If I could only slide down into her, an' nick off to the old
Alvina over there, I'd be home before breakfast," he said.  "Me
people live at Queenscliff--don't it seem a fair cow to have to go
past 'em, right up to Melbourne?"

The pilot's head appeared above on the bridge, beside the
captain's, and presently the Nauru gathered way, and, slowly
turning, forged through the tossing waters of the Rip.  Before her
the twin lights of the Heads opened out; soon she was gliding
between them, and under the silent guns of the Queenscliff forts,
and past the twinkling house lights of the little seaside town.
There were long coo-ees from the diggers, with shrill, piercing
whistles of greeting for Victoria; from ashore came faint answering
echoes.  But the four people from Billabong stood silently, glad of
each other's nearness, but with no words, and in David Linton's
heart and Norah's was a great surge of thankfulness that, out of
many perils, they were bringing their boys safely home.

The Nauru turned across Port Phillip Bay, and presently they felt
the engines cease, and there came the rattle of the chain as the
anchor shot into the sea.

"As the captain thought," said Jim.  "He fancied they'd anchor us
off Portsea for the night and bring us up to Port Melbourne in the
morning, after we'd been inspected.  Wouldn't it be the limit if
some one developed measles now, and they quarantined us!"

"You deserve quarantining, if ever anyone did," said Norah,
indignantly.  "Why do you have such horrible ideas?"

"I don't know--they just seem to waft themselves to me," said Jim
modestly.  "Anyhow, the quarantine station is a jolly little place
for a holiday, and the sea view is delightful."  He broke off,
laughing, and suddenly flung his arm round her shoulders in the
dusk of the deck.  "I think I'm just about insane at getting home,"
he said.  "Don't mind me, old kiddie--and you'd better go to bed,
or you'll be a ghost in the morning."

They weighed anchor after breakfast, following a perfunctory
medical inspection--so perfunctory that one youth who, having been
a medical student, and knowing well that he had a finely-developed
feverish cold, with a high temperature, and not wishing to
embarrass his fellow-passengers, placed in his mouth the wrong end
of the clinical thermometer handed him by the visiting nurse.  He
sucked this gravely for the prescribed time, reversing it just as
she reappeared; and, being marked normal and given a clean bill of
health, returned to his berth to shiver and perspire between huge
doses of quinine.  More than one such hero evaded the searching eye
of regulations; until finally the Nauru, free to land her
passengers, steamed slowly up the Bay.

One by one the old, familiar landmarks opened out--Mornington,
Frankston, Mordialloc, while Melbourne itself lay hidden in a mist
cloud ahead.  Then, as the sun grew stronger the mist lifted, and
domes and spires pierced the dun sky, towering above the jumbled
mass of the grey city.  They drew closer to Port Melbourne, and lo!
St. Kilda and all the foreshore were gay with flags, and all the
ships in the harbour were dressed to welcome them; and beyond the
pier were long lines of motors, each beflagged, waiting for the
fighting men whom the Nauru was bringing home.

"Us!" said a boy.  "Why, it's us!  Flags an' motors--an' a blessed
band playin' on the pier!  Wot on earth are they fussin' over us
for?  Ain't it enough to get home?"

The band of the Nauru was playing Home, Sweet Home, very low and
tenderly, and there were lumps in many throats, and many a pipe
went out unheeded.  Slowly the great ship drew in to the pier,
where officers in uniform waited, and messengers of welcome from
the Government.  Beyond the barriers that held the general public
back from the pier was a black mass of people; cheer upon cheer
rose, to be wafted back from the transport, where the "diggers"
lined every inch of the port side, clinging like monkeys to yards
and rigging.  Then the Nauru came to rest at last, and the gangways
rattled down, and the march off began, to the quick lilt of the
band playing "Oh, it's a Lovely War."  The men took up the words,
singing as they marched back to Victoria--coming back, as they had
gone, with a joke on their lips.  So the waiting motors received
them, and rolled them off in triumphal procession to Melbourne,
between the cheering crowds.

From the top deck the Lintons, with the Rainhams, watched the men
go--disembarkation was for the troops first, and not till all had
gone could the unattached officers leave the ship.  The captain
came to them, at last a normal and friendly captain--no more the
official master of a troopship, in which capacity, as he ruefully
said, he could make no friends, and could scarcely regard his ship
as his own, provided he brought her safely from port to port.  He
cast a disgusted glance along the stained and littered decks.

"This is her last voyage as a trooper, and I'm not sorry," he said.
"After this she'll lie up for three months to be refitted; and then
I'll command a ship again and not a barracks.  You wouldn't think
now, to see her on this voyage, that the time was when I had to
know the reason why if there was so much as a stain the size of a
sixpence on the deck.  Oh yes, it's been all part of the job, and
I'm proud of all the old ship has done, and the thousands of men
she's carried; and we've had enough narrow squeaks, from mines and
submarines, to fill a book.  But I'm beginning to hanker mightily
to see her clean!"

The Lintons laughed unfeelingly.  A little mild grumbling might
well be permitted to a man with his record; few merchant captains
had done finer service in the war, and the decoration on his breast
testified to his cool handling of his ship in the "narrow squeaks"
he spoke of lightly.

"Oh yes.  I never get any sympathy," said the captain, laughing
himself.  "And yet I'll wager Miss Linton was 'house-proud' in that
'Home for Tired People' of hers, and she ought to sympathize with a
tidy man.  You should have seen my wife's face when she came aboard
once at Liverpool, and saw the ship; and she's never had the same
respect for me since!  There--the last man is off the ship, and the
gangways are clear; nothing to keep all you homesick people now."
He said good-bye, and ran up the steps to his cabin under the
bridge.

It was a queer home-coming at first, to a vast pier, empty save for
a few officials and policemen--for no outsiders were allowed within
the barriers.  But once clear of customs officials and other
formalities they packed themselves into cabs, and in a few moments
were outside the railed-off space, turning into a road lined on
either side with people--all peering into the long procession of
cabs, in the hope of finding their own returning dear ones.  It was
but a few moments before a posse of uncles, aunts and cousins
swooped down upon the Lintons, whose cab prudently turned down a
side street to let the wave of welcome expend itself.  In the side
street, too, were motors belonging to the aunts and uncles; and
presently the new arrivals were distributed among them, and were
being rushed up to Melbourne, along roads still crowded by the
people who had flocked to welcome the "diggers" home.  The Rainhams
found themselves adopted by this new and cheery band of people--at
least half of whose names they never learned; not that this seemed
to matter in the least.  It was something new to them, and very un-
English; but there was no doubt that it made landing in a new
country a very different thing from their half-fearful anticipations.

"And you really came out all alone--not knowing anyone!" said an
aunt.  "Aren't you English people plucky!  And I believe that most
of you think we're all black fellows--or did until our diggers went
home, and proved unexpectedly white!"

"I don't think we're quite so bad as that!" Bob said, laughing.
"But certainly we never expected quite so kind a welcome."

"Oh, we're all immensely interested in people who take the trouble
to come across the world to see us," said Mrs. Geoffrey Linton.
"That is, if they don't put on 'side'; we don't take kindly to
being patronized.  And you have no idea how many new chums do
patronize us.  Did you know, by the way, that you're new chums
now?"

"It has been carefully drilled into us on the ship," Bob said
gravely.  "I think we know pretty well all we have to face--the
snakes that creep into new chums' boots and sleep under their
pillows, the goannas that bite our toes if we aren't watchful, and
the mosquitoes that sit on the trees and bark!"

"Also the tarantulas that drop from everywhere, especially into
food," added Tommy, dimpling.  "And the bush fires every Sunday
morning, and the blacks that rush down--what is it?  Oh yes, the
Block, casting boomerangs about!  There is much spare time on a
troopship, Mrs. Linton, and all of it was employed by the
subalterns in telling us what we might expect!"

"I can quite imagine it," Mrs. Geoffrey laughed.  "Oh well,
Billabong will be a good breaking-in.  Norah tells me you are going
up there at once?"

"Well, not quite at once," Bob said.  "We think it is only fair to
let them get home without encumbrances, and as we have to present
other letters of introduction in Melbourne, we'll stay here for a
few days, and then follow them."

"Then you must come out to us," said Mrs. Geoffrey firmly.  "No use
to ask my brother-in-law, of course; he has just one idea, and that
is to stay at Scott's, get his luggage through the customs, see his
bankers as quickly as possible, and then get back to his beloved
Billabong.  If we get them out to dinner to-night, it's as much as
we can hope for.  But you two must come to us--we can run you here
and there in the car to see the people you want."  She put aside
their protests, laughing.  "Why, you don't know how much we like
capturing bran-new English people--and think what you have done for
our boys all these four years!  From what they tell us, if anyone
wants to go anywhere or do anything he likes in England, all he has
to do is to wear a digger's slouched hat!"

They stopped in Collins Street, and in a moment the new-comers,
slightly bewildered, found themselves in a tea-room; a new thing in
tea-rooms to Tommy and Bob, since it was a vision of russet and
gold--brown wood, masses of golden wattle and daffodils, and of
bronze gum leaves; and even the waitresses flitted about in russet-
brown dresses.  David Linton hung back at the doorway.

"It isn't a party, Winifred?"

"My dear David, only a few people who want to welcome you back.
Really, you're just as bad as ever!" said his sister-in-law, half
vexed.  "The children's school friends, too--Jim and Wally's mates.
You can't expect us to get you all back, after so long--and with
all those honours, too!--and not give people a chance of shaking
hands with you."  At which point Norah said, gently, but firmly,
"Dad, you mustn't be naughty," and led him within.

Some one grasped his hand.  "Well, Linton, old chap!"  And he found
himself greeting the head of a big "stock and station" firm.  Some
one else clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to meet his
banker; behind them towered half a dozen old squatter friends, with
fellow clubmen, all trying at once to get hold of his hand.  David
Linton's constitutional shyness melted in the heartiness of their
greeting.  Beyond them Norah seemed to be the centre of a mass of
girls, one of whom presently detached herself, and came to him.  He
said in amazement, "Why, it's Jean Yorke--and grown up!" and
actually kissed her, to the great delight of Jean, who had been an
old mate of Norah's.  As for Jim and Wally, they were scarcely to
be seen, save for their heads, in a cluster of lads, who were
pounding and smiting them wherever space permitted.  Altogether,
it was a confused and cheerful gathering, and, much to the
embarrassment of the russet-brown waitresses, the last thing
anybody thought of was tea.

Still, when the buzz of greetings had subsided, and at length
"morning tea"--that time-honoured institution of Australia--had a
chance to appear, it was of a nature to make the new arrivals gasp.
The last four years in England had fairly broken people in to plain
living; dainties and luxuries had disappeared so completely from
the table that every one had ceased to think about them.
Therefore, the Linton party blinked in amazement at the details of
what to Melbourne was a very ordinary tea, and, forgetting its
manners, broke into open comment.

"Cakes!" said Wally faintly.  "Jean, you might catch me if I
swoon."

"What's wrong with the cakes?" said Jean Yorke, bewildered.

"Nothing--except that they are cakes!  Jim!"--he caught at his
chum's sleeve--"that substance in enormous layers in that enormous
slice is called cream.  Real cream.  When did you see cream last,
my son?"

"I'm hanged if I know," Jim answered, grinning.  "About four years
ago, I suppose.  I'd forgotten it existed.  And the cakes look as
if they didn't fall to pieces if you touched 'em."

"What, do the English cakes do that?" asked a pained aunt.

"Rather--when there are any.  It's something they take out of the
war flour--what is it, Nor?"

"Gluten, I think it's called," said Norah doubtfully.  "It's
something that ordinarily makes flour stick together, but they took
it all out of the war flour, and put it into munitions.  So
everything you made with war flour was apt to be dry and crumbly.
And when you made cakes with it, and war sugar, which was half full
of queer stuff like plaster of paris, and egg substitute, because
eggs--when you could get them--were eightpence halfpenny, and
butter substitute (and very little of that)--well, they weren't
exactly what you would call cakes at all."

"Butter substitute!" said the aunt faintly.  "I could not live
without good butter!"

"Bless you, Norah and dad hadn't tasted butter for nearly three
years before they came on board the Nauru," said Jim.  "It was
affecting to see Nor greeting a pat of butter for the first time!"

"But you had some butter--we read about it."

"Two ounces per head weekly--but they put all their ration into the
'Tired People's food,'" said Wally.

"It wasn't only dad and I," said Norah quickly.  "Every soul we
employed did that--Irish maids, butler, cook-lady and all.  And we
hadn't to ask one of them to do it.  The Tired People always had
butter.  They used to think we had a special allowance from
Government, but we hadn't."

"Dear me!" said the aunt.  "It's too terrible.  And meat?"

"Oh, meat was very short," said Norah, laughing.  "Of course we
were fairly well off for our Tired People, because they had
soldiers' rations; but even so, we almost forgot what a joint
looked like.  Stews and hot pots and made dishes--you call them
that because you make them of anything but meat!  We became very
clever at camouflaging meat dishes.  Somehow the Tired People ate
them all.  But"--she paused, laughing--"you know I never thought I
could feel greedy for meat.  And I did--I just longed, quite often,
for a chop!"

"And could you not have one?"

"Gracious, no!"  Norah looked amazed.  "Chops were quite the most
extravagant thing of all--too much bone.  You see, the meat ration
included bone and fat, and I can tell you we were pretty badly
worried if we got too much of either."

"To think of all she knows," said the aunt, regarding her with a
tearful eye.  Whereat Norah laughed.

"Oh, I could tell you lots of homely things," she said.  "How we
always boiled bones for soup at least four times before we looked
on them as used up; and how we worked up sheep's heads into the
most wonderful chicken galantines; and--but would you mind if I ate
some walnut cake instead?  It's making me tremble even to look at
it."

After which Jean Yorke and the russet-brown waitresses vied in
plying the new-comers with the most elaborate cakes, until even Jim
and Wally begged for mercy.

"You ought to remember we're not used to these things," Wally
protested, waving away a strange erection of cream, icing and
wafery pastry.  "If I ate that it would go to my head, and I'd have
to be removed in an ambulance.  And the awful part of it is--I want
to eat it.  Take it out of my sight, Jean, or I'll yield, and the
consequences will be awful."

"But it is too dreadful to think of all you poor souls have gone
through," said an aunt soulfully.  "How little we in Australia know
of what war means!"

"But if it comes to that, how little we knew!" Norah exclaimed,
"Why, there we were, only a few miles from the fighting--you could
hear the guns on a still day, when a big action was going on; and
except for the people who came directly in the way of air raids,
England knew little or nothing of war: I mean, war as the people of
Belgium and Northern France knew it.  The worst we had to admit was
that we didn't get everything we liked to eat, and that was a joke
compared to what we might have had.  Hardly anyone in England went
cold or hungry through the war, and so I don't think we knew much
about it either."  She broke off blushing furiously, to find every
one listening to her.  "I didn't mean to make a speech."

"It's quite true, though," said her father, "even if you did make a
speech about it.  There were privations in some cases, no doubt--
invalids sometimes suffered, or men used to a heavy meat diet,
whose wives had not knowledge--or fuel--enough to cook substitutes
properly.  On the other hand, there was no unemployment, and the
poor were better fed than they had ever been, since every one could
make good wages at munitions.  The death rate among civilians was
very much lower than usual.  People learned to eat less, and not to
waste--and the pre-war waste in England was terrific.  And I say--
and I think we all say--that anyone who grumbles about 'privations'
in England deserves to know what real war means--as the women of
Belgium know it."

He stopped, and Norah regarded him with great pride, since his
remarks were usually strictly limited to the fewest possible words.

"Well, it's rather refreshing to hear you talk," remarked another
squatter.  "A good many people have come back telling most pathetic
tales of all they had to endure.  I suppose, though, that some were
worse off than you?"

"Oh, certainly," David Linton said.  "We knew one Australian, an
officer's wife, who was stranded in a remote corner of South Wales
with two servants and two babies; it was just at the time of
greatest scarcity before compulsory rationing began, when most of
the food coming in was kept in the big towns and the Midlands.
That woman could certainly get milk for her youngsters; but for
three months the only foods she and her maids were sure of getting
were war bread, potatoes, haricot beans and salt herrings.  She was
a good way from the nearest town, and there was deep snow most of
the time.  There was no carting out to her place, and by the time
she could get into the town most of the food shops would be empty."

"And if you saw the salt herrings!" said Norah.  "They come down
from Scotland, packed thousands in a barrel.  They're about the
length and thickness of a comb, and if you soak them for a day in
warm water and then boil them, you can begin to think about them as
a possible food.  But Mrs. Burton and her maids ate them for three
months.  She didn't seem to think she had anything to grumble
about--in fact, she said she still felt friendly towards potatoes,
but she hoped she'd never see a herring or a bean again!"

"She had her own troubles about coal, too," remarked Jim.  "The
only coal down there is a horrible brownish stuff that falls into
damp slack if you look at it; it's generally used only for
furnaces, but people had to draw their coal allowance from the
nearest supply, and it was all she could get.  The only way to use
the beastly stuff was to mix it with wet, salt mud from the river
into what the country people call culm--then you cut it into
blocks, or make balls of it, and it hardens.  She couldn't get a
man to do it for her, and she used to mix all her culm herself--and
you wouldn't call it woman's work, even in Germany.  But she used
to tell it as a kind of joke."

"She used to look on herself as one of the really lucky women,"
said David Linton, "because her husband didn't get killed.  And I
think she was--herrings and culm and all.  And we're even luckier,
since we've all come back to Australia, and to such a welcome as
you've given us."  He stood up, smiling his slow, pleasant smile at
them all.  "And now I think I've got to go chasing the Customs, if
I'm ever to disinter our belongings and get home."

The girls took possession of Norah and Tommy, who left their
menfolk to the drear business of clearing luggage, and thankfully
spent the afternoon in the Botanical Gardens, glad to have firm
ground under their feet after six weeks of sea.  Then they all met
at dinner at Mrs. Geoffrey Linton's, where they found her son,
Cecil, who greeted Norah with something of embarrassment.  There
was an old score between Norah and Cecil Linton, although they had
not seen each other for years; but its memory died out in Norah's
heart as she looked at her cousin's military badge and noted that
he dragged one foot slightly.  Indeed, there was no room in Norah's
heart for anything but happiness.

The aunts and uncles tried hard to persuade David Linton to remain
a few days in Melbourne, but he shook his head.

"I've been homesick for five years," he told them.  "And it feels
like fifty.  I'll come down again, I promise--yes, and bring the
children, of course.  But just now I can't wait.  I've got to get
home."

"That old Billabong!" said Mrs. Geoffrey, half laughing.  "Are you
going to live and die in the backblocks, David?"

"Why, certainly--at least I hope so," he said.  "I suppose there
must be lucid intervals, now that Norah is grown up, or imagines
she is--not that she seems to me a bit different from the time when
her hair was down.  Still I suppose I must bring her to town, and
let her make her curtsy at Government House, and do all the correct
things--"

Some one slipped a hand through his arm.

"But when we've done them, daddy," said Norah cheerfully, "there
will always be Billabong to go home to!"



CHAPTER X

BILLABONG


"Will it be fine, Murty?"

The person addressed made no answer for a moment, continuing to
stare at the western horizon with his eyes wrinkled and his face
anxious.  He turned presently; a tall, grizzled man, with the
stooping shoulders and the slightly bowed legs that are the
heritage of those who spend nine-tenths of their time in the
saddle.

"Sorra a one of me knows," he said.  "It's one of thim unchancy
days that might be annything.  Have ye looked at the glass?"

"It's mejum," replied the first speaker.  She was a vast woman,
with a broad, kindly face, lit by shrewd and twinkling blue eyes,
dressed, as was her custom, in a starched blue print, with a snowy
apron.  "Mejum only.  But I don't feel comferable at that there
bank of clouds, Murty."

"I'd not say meself it was good," admitted Murty O'Toole, head
stockman on the Billabong run.  He looked again at the doubtful
sky, and then back to Mrs. Brown.  "Have ye no corns, at all, that
'ud be shootin' on ye if rain was coming?"

"Corns I 'ave, indeed," said Mrs. Brown, with the sigh of one who
admits that she is but human.  "But no--they ain't shootin' worth
speakin' about, Murty.  Nor me rheumatic knee ain't givin' tongue,
as Master Jim would say."

"Yerra, that's all to the good," said the stockman, much cheered.
"I'll not look at the ould sky anny longer--leastways, not till I
have that cup of tea ye were speakin' about."

"Come in then," said Mrs. Brown, leading the way into the kitchen--
a huge place so glittering with cleanliness and polish that it
almost hurt the eye.  "Kettle's boilin'--I'll have it made in a
jiffy.  No, Murty, you will not sit on that table.  Pounds of bath-
brick 'ave gone into me tables this last week."

"Ye have them always that white I do not see how ye'd want them to
be whiter," remarked Murty, gazing round him.  "But I niver see
anything to aiqual the shine ye have on them tins an' copper.  And
the stove is that fine it's a shame to be cookin' with it."  He
looked with respect at the black satin and silver of the stove,
where leaping flames glowed redly.  "Well, I'll always say there
isn't a heartsomer place to come into than the Billabong kitchen.
And isn't it the little misthress that thinks so?"

"Bless her, she was always in and out of it from the time she could
toddle," said Mrs. Brown, pausing with the teapot in her hand.
"And she wasn't much more than toddlin' before she was at me to
teach her to cook.  When she was twelve she could cook a dinner as
well as anyone twice her age.  I never see the beat of her--handy
as a man out on the run, too--"

"She was that," said Murty solemnly.  "Since she was a bit of a
thing I never see the bullock as could get away from her.  And the
ponies she'd ride!  There was nothin' ever looked through a bridle
that cud frighten her."

"Poof!  Miss Norah didn't know what it was to be afraid," said Mrs.
Brown, filling the huge brown teapot.  "Sometimes I've wished she
was, for me heart's been in me mouth often and often when I see her
go caperin' down the track on some mad-'eaded pony."

"An' there was niver a time when they was late home but you made
sure the whole lot of 'em was killed," said Murty, grinning.  "I'd
come in here an' find you wit' all the funerals planned, so to
speak--"

"Ah, go on!  At least, I alwuz stayed at home when I was nervis,"
said Mrs. Brown.  "Who was it I've known catch an 'orse in the
dark, an' go off to look for 'em when they were a bit late?  Not
me, Mr. O'Toole!"  She filled his cup and handed it to him with a
triumphant air.

"Yerra, I misremember doin' any such thing," said Murty, slightly
confused.  "'Tis the way I was most likely goin' afther a sick
bullock, or it might be 'possum shootin'."  He raised his cup and
took a deep draught; then, with a wry face, gazed at its contents.
"I dunno is this a new brand of tea you're afther usin', now?
Sure, it looks pale."

Mrs. Brown cast a glance at the cup he held out, and gave a gasp of
horror.

"Well, not in all me born days 'ave I made tea an' forgot to put
the tea in!" she exclaimed, snatching it from his hand.  "Don't you
go an' tell Dave and Mick, Murty, or I'll never hear the end of it.
Lucky there's plenty of hot water."  She emptied the teapot
swiftly, and refilled it, this time with due regard to the tea-
caddy.

"Now, Murty, don't you sit there grinnin' at me like a hyener--it
isn't every day I get Miss Norah home."

"It is not," said Murty, taking his renewed cup and a large piece
of bread and butter.  "Sure, I'd not blame ye if ye fried bacon in
the tea-pot--not this morning.  I dunno, meself, am I on me head or
me heels.  All the men is much the same; they've been fallin' over
each other, tryin' to get a little bit of extra spit-an'-polish on
the whole place.  I b'lieve Dave Boone wud 'a' set to work an'
whitewashed the paddock fences if I'd encouraged him at all."

"There's that Sarah," said Mrs. Brown.  "Ornery days it takes me,
an alarum clock, an' Mary, to say nothin' of a wet sponge, to get
her out of bed.  But bless you--these last three days she's up
before the pair of us, rubbin' an' polishin' in every corner.  An'
she an' 'Ogg at each other's throats over flowers; she wantin' to
pick every one to look pretty in the 'ouse, an' 'Ogg wantin' every
one to look pretty in the garden."

"Well, Hogg's got enough an' to spare," was Murty's comment.  "No
union touch about his work.  I reckon he's put in sixteen hours a
day at that garden since we heard they were comin'."

"But there never was any union touch about Billabong," said Mrs.
Brown.

"Not much!  We all know when we're well off," said Murty.  "I'll
bet no union was ever as good a boss as David Linton."

Two other men appeared at the kitchen door--Mick Shanahan and Dave
Boone--each wearing, in defiance of regulations, some battered
remnant of uniform that marked the "digger," while Mick, in
addition, would walk always with a slight limp.  He was accustomed
to say 'twas a mercy it didn't hinder his profession--which, being
that of a horsebreaker, freed him, as a rule, from the necessity of
much walking.  Other men Billabong had sent to the war, and not all
of them had come back; the lonely station had been a place of
anxiety and of mourning.  But to-day the memories of the long years
of fighting and waiting were blotted out in joy.

"Come in, boys," Mrs. Brown nodded at the men.  "Tea's ready.
What's it going to be?"

"Fine, I think," said Boone, replying to this somewhat indefinite
question with complete certainty as to the questioner's meaning.
"I seen you an' Murty pokin' your heads up at them clouds, but
there ain't nothin' in them."  A smile spread over his good-
looking, dark face.  "Bless you, it couldn't rain today, with Miss
Norah comin' home!"

"I don't believe, meself, that Providence 'ud 'ave the 'eart," said
Mrs. Brown.  "Picksher them now, all flyin' round and gettin' ready
to start, and snatchin' a bite of breakfast--"

"If I know Master Jim 'twill be no bite he'll snatch!" put in Mick.

"Well, all I 'ope is that the 'otel don't poison them," said Mrs.
Brown darkly.  "I on'y stopped in a Melbin' 'otel once, and then I
got pot-o'-mine poisoning, or whatever they call it.  I've 'eard
they never wash their saucepans!"

"No wonder you get rummy flavours in what you eat down there, if
that's so," said Dave.  "Surprisin' what the digestions of them
city people learn to put up with.  Well, I suppose you won't be
addin' to their risks by puttin' up much of a dinner for them to-
day, Mrs. Brown."  He grinned wickedly.

"You go on, imperence!" said the lady.  "If I let you look into the
larder now (w'ich I won't, along of knowin' you too well), there'd
be no gettin' you out to work to-day.  Murty, that turkey weighed
five-and-thirty pound!"

"Sure he looked every ounce of it," said Murty.  "I niver see his
aiqual--he was a regular Clydesdale of a bird!"

"I rose him from the aig meself," said Mrs. Brown, "and I don't
think I could 'a' brung meself to 'ave 'im killed for anythink less
than them comin' 'ome.  As it was, I feel 'e's died a nobil death.
An' 'e'll eat beautiful, you mark my words."

"Well, it'll be something to think of the Boss at the head of his
table, investigatin' a Billabong turkey again," said Boone, putting
down his empty cup.  "And as there's nothing more certain than that
they'll all be out at the stables d'reckly after dinner, wantin' to
see the 'orses, you an' I'd better go an' shine 'em up a bit more,
Mick."  They tramped out of the kitchen, while Mrs. Brown waddled
to the veranda and cast further anxious glances at the bank of
clouds lying westward.

Norah was watching them, too.  She was sitting in the corner of the
compartment, as the swift train bore them northward, with her eyes
glued to the country flying past.  Just for once the others did not
matter to her; her father, Jim, and Wally, each in his own corner,
as they had travelled so many times in the past, coming back from
school.  Then she had had eyes only for them; to-day her soul was
hungry for the dear country she had not seen for so long.  It lay
bare enough in the early winter--long stretches of stone-walled
paddocks where the red soil showed through the sparse, native
grass; steep, stony hillsides, with little sheep grazing on them--
pygmies, after the great English sheep; oases of irrigation, with
the deep green of lucerne growing rank among weed-fringed water-
channels; and so on and on, past little towns and tiny settlements,
and now and then a stop at some place of more importance.  But
Norah did not want the towns; she was homesick for the open
country, for the scent of the gum trees coming drifting in through
the open window, for the long, lonely plains where grazing cattle
raised lazy eyes to look at the roaring engine, or horses flung up
nervous heads and went racing away across the grass--more for the
fun of it than from fear.  The gum trees called to her, beckoned to
her; she forgot the smooth perfection of the English landscape as
she feasted her eyes on the dear, untidy trees, whose dangling
strips of bark seemed to wave to her in greeting, telling her she
was coming home.  They passed a great team of working bullocks in a
wagon loaded with an enormous tree trunk; twenty-four monsters,
roan and red and speckled, with a great pair of polled Angus in the
lead; they plodded along in their own dust, their driver beside
them with his immense whip over his shoulder.  Norah pointed them
out to the others with a quick exclamation, and Jim and Wally came
to look out from her window.

"By Jove, what a team!" said Jim.  "Well, just at this moment I'd
rather see those fellows than the meet of the Coaching Club in Hyde
Park--and I had a private idea that that was the finest sight in
the world!"

"Aren't you a jungly animal!" quoth Wally.

"Rather--just now," Jim rejoined.  "Some day, I suppose, I'll be
glad to go back to London, and look at it all again.  But just now
there doesn't seem to be anything to touch a fellow's own country--
and that team of old sloggers there is just a bit of it.  Isn't it,
old Nor?"  She nodded up at him; there was no need of words.

The morning was drawing towards noon when they came in sight of
their own little station: Cunjee, looking just as they had left it
years ago, its corrugated iron roofs gleaming in the sunlight, its
one street green with feathery pepper trees along each side.  The
train pulled up, and they all tumbled out hastily; presumably the
express wasted no more time upon Cunjee than in days gone by, when
it was necessary to hustle out of the carriage, and to race along
to the van, lest the whistle should sound and your trunks be
whisked away somewhere down the line.

There were many people on the platform, and, wonderful to relate, a
band was playing--Home Sweet Home; a little band, some of its
musicians still in the aprons in which they had rushed from their
shop duties; with instruments few and poor, and with not much
training, so that the cornet was apt to be half a bar ahead of the
euphonium.  The Lintons had heard many bands since they had been
away, and some had played before the King himself; but no music had
ever gripped at their heartstrings like the music of the little
backblocks band that stood on the gravelled platform of Cunjee and
played to welcome them home.

Suddenly, as they stood bewildered, there seemed people all round
them; kindly, homely faces, gripping their hands, shouting
greetings.  Evans, the manager of Billabong, showed a delighted
face for a moment, said, "Luggage in the van.  I'll see to it;
don't you bother," and was gone.  Little Dr. Anderson and his wife,
friends of long years, were trying to shake hands with all four at
once.  They were the centre of an excited little crowd--and found
it hard to believe that it was really for them.  The train roared
away, unnoticed, and the station-master and the porter ran up to
add their voices to the chorus.  Somehow they were outside the
station, gently propelled; and there was a great arch of gum
leaves, with a huge WELCOME in red letters, and beneath it were the
shire president and his councillors, and other weighty men, all
with speeches ready.  But the speeches did not come to much, for
the shire president had lads himself who had gone to the war, and a
lump came in his throat as he looked at the tall boys from
Billabong, whom he had known as little children; so that half the
fine things he had prepared were never said--which did not matter,
since he had it all written out and gave it to the reporter of the
local paper afterwards!  Something of speech-making there
undoubtedly was, but no one could have told you much about it--and
suddenly it ended in some one calling for "Three cheers!" which
every one gave with a will, while the band played that they were
Jolly Good Fellows--and some of the band cheered while they played,
with very curious results.  Then David Linton tried to speak, and
that was a failure also, as far as eloquence went; but nobody
seemed to mind.  So, between hand grips and cheers, they made their
way through the welcome of Cunjee to where the big double buggy of
Billabong stood, with three fidgeting brown horses, each held by a
volunteer.  Beyond that was the carry-all of the bush; an express
wagon, with a grinning black boy at the horses' heads--and Norah
went to him with outstretched hands.

"Why, Billy!" she said.

Billy's grin expanded in a perfectly reckless fashion.

"Plenty glad!" he stammered--and thereby doubled his usual output
of words.

Willing hands were tossing their luggage into the wagon--unfamiliar
luggage to Cunjee, with its jumble of ship labels, Continental
hotel brands, and the names of towns all over England, Ireland and
Scotland.  There were battered tin uniform cases of Jim and
Wally's, bearing their rank and regiment in half effaced letters:
"Major J. Linton"; "Captain W. Meadows"--it was hard to realize
that they belonged to the two merry-faced boys, who did not seem
much changed from the days when Cunjee had seen them arrive light-
heartedly from school.  Mr. Linton ran his eye over the pile,
pronouncing it complete.  Then Evans was at his side.

"The motor you sent is ready at the garage in the township if you
want it," he said.  "But you wired that I was to bring the buggy."

"I did," said David Linton, with a slow smile.  "I suppose for
convenience sake we'll have to shake down to using the motor.  But
I drove the old buggy away from Billabong, and I'll drive home now.
Jump in, children."

He gathered up the reins, sitting, erect and spare, with one foot
on the brake, while the brown horses plunged impatiently, and the
volunteers found their work cut out in holding them.  Norah was by
him, Evans on her other hand; Jim and Wally "tumbled up" into the
back seat, as they had done so many times.  David Linton looked
down at the crowd below.

"Thank you all again," he said.  "We'll see you soon--it's not
good-bye now, only 'so-long.'  Let 'em go, boys."

The volunteers sprang back, thankfully.  The browns stood on their
hind legs for a moment, endeavouring to tie themselves in knots;
then the whip spoke, and they came to earth, straightened
themselves out with a flying plunge, and wheeled out of the station
yard and up the street.  Behind them cheers broke out afresh, and
the band blared once more--which acted as a further spur to the
horses; they were pulling double as the high buggy flashed along
the street, where every house and every shop showed smiling faces,
and handkerchiefs waved in welcome.  So they passed through Cunjee,
and wheeled to the right towards the open country--the country that
meant Billabong.

There were seventeen miles of road ahead, but the browns made
little of them.  They had come into the township the evening
before, and had done nothing since but eat the hotel oats and wish
to be out of a close stable and back in their own free paddocks.
They took the hills at a swift, effortless trot, and on the down
slopes broke into a hand-gallop; light-hearted, but conscious all
the time of the hand on the reins, that was as steel, yet light as
a feather upon a tender mouth.  They danced merrily to one side
when they met a motor or a hawker's van with flapping cover; when
the buggy rattled over a bridge they plainly regarded the drumming
of their own hoofs as the last trump, and fled wildly for a few
hundred yards, before realizing that nothing was really going to
happen to them.  But the miles fled under their swift feet.  The
trim villas near the township gave place to scattered farms.  These
in their turn became further and further apart, and then they
entered a wide belt of timber, ragged and wind-swept gums, with
dense undergrowth of dogwood and bracken fern.  The metalled road
gave place to a hard, earthern track, on which the spinning tyres
made no sound; it curved in and out among the trees, which met
overhead and cast upon it a waving pattern of shadows.  Grim things
had once happened to Norah in this belt of trees, and the past came
back to her as she looked at its gloomy recesses again.

They were all silent.  There had been few questions to ask of
Evans, a few to be answered; then speech fled from them and the old
spell of the country held them in its power.  Every yard was
familiar; every little bridge, every culvert, every quaint old
skeleton tree or dead grey log.  Here Jim's pony had bolted at
sight of an Indian hawker, in days long gone, and had ended by
putting his foot into a hole and turning a somersault, shooting Jim
into a well-grown clump of nettles.  Here Norah had dropped her
whip when riding alone, and her fractious young mare had succeeded
in pulling away when she dismounted, and had promptly departed
post-haste for home; leaving her wrathful owner to follow as she
might.  A passing bullock-wagon had given her a lift, and the
somewhat anxious rescue party, setting out from Billabong, had met
its youthful mistress, bruised from much bumping, but otherwise
cheerful, progressing in slow majesty towards its gates.  Here--but
the memories were legion, even to the girl and the two boys.  And
David Linton's went further back, to the day when he had first
driven Norah's mother over the Billabong track; little and dainty
and merry, while he had been as always, silent, but unspeakably
proud of her.  The little mother's grave had long been green, and
the world had turned topsy-turvy since then, but the old track was
the same, and the memory, and the pride, were no less clear.

They emerged from the timber at last, and spun across a wide plain,
scattered with clumps of gum-trees.  Then another belt of bush, a
narrow one this time; and they came out within view of a great
park-like paddock where Shorthorn bullocks, knee-deep in grass,
scarcely moved aside as the buggy spun past, with the browns
pulling hard.  The track ran near the fence, and turned in at a big
white gate glistening with new paint.  It stood wide open, and
beside it was a man on a splendid bay horse.

"There's Murty, and he's on Garryowen," spoke Jim quickly.  "The
old brick!"

"I guess if anyone else had wanted to open the gate for you to-day,
he'd have had to fight Murty for the job," said Evans.  "And
Garryowen's been groomed till he turns pale at the sight of a
brush, Great horse he's made, Mr. Jim."

"He's all that," said his owner, leaning out to view him better,
with his eyes shining.  He raised his voice in a shout as they
swung in through the gateway.  "Good for you, Murty!  Hurroo!"

"Hurroo for ye all!" said Murty, and found to his amazement that
his voice was shaky.  "Ah, don't shtop, sir, they're all waitin' on
ye.  I'll be up as soon as ye."

Norah had tried to speak, and had found that she had no voice at
all.  She could only smile at him, tremulously--and be sure the
Irishman did not fail to catch the smile.  Then, as they dashed up
the paddock, her hand sought for her father's knee under the rug,
in the little gesture that had been hers from babyhood.  The track
curved round a grove of great pines, and suddenly they were within
sight of Billabong homestead, red-walled and red-roofed, nestled in
the deep green of its trees.

"By Jove!" said Jim, under his breath.  "I thought once I'd never
see the old place again."

They flashed through mighty red gums and box trees, Murty galloping
beside them now.  There was a big flag flying proudly on Billabong
house--they found later that the household had unanimously
purchased it on the day they heard that Jim had got his captaincy.
The gate of the great sanded yard stood open, and near it, on a
wide gravel sweep, were the dear and simple and faithful people
they loved.  Mrs. Brown first, starched and spotless, her hair
greyer than it had been five years before, with Sarah and Mary
beside her--they had married during the war, but nothing had
prevented them from coming back to make Billabong ready.  Near them
the storekeeper, Jack Archdale, and his pretty wife, with their
elfish small daughter; and Mick Shanahan and Dave Boone, with the
Scotch gardener, Hogg, and his Chinese colleague--and sworn enemy--
Lee Wing.  They were all there, a little welcoming group--but Norah
could see them only through a mist of happy tears.  The buggy
stopped, and Evans sprang out over the wheel; she followed him
almost as swiftly, running to the old woman who had been all the
mother she had known.

"Oh, Brownie--Brownie!"

"My precious lamb!" said Brownie, and held her tightly.  She had no
hands left for Jim and Wally, and they did not seem to mind; they
kissed her, patting her vast shoulders very hard.  Then Mrs.
Archdale claimed Norah, and Brownie found herself looking mistily
up at David Linton and he was gripping her hand tightly, the other
hand on her shoulder.

"Why, old Brownie!" he said.  "Dear old Brownie!"

They were shaking hands all round, over and over again.  Nobody
made any speeches of welcome--there were only disjointed words, and
once or twice a little sob.  Indeed, Brownie only found her tongue
when they had drifted across the yard in a confused group, and had
reached the wide veranda.  Then she looked up at Jim and seemed
suddenly to realize his mighty height and breadth.

"Oh!" she said.  "Oh!  Ain't 'e grown big an' beautiful!"  Whereat
Wally howled with laughter, and Jim, scarlet, kissed her again, and
told her she was a shameful old woman.

No one on Billabong could have told you much of that day, after the
first wonderful moment of getting home.  It was a day of blurred
memories.  The new-comers had to wander through the house where
every big window stood open to the sunlight, and every room was gay
with flowers; and from every window it was necessary to look out at
the view across the paddocks and down at the gardens, and to follow
the winding course of the creek.  The gong summoned them to dinner
in the midst of it, and Brownie's dinner deserved to be remembered;
the mammoth turkey flanked by a ham as gigantic, and somewhat
alarming to war-trained appetites; followed by every sweet that
Brownie could remember as having been a favourite.  They drifted
naturally to the stables afterwards, to find their special horses,
apparently little changed by five years, though some old station
favourites were gone, and the men spoke proudly of some new young
ones that were going to be "beggars to go," or "a caution to jump."
Then they wandered down to the big lagoon, where the old boat yet
lay at the edge of the reed-fringed water; and on through the home
paddock to look at the little herd of Jerseys that were kept for
the use of the house, and some great bullocks almost ready for the
Melbourne market.  So they came back to the homestead, wandering up
from the creek through Lee Wing's rows of vegetables, and came to
rest naturally in the kitchen, where they had afternoon tea with
Brownie, who beamed from ear to ear at the sight of Jim and Wally
again sitting on her table.

"I used to think of you in them 'orrible trenches, an' wonder wot
you got to eat, an' if it was anything at all," she said
tremulously.

"We got something, but it was apt to be queer," said Jim, laughing.
"We used to think of sitting on the table here, Brownie, and eating
hot scones--like this.  May I have another?"

"My pore dears!" said Brownie, hastily supplying him with the
largest scone in sight.  "Now, Master Wally, my love, ain't you
ready for another?  Your appetite's not 'alf wot it used to be.
A pikelet, now?"

"I believe I've had six!" said Wally, defending himself.

"An' wot used six pikelets to be to you?  A mere fly in the
ointment," said Brownie, whose similes were always apt to be
peculiar.  "Just another, then, my dear.  An' I've got your
fav'rite sponge cake, Miss Norah--ten aigs in it!"

"Ten!" said Norah faintly.  "Hold me, daddy!  Doesn't it make you
feel light-headed to think of putting ten eggs in one cake again?"

"An' why not?" sniffed Brownie.  "Ah, you got bad treatment in that
old England.  I never could see why you should go short, an' you
all 'elpin' on the war as 'ard as you could."  Brownie's
indifference to national considerations where her nurselings were
concerned was well known, and nobody argued with her.  "Any'ow, the
cake's there, an' just you try it--it's as light as a feather,
though I do say it."

Once in the kitchen Norah and the boys went no further.  They
remained sitting on the tables, talking, while presently David
Linton went away to his study, and, one by one, Murty and Boone and
Mick Shanahan drifted in.  There was so much to tell, so much to
ask about; they talked until the dusk of the short winter afternoon
stole into the kitchen, making the red flames in the stove leap
more redly.  It was time to dress for tea.  They went round the
wide verandas and ran upstairs to their rooms, while old Brownie
stood in the kitchen doorway listening to the merry voices.

"Ain't it just 'evinly to 'ear 'em again!" she uttered.

"It is that," said Murty.  "We've been quare an' lonesome an' quiet
these five years."



CHAPTER XI

COLONIAL EXPERIENCES


Cecilia--otherwise Tommy--and Bob Rainham came up to Billabong
three days later, and were met by Jim, who had ridden into Cunjee
with Black Billy, and released the motor from inglorious seclusion
in the local garage.  Billy jogged off, leading Garryowen, and Jim
watched them half wistfully for a minute before turning to the car.
Motors had their uses certainly; but no Linton ever dreamed of
giving a car the serious and respectful consideration that
naturally belonged to a horse.

Nevertheless, it was a good car; a gift to Norah from an Irishman
they had known and loved; and Jim drove well, having developed the
accomplishment over Flemish roads that were chiefly a succession of
shell holes.  He took her quietly up to the station, and walked on
to the platform as the train thundered in.

Tommy and Bob were looking eagerly from their carriage window, and
hailed him with delight; they had been alone, for the first time
since leaving England, and had begun to feel that Australia was a
large and slightly populated country, and that they were
inconsiderable atoms, suddenly dumped into its vacant spaces.  Jim
was like a large and friendly rock, and Australia immediately
became less wide and desolate in their eyes.  He greeted them
cheerily and helped Bob to pack their luggage into the car.

"Now, I could get you afternoon tea here," he said; "and I warn
you, it will be bad.  Or I could have you home in well under an
hour, and you wouldn't be too late for tea there.  Which is it to
be, Tommy?"

"Oh--home," said Tommy.  "I don't care a bit about tea; and I want
to see this Billabong of yours.  Do let's go, Jim."

"I hoped you wouldn't choose tea here," said Jim, striding off to
the car.  "Bush townships don't run to decent tea places, as a
rule; the hotel is the only chance, and though they can give you a
fair dinner, tea always seems to be a weak spot."  He packed them
in, and they moved off down the winding street.

"Do you know," Jim said, "that I never went down this street before
except on a horse, or behind one?  It seems quite queer and
unnatural to be doing it in a car.  I suppose I'll get used to it.
Had a good trip up?"

"Oh, quite," Tommy told him.  "Jim, how few people seem to be
living in Australia!"

Jim gave a crack of laughter.

"Well, you saw a good many in Melbourne, didn't you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes.  But Melbourne isn't Australia.  It's only away down in a
wee little corner."  Tommy flushed a little.  "You see, I haven't
seen much of any country except France and the England that's near
London," she said.  "And there isn't much waste space there."

"No, there isn't," Jim agreed.  "I suppose we'll fill up Australia
some day.  But the people who come out now seem to have a holy
horror of going into the 'waste spaces,' as you call 'em, Tommy.
They want to nestle up to the towns, and go to picture theatres."

"Well, I want to go and find a nice waste space," said Tommy.  "Not
too waste, of course, only with room to look all round.  And I'd
like it to be not too far from Norah, 'cause she's very cheering to
a lone new-chum.  But don't you go planning to settle in one of
those horrid little tin-roofed towns, Bobby, for I should simply
hate it."

"Certainly, ma'am," said Bob cheerfully.  "We'll get out into the
open.  I can always run you about in an aeroplane, if you feel
lonesome, provided we make enough money to buy one, that is.  Only
new-chums don't always make heaps of money, do they, Jim?"

"Not at first, I'm afraid," Jim said.  "The days of picking up
fortunes in Australia seem to be over; anyway, there's no more gold
lying about.  Nowadays, you have to put your back into it extremely
hard, if you've no capital to start with; and even if you have, you
can't loaf.  How did you get on in Melbourne?  I hope you didn't
buy a station without consulting us."

"Rather not," Bob answered.  "We raced round magnificently in your
aunt's car and presented our letters, and had more invitations to
sundry meals than we could possibly accept.  Every one was
extraordinarily kind to us.  I've offers and promises of advice in
whatever district we settle; three squatters asked me up to their
places, to stay awhile and study the country; and one confiding
man--I hadn't a letter to him at all, by the way, only some one
introduced us to him in Scott's--actually offered me a job as
jackeroo on a Queensland run.  But he was a lone old bachelor, and
when he heard I had a sister he shied off in terror.  I think he's
running yet."

Jim shouted with laughter.

"Poor old Tommy!" he said.

"Yes, is it not unfair?" said Tommy.  "I told Bob I was a mere
encumbrance, but he would bring me."

"You wait until you've settled, and Bob wants some one to run his
house, and then see how much of an encumbrance you are," rejoined
Jim.  "Then you'll suddenly stop being meek and get swelled head."

"And not be half so nice," interjected Bob.

"But so useful!" said Tommy demurely.  "Only sometimes I become
afraid--for you seem always to kill a whole sheep or bullock up in
the bush, and how I am to deal with it I do not know!"

"It sounds as if you preferred some one to detach an occasional
limb from the sheep as it walked about!" said Jim, laughing.

"Much easier for me--if not for the sheep," said Tommy.

"Well, don't you worry--the meat problem will get settled somehow,"
Jim told her cheerfully.  "All problems straighten out, if you give
'em time.  Now we're nearly home--that's the fence of our home-
paddock.  And there are Norah and Wally coming to meet you."

"Oh--where?"  Tommy started up, looking excitedly round the
landscape.  "Oh--there she is--the dear!  And isn't that a
beautiful horse!"

"That's Norah's special old pony, Bosun," said Jim.  "We're making
her very unhappy by telling her she's grown too big for him, but he
really carries her like a bird.  A habit might look too much on
him, but not that astride kit.  You got yours, by the way, Tommy, I
hope?"

"Oh yes.  I look very strange in it," said Tommy.  "And Bob thinks
I might as well have worn out his old uniforms.  But I shall never
ride like that--as Norah does."

She looked at Norah, who was coming across the paddock with Wally,
at a hard canter.  Her pony was impatient, reefing and plunging in
his desire to gallop; and Norah was sitting him easily, her hands,
well down, giving to the strain on the bit, her slight figure, in
coat and breeches, swaying lightly to each bound.  The sunlight
rippled on Bosun's glossy, bay coat, and on the big black horse
Wally rode.  They pulled up, laughing, at the gateway, just as the
car turned off the road.  There were confused and enthusiastic
greetings, and the car dashed on up the track, with an outrider on
each side--both horses strongly resenting this new and ferocious
monster.  The years had brought a good deal of sober sense to Bosun
and Monarch, but motors were still unfamiliar objects on Billabong.
Indeed, no car of the size of Norah's Rolls-Royce had ever been
seen in the district, and the men gaped at it open-mouthed as Jim
drove it round to the stable after unloading his passengers.

"Yerra, but that's the fine carry-van," said Murty.  "Is that the
size they have them in England, now?"

"No, it isn't, Murty--not as a rule," Jim answered.  "This was
built specially for a man who was half an invalid; he used to go
for long tours, and sleep in the car because he hated hotels.  So
it's a special size.  It used to be jolly useful taking out wounded
men in England."

"Sure, it would be," Murty said.  "Only--somehow, it don't seem to
fit into Billabong, Mr. Jim!"

"So big as that!  I say, Murty!"

"Yerra, there's room enough for it," grinned the Irishman.  "Only,
motors and Billabong don't go hand in hand--we've always stuck to
horses, haven't we, Mr. Jim?"

"We'll do that still," Jim said.  "But it will be useful, all the
same, Murty."  He laughed at the stockman's lugubrious face.  "Oh,
I know it's giving you the sort of pain you had when dad had the
telephone put on--"

"Well, 'tis the quare onnatural little machine, an' I niver feel
anyways at home with it, Mr. Jim," Murty defended himself.

"There's lots like you, Murty.  But you'll admit that when we've
got to send a telegram, it's better to telephone it than make a man
ride thirty-four miles with it?"

"I suppose it is," said the Irishman doubtfully.  "I dunno, though--
if 'twas that black imp of a Billy he'd as well be doing that as
propping up the stable wall an' smokin'!"

Jim chuckled.

"There's no getting round an Irishman when he makes up his mind,"
he said.  "And if you had to catch the eight o'clock train to
Melbourne I believe you'd rather get up at three in the morning and
run up the horses to drive in, than leave here comfortably in the
car at seven."

"Is it me to dhrive in it?" demanded Murty, in horror.  "Begob, I'd
lose me life before I'd get into one of thim quare, sawed-off
things.  Give me something with shafts, Mr. Jim, and a dacint horse
in them.  More by token, I would not get up at three in the morning
either, but dhrive in aisy an' comfortable the night before."  He
beamed on Jim with so clear a conviction that he was unanswerable
that Jim hadn't the heart to argue further.  Instead he ran the car
deftly into a buggy-shed whence an ancient double buggy had been
deposed to make room for her, and then fell to discussing with
Murty the question of building a garage, with a turn-table and pit
for cleaning and repairs.  To which Murty gave the eager interest
and attention he would have shown had Jim proposed building
anything, even had it been an Eiffel Tower on the front lawn.

Brownie came out through the box-trees to the stables, presently.

"Now, Master Jim, afternoon tea's in these ten minutes."

"Good gracious!  I forgot all about tea!" Jim exclaimed.  "Thanks
awfully, Brownie.  Had your own?"  He slipped his arm through hers
as they turned back to the house.

"Not yet, my dear," said Brownie, beaming up at him.  That this
huge Major, with four years of war service to his credit, was
exactly the same to her as the little boy she had bathed and
dressed in years gone by, was a matter of nightly thanksgiving in
her prayers.  "I was just goin' to settle to it when it come over
me that you weren't in--and the visitors there an' all."

"I'd come and have mine with you in the kitchen if they weren't
there," Jim told her.  "Tea in your kitchen is better than anything
else."  He patted her shoulders as he left her at the door of her
domain, going off with long strides to wash his hands.

"We didn't wait for you," Norah said, as he came into the drawing-
room; a big cheery room, with long windows opening out upon the
veranda, and a conservatory at one end.  A fire of red gum logs
made it pleasantly warm; the tea table was drawn near its blaze,
and the arm-chairs made a semicircle round it.  "These poor people
looked far too hungry to wait--to say nothing of Wally and myself.
How did the car go, Jimmy?"

"Splendidly," Jim said, taking his cup, and retiring from the tea-
table with a scone.  "Never ran better; that man in Cunjee knows
his job, which I didn't expect.  Are you tired, Tommy?"

"Tired?--no," said Tommy.  "I was very hungry, but that is getting
better.  And Norah is going to show me Billabong, so I could not
possibly dream of being tired."

"If Norah means to show you all Billabong before dark, she'll have
to hurry," said Jim lazily.  "Don't you let yourself be persuaded
into anything so desperate, Tommy."

"Don't you worry; I'll give her graduated doses," Norah said.
"I'll watch the patient carefully, and see if there is any sign of
strength failing.  When do you begin to teach Bob to run a
station?"

"I never saw anyone in such a hurry," said Jim.  "Why, the poor
beggar hasn't had his tea yet--give him time."

"But we are in a hurry," said Tommy.  "We're burning to learn all
about it.  Norah is to teach me the house side, while you instruct
Bob how to tell a merino bullock--is it not?--from an Ayrshire."
Everybody ate with suspicious haste, and she looked at them
shrewdly.  "Now, I have said that all wrong, I feel sure, but it's
just as well for you to be prepared for that.  Norah will have a
busy time correcting my mistakes."

"You aren't supposed to know anything about cattle and things like
that," said Norah.  "And when it comes to the house side, I don't
think you'll find I can teach you much--if anyone brought up to
know French cooking and French housekeeping has much to learn from
a backblocks Australian, I'll be surprised."

"In fact," said Mr. Linton, "I should think that the lessons will
generally end in the students of domestic economy fleeing forth
upon horses and studying how to deal with beef--on the hoof.  Don't
you, Wally?"

"Rather," said Wally.  "And Brownie will wash up after them, and
say, 'Bless their hearts, why would they stay in a hot kitchen!'
And so poor old Bob will go down the road to ruin!"

"It's a jolly prospect," said Bob placidly.  "I think we'll knock a
good deal of fun out of it!"

They trooped out in a body presently on their preliminary voyage of
discovery; touring the house itself, with its big rooms and wide
corridors, and the broad balconies that ran round three sides, from
which you looked far across the run--miles of rolling plains,
dotted with trees and clumps of timber, and merging into a far line
of low, scrub-grown hills.  Then outside, and to the stables--a
massive red brick pile, creeper-covered, where Monarch and
Garryowen, and Bosun, and the buggy ponies, looked placidly from
their loose boxes, and asked for--and got--apples from Jim's
pockets.  Tommy even made her way up the steep ladder to the loft
that ran the whole length of the stables--big enough for the men's
yearly dance, but just now crammed with fragrant oaten hay.  She
wanted to see everything, and chatted away in her eager, half-
French fashion, like a happy child.

"It is so lovely to be here," she told Norah later, when the keen
evening wind had driven them indoors from a tour of the garden.
She was kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, unpacking her trunk,
while Norah perched on the end of the bed.  "You see, I am no
longer afraid; and I have always been afraid since Aunt Margaret
died.  In Lancaster Gate I was afraid all the time, especially when
I was planning to run away.  Then, on the ship, though every one
was so kind, the big, unknown country was like a wall of Fear
ahead; even in Melbourne everything seemed uncertain, doubtful.
But now, quite suddenly, it is all right.  I just know we shall get
along quite well."

"Why, of course you will," Norah said, laughing down at the earnest
face.  "You're the kind of people who must do well, because you are
so keen.  And Billabong has adopted you, and we're going to see
that you make a success of things.  You're our very own immigrants!"

"It's nice to be owned by some one who isn't my step-mother," said
Tommy happily.  "I began to think I was hers, body and soul--when
she appeared on that awful moment in Liverpool.  I made sure all
hope was over.  Bob says I shouldn't have panicked, but then Bob
had not been a toad under her harrow for two years."

"I'm very glad you panicked, since it sent you straight into our
arms," said Norah.  "If we had met you in an ordinary, stodgy way--
you and Bob presenting your letter of introduction, and we saying
'How do you do?' politely--it would have taken us ages to get to
know you properly.  And as it was, we jumped into being friends.
You did look such a poor, hunted little soul as you came dodging
across that street!"

"And you took me on trust, when, for all you know, the police might
have been after me," said Tommy.  "Well, we won't forget; not that
I suppose Bob and I will ever be able to pay you back."

"Good gracious, we don't want paying back!" exclaimed Norah,
wrinkling her nose disgustedly.  "Don't talk such utter nonsense,
Tommy Rainham.  And just hurry up and unpack, because tea will be
ready at half-past six."

"My goodness!" exclaimed the English girl, to whom dinner at half-
past seven was a custom of life not lightly to be altered.  "And I
haven't half unpacked, and oh, where is my blue frock?  I don't
believe I've brought it."  She sought despairingly in the trunk.

"Yes, you have--I hung it up for you in the wardrobe ages ago,"
said Norah.  "And it doesn't matter if you don't finish before tea.
There's lots of time ahead.  However, I certainly won't be dressed
if I don't hurry, because I've to see Brownie first, and then sew
on a button for Jim.  You'll find me next door when you're ready."
Tommy heard her go, singing downstairs, and she sighed happily.
This, for the first time for two years, was a real home.

The education of the new-chums began next morning, and was carried
out thoroughly, since Mr. Linton did not believe in showing their
immigrants only the pleasanter side of Australian life.  Bob was
given a few days of riding round the run, spying out the land, and
learning something about cattle and their handling as he rode.
Luckily for him, he was a good horseman.  The stockmen, always on
the alert to "pick holes" in a new-chum, had little fault to find
with his easy seat and hands, and approved of the way in which he
waited for no one's help in saddling up or letting go his horse; a
point which always tells with the man of the bush.

"We've had thim on this run," said Murty, "as wanted their horses
led gently up to thim, and then they climb into the saddle like a
lady.  And when they'd come home, all they'd be lookin' for 'ud be
some one to casht their reins to, the way they cud strowl off to
their tay.  Isn't that so, Mick?"

"Yairs," said Mick.  He was riding an unbroken three-year-old, and
had no time for conversation.

After a few days of "gentle exercise," Bob found himself put on to
work.  He learned something of cutting out and mustering, both in
cleared country and in scrub; helped bring home young cattle to
brand, and studied at first hand the peculiar evilness of a scrub
cow when separated from her calf.  They gave him jobs for himself,
which he accomplished fairly well, aided by a stock horse of
superhuman intelligence, which naturally knew far more of the work
than its rider could hope to do.  Bob confided to Tommy that never
had he felt so complete a fool as when he rode forth for the first
time to cut out a bullock alone under the eyes of the experts.

"Luckily, the old mare did all the work," he said.  "But I knew
less about it than I did the first time I went up alone at the
flying school!"

His teaching went on all the time.  Mr. Linton and Jim were
tireless in pointing out the points of cattle, and the variations
in the value of feed on the different parts of the run, with all
the details of bush lore; and the airman's eyes, trained to
observe, and backed by keen desire to learn, picked up and retained
knowledge quickly.  Billabong was, in the main, a cattle run, but
Mr. Linton kept as well a flock of high class sheep, with the usual
small mob for killing for station use, and through these a certain
amount of sheep knowledge was imparted to the new-chum.  To their
surprise, for all his instructors were heart and soul for cattle,
Bob showed a distinct leaning towards mutton.

"They're easier to understand, I think," he said.  "Possibly it's
because they're not as intelligent as cattle, and I don't think I
am, either!"

"Well, I know something about bullocks, but these woolly objects
have always been beyond me," said Jim.  "Necessary evils, but I
can't stand them.  I used to think there was nothing more hopeless
than an old merino ewe, until I met a battery mule--he's a shade
worse!"

"Wait till you've worked with a camel in a bad temper, Mr. Jim,"
said Dave Boone darkly; he had put in a weary time in Egypt.  "For
downright wickedness them snake-headed beggars is the fair limit!"

"Yes, I've heard so," said Jim.  "Anyhow, we haven't added mules
and camels to our worries in Victoria yet; sheep are bad enough for
me.  Norah says turkey hens are worse, and she's certainly tried
both; there isn't much about the run young Norah doesn't know.  But
you aren't going to make a living out of turkeys."

"No--Tommy can run them as a side line," said Bob.  "I fancy sheep
will give me all I want in the way of worry."

"And you really think you'll go in for sheep, old man?" asked Jim
with pity.

Bob set his lips obstinately.

"I don't think anything yet," he said.  "I don't know enough.  Wait
until I've learned a bit more--if you're not sick of teaching such
an idiot."

"Yerra, ye're no ijit," said Murty under his breath.

Education developed as the weeks went on.  Wally had gone to
Queensland, to visit married brothers who were all the "people" he
possessed; and Jim, bereft of his chum, threw himself energetically
into the training of the substitute.  Bob learned to slaughter a
bullock and kill a sheep--being instructed that the job in winter
was not a circumstance to what it would be in summer, when flies
would abound.  He never pretended to like this branch of learning,
but stuck to it doggedly, since it was explained to him that the
man who could not be his own butcher in the bush was apt to go
hungry, and that not one hired hand in twenty could be trusted to
kill.

More to Bob's taste were the boundary riding expeditions made with
Jim to the furthest corners of the run; taking a pack horse with
tucker and blankets, and camping in ancient huts, of which the sole
furniture was rough sacking bunks, a big fireplace, and empty
kerosene cases for seats and tables.  It was unfortunate, from the
point of view of Bob's instruction, that the frantic zeal of Murty
and the men to have everything in order for "the Boss" had left no
yard of the Billabong boundary unvisited not a month before.
Still, winter gales were always apt to bring down a tree or two
across the wires, laying a few panels flat; the creeks, too, were
all in flood, and where a wire fence crossed one, floating
brushwood often damaged the barrier, or a landslip in a water-worn
bank might carry away a post.  So Jim and his pupil found enough
occupation to make their trips worth while; and Bob learned to sink
post holes, to ram a post home beyond the possibility of moving,
and to strain a wire fence scientifically.  He was not a novice
with an axe, though Jim's mighty chopping made him feel a child;
still, when it was necessary to cut away a fallen tree, he could do
his share manfully.  His hands blistered and grew horny callouses,
even as his muscles toughened and his shoulders widened; and all
the time the appeal of the wide, free country called to his heart
and drew him closer and closer to his new life.

"But he's too comfortable, you know," David Linton said to Jim one
night.  "He's shaping as well as anyone could expect; but he won't
always have Billabong at his back."

Jim nodded wisely.

"I know," he said.  "Been thinking of that.  If you can spare me
for a bit we'll go over and lend ourselves as handy men to old Joe
Howard."

His father whistled.

"He'll make you toe the mark," he said, laughing.  "He won't have
you there as gentlemen boarders, you know."

"Don't want him to," said Jim.

So it came about that early on Monday morning Jim and Bob fixed
swags more or less scientifically to their saddles--Jim made his
disciple unstrap his three times before he consented to pass it--
and rode away from Billabong, amidst derisive good wishes from
Norah and Tommy, who kindly promised to feed them up on their
return, prophesying that they would certainly need it.  They took a
westerly direction across country, and after two or three hours'
riding came upon a small farm nestling at the foot of a low range
of hills.

"That's old Howard's," Jim said.  "And there's the old chap
himself, fixing up his windmill.  You wait a minute, Bob; I'll go
over and see him."

He gave Bob his bridle, and went across a small paddock near the
house.  Howard, a hard-looking old man with a long, grey beard, was
wrestling with a home-made windmill--a queer erection, mainly
composed of rough spars with sails made from old wheat-sacks.  He
clambered to the ground as Jim approached, and greeted him civilly.

"I thought you'd have forgotten me, Mr. Howard," said Jim.

"Too like your dad--an', anyhow, I know the horses," was the
laconic answer.  "So you're back.  Like Australia better'n
fightin'?"

"Rather!" said Jim.  "Fighting's a poor game, I think, when you
hardly ever see the other fellow.  Want any hands, Mr. Howard?"

"No."  The old man shook his head.  "They want too much money
nowadays, an' they're too darned partickler about their tucker.
Meat three times a day, whether you've killed it or not.  An'
puddin'.  Cock 'em up with puddin'--a fat lot of it I ever saw
where I was raised.  An' off to the township on Saturday afternoon,
an' lucky if they get back in time for milkin' nex' mornin'.  No--
the workin' man ain't what 'e was, an' the new kind'll make
precious little of Australia!"

"That's about right, I'm afraid," said Jim, listening sympathetically
to this oration.  "Well, will you take me and my friend as hands
for a few weeks, Mr. Howard?"

"You!"  The old man stared at him.  "Ain't 'ad a quarrel with yer
dad, 'ave yer?  You take my tip, if yer 'ave--go back and make it
up.  Not many men in this districk like yer dad."

"I know that, jolly well," said Jim, laughing.  "No--but my
friend's a new-chum, and I want to show him something of work on a
place like yours.  We've been breaking him in on Billabong, but
he'll have to take a small place for himself, if he settles, and
he'd better see what it's like."

The old man shook his head doubtfully.

"English officer, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I dunno," said Howard.  "Too much of the fine gent about that
sort, Mr. Jim.  I dunno 'ow I'd get down to orderin' the pair of
yous about.  An' I ain't got no 'comodation for yous; an' the
tucker's not what yous 'ave bin used ter."

"You needn't let any of that worry you," said Jim cheerfully.  "He
isn't a bit of a fine gent, really, and we'll tackle any job that's
going.  As for accommodation, we've brought our blankets, and, in
case you were short of tucker, we've a big piece of corned beef and
some bread.  I wish you'd try it, Mr. Howard; we don't want pay,
and we'll do no end of work.  Murty reckons you won't be sorry if
you take on Captain Rainham."

"Oh, Murty says that, does 'e?" asked the old man, visibly cheered.
"Well, Murty ain't the man to barrack for a useless new-chum."

"Great Scott, do you think I am?" demanded Jim, laughing.  "Or my
father?"

"Yous cert'nly didn't ought to be," agreed Howard.  "All the same"--
he pushed his hat back from his worried brow--"I dunno as I quite
like it.  If I take on a chap I like 'im to step quick an' lively
when I tell him anything I want done; an' I don't make no guests of
'em either.  They got to do their own cookin', an' keep things
clean an' tidy, too."

"We'll take our share," said Jim.  "As for stepping quick and
lively, we've both been trained to that pretty thoroughly during
the last few years.  If you're worse than some of the Sergeant-
majors I met when I was training, I'll eat my hat."

"I'm told they're 'ard," said Howard.  "Well, I s'pose I'd better
take yous on, though it's a queer day when the son of Linton of
Billabong comes askin' old Joe Howard for a job.  But, I say"--and
anguish again settled on his brow--"wot am I to call yous?  I can't
order you about as Mr. Jim.  It wouldn't seem to come natural."

"Oh, call us any old thing," said Jim, laughing.

The old man pondered.

"Well, I'll call yous Major an' Captin," he declared, at length.
"That'll sound like a pair of workin' bullocks, an' I'll feel more
at 'ome."

"Right-o," said Jim, choking slightly.  "Where shall we put our
horses?"

"Put 'em in the little paddock over there, an' stick yer saddles in
the shed," said his employer.  "An' then bring in yer beef, an'
we'll 'ave a bit o' dinner.  I ain't killed for a fortnight."

Then began for Bob Rainham one of the most strenuous fortnights of
his existence.  Once having agreed to employ them, old Joe speedily
became reconciled to the prospect of cheap labour, and worked his
willing guests with a devouring energy.  Before dawn had reddened
the eastern sky a shout of "Hi, Captin!  Time the cow was in!"
drove him from his blankets, to search in the darkness of a scrub-
covered paddock for a cow, who apparently loved a game of hide-and-
seek, and to drive her in and milk her by the fitful light of a
hurricane lantern.  Then came the usual round of morning duties;
chopping wood, feeding pigs, cleaning out sheds and outhouses,
before the one-time airman had time to think of breakfast.  By the
time he came in Howard and Jim had generally finished and gone out--
the old man took a sly delight in keeping "Major" away from
"Captin"--and after cooking his meal, it was his job to wash up and
to clean out the kitchen, over which old Joe proved unexpectedly
critical.  Then came a varied choice of tasks to tackle to while
away the day.  Sometimes he would be sent to scrub cutting, which
he liked best, particularly as Jim was kept at it always; sometimes
he slashed mightily at a blackberry-infested paddock, where the
brambles would have daunted anyone less stout of heart--or less
ignorant.  Then came lessons in ploughing on a dry hillside; he
managed badly at first, and came in for a good deal of the rough
side of old Joe's tongue before he learned to keep to anything
approaching a straight line.  Ploughing, Bob reflected, was clearly
an art which needed long apprenticeship before you learned to
appreciate it, and he developed a new comprehension and sympathy
for the ploughman described by Gray as "homeward plodding his weary
way."  He also wondered if Gray's ploughman had to milk and get his
own tea after he got home.

Other relaxations of the bush were open to him.  Old Joe had a
paddock, once a swamp, which he had drained; it was free of water,
but abounded in tussocks and sword grass which "Captin" was
detailed to grub out whenever no duty more pressing awaited him.
And sword grass is a fearsome vegetable, clinging of root and so
tough of stem that, if handled unwarily, it can cut a finger almost
to the bone; wherefore the unfortunate "Captin" hated it with a
mighty hatred, and preferred any other branch of his education.
There were stones to pick up and pile in cairns; red stones, half
buried in grass and tussocks, and weighing anything from a pound to
half a hundredweight.  He scarred his hands and broke his
fingernails to pieces over them, but, on the whole, considered it
not a bad employment, except when old Joe took it into his head to
perch on the fence and spur him on to greater efforts by
disparaging remarks about England.  Whatever his work, there was
never any certainty that old Joe would not appear, to sit down,
light his short, black pipe, and make caustic remarks about his
methods or his country--or both.  Bob took it all with a grin.  He
was a cheerful soul.

They used to meet for dinner--dinner consisting of corned beef and
potatoes until the corned beef ran out; then it became potatoes and
bread and jam for some days, until Joe amazed them by saddling an
ancient grey mare and riding into Cunjee, returning with more
corned beef--and more jam.  He boiled the beef in a kerosene tin,
and Bob thought he had never tasted anything better.  Appetites did
not need pampering on Howard's Farm.  Work in the evening went on
until there was barely light enough to get home and find the cow;
it was generally quite dark by the time milking was finished, and
Bob would come in with his bucket to find Jim just in, and lighting
the fire--"Major," not being the milking hand, worked in the
paddocks a little longer.  Tea required little preparation, since
the only menu that occurred to old Joe seemed to be bread and jam.
Jim, being a masterful soul, occasionally took the matter into his
own hands and, aided by Bob, made "flap-jacks" in the frying-pan;
they might have been indigestible for delicately-constituted
people, but at least they had the merit of being hot and comforting
on a biting winter night.  Old Joe growled under his breath at the
"softness" of people who required "cocking up with fal-lals."  But
he ate the flap-jacks.

After tea the "hands" divided the duties of the evening; taking it
in turn, one to wash up, while the other "set" bread.  Joe's only
baking implement was a camp-oven, which resembles a large saucepan
on three legs; it could hold just enough for a day's supply, so
that it was necessary to set bread every night, and bake every
morning.  This wounded their employer, who never failed to tell
them, with some bitterness, that when alone he had to bake only
twice a week.  However, he knew all that there was to know about
camp-oven baking, and taught them the art thoroughly, as well as
that of making yeast from potatoes.  "That's an extry," he remarked
thoughtfully, "but I won't charge yer for it, yous 'avin' bin
soldiers!"

With the bread set, and rising pleasantly before the fire, under a
bit of old blanket, and the kitchen tidy, a period of rest ensued,
when "Major" and "Captin" were free to draw up chairs--seated with
greenhide with the hair left on, and very comfortable--and smoke
their pipes.  This was the only time of the day when old Joe
unbent.  At first silent, he would presently shift his pipe to the
corner of his mouth and spin them yarns of the early days, told
with a queer, dry humour that kept his hearers in a simmer of
laughter.  It was always a matter of regret to poor "Captin" that
he used to be the one to end the telling, since no story on earth
could keep him, after a while, from nodding off to sleep.  He would
drag himself away to his blankets in the next room, hearing, as
sleep fully descended upon him, the droning voice still entertaining
Jim--whose powers of keeping awake seemed more than human!

Saturday brought no slackening of work.  Whatever his previous
hired men had done, old Joe was evidently determined that his
present "parlour-boarders" should not abate their efforts, and even
kept them a little later than usual in the paddocks, remarking that
"ter-morrer bein' Sunday, yous might as well cut a bit more scrub."
The next morning broke fine and clear, and he looked at them a
little doubtfully after breakfast.

"Well, there ain't no work doin' on Sunday, I reckon.  I can manage
the ol' keow to-night, if yous want to go home."

The guests looked at each other doubtfully.

"What do you say, Bob?  Shall we ride over?"

Bob pondered.

"All one to me, o' course," said Joe, getting up and stumping out.
He paused at the door.  "On'y if yous mean ter stick on 'ere a bit
you'll find comin' back a bit 'ard, onced yous see Billabong."

"Just what I was thinking," said Bob, as the old man disappeared.
"I'm not going, Jim; I know jolly well I'd hate to come back after--
er--fleshpotting at your place.  But look here, old chap--why
don't you go home and stay there?  You've done quite enough of
this, especially as you've no earthly need to do it at all.  You go
home, and I'll stay out my fortnight."

"What, leave you here alone?" queried Jim.  "Not much, Bobby."

"But why not?  I've Joseph, and we'd become bosom friends.  And
your father must think it ridiculous for you to be kept over here,
slaving--"

"Don't you worry your old head about dad," said Jim cheerfully.
"It's a slack time, and he doesn't need me, and he's perfectly
satisfied at my being here.  Bless you, it's no harm for me to get
a bit of this sort of life."

"You'll never have to do it."

"No one can tell that," said Jim.  "The bottom has dropped out of
land in other countries, and it may happen here.  Besides, if
you've got to employ labour it's just as well to know from
experience what's a fair thing to expect from a man as a day's
work.  For which reason, I have desired our friend Joseph to take
me off scrub-duty, which I feel I know pretty well, and to detail
me for assorted fatigues, like yours, next week.  And anyhow, my
son, having brought you to this savage place, I'm not going to
leave you.  Finally, we couldn't go anywhere, because this is the
day that we must wash."

"I have washed!" said Bob indignantly.

"I didn't mean your person, Bobby, but your clothes.  The laundress
doesn't call out here."

"Oh!" said Bob, and grinned.  "Then I'd better put on a kettle."

So they washed, very cheerfully, taking turns in the one bucket,
which was all Joe could offer as laundry equipment.  He had an
iron, but after brief consultation, "Major" and "Captin" decided
that to iron working shirts would be merely painting the lily.  Old
Joe watched them with a twinkle, saying nothing.  But a spirit of
festivity and magnificence must have entered into him, for when the
washermen went for a walk, after disposing their damp raiment upon
bushes, he entered the kitchen hurriedly and dived for the flour-
bag; and later, they found unwonted additions to the corned beef
and potatoes--the said additions being no less than boiled onions
and a jam tart.

The week that followed was a repetition of the first, save for a
day of such rain that even old Joe had to admit that work in the
paddocks was out of the question.  He consoled himself by making
them whitewash the kitchen.  Large masses of soot fell down into
the fireplace throughout the day, seriously interfering with
cooking operations, which suggested to Joe that "Captin" might
acquire yet another art--that of bush chimney sweeping--which he
accomplished next day, under direction, by the simple process of
tugging a great bunch of tea-tree up and down the flue.  "Better'n
all them brushes they 'ave in towns," said Joe, watching his
blackened assistant with satisfaction.

"Well, we're off to-morrow, Mr. Howard," said Jim on Saturday
night.  They were seated round the fire, smoking.

"I s'pose so.  Didn't think yous'd stick it out as long," the old
man said.

"We've had a very good time," said Bob; and was astonished to find
himself speaking truthfully.  "Jolly good of you to have me; I know
a new-chum isn't much use."

"Well, I wouldn't say as how you weren't," said old Joe deliberately.
"I ain't strong on new-chums, meself--some of them immy-grants
they send out are a fair cow to handle; but I will say, Captin,
you ain't got no frills, nor you don't mind puttin' your back into
a job.  I worked you pretty 'ard, too."  He chuckled deeply.

"Did you?" asked Bob--and chuckled in his turn.

"Well, I didn't see no points in spoon-feedin' you.  If a man's
goin' on the land he may as well know wot 'e's likely to strike.
There's lots'll tell you you won't strike anythink 'arder than ol'
Joe--an' p'raps you won't," he added.  "Any'ow, yous asked fer
work, an' it was up ter me ter see that yous got it.  But don't go
imaginin' you've learned all there is ter know about farmin' yet."

"If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that," said Bob a trifle
grimly.

"That's right.  I ain't got much of a farm, an' any'ow, it's
winter.  I on'y showed yous a few of the odd jobs--an' wot it is to
'ave to batch fer yerself, not comin' in like a lord to Billabong
ter see wot Mrs. Brown's been cookin' for yous.  Nothin' like a bit
o' batchin' ter teach a cove.  An' you mind, Captin--if you start
anywhere on yer own, you batch decent; keep things clean an' don't
get into the way o' livin' just any'ow.  I ain't much, nor the
meenoo ain't excitin'; but things is clean."

"Well--I have a sister," said Bob.  "So I'm in luck.  But I guess I
know a bit more about her side of the job now."

"And that's no bad thing for Tommy," said Jim.

"Oo's 'e?" demanded Joe.

"Oh--that's his sister."

"Rum names gals gets nowadays," said Joe, pondering.  "Not on'y
gels, neither.  'S a chap on top of the 'ill 'as a new baby, an'
'e's called it 'Aig Wipers Jellicoe.  'Course, 'e did go to the
war, but 'e ain't got no need ter rub it into the poor kid like
that."  He paused to ram the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with
a horny thumb.  "One thing--I'd like to pay you chaps somethin'.
Never 'ad blokes workin' fer me fer nothin', an' I don't much care
about it."

"No, thanks, Mr. Howard," said Jim.  "We came for colonial
experience."

"You!" said old Joe, and permitted himself the ghost of a grin.
"Well, I ain't goin' ter fight yous about it, an' I'm not worryin'
a mighty lot about you, Major, 'cause your little bit o' country's
ready made for you.  But Captin's different.  We won't 'ave no
fight about cash, Captin; but that last year's calf of the ol'
keow's goin' ter be a pretty decent steer, an' when you gets yer
farm 'e's goin' on it as yer first bit o' stock.  An' 'e'll get the
best o' my grass till 'e goes."

"Rubbish!" said Bob, much embarrassed.  "Awfully good of you, Mr.
Howard, but that wasn't the agreement.  I know I'm not worth wages
yet."

"Oh, ain't you?" Joe asked.  "Well, there's two opinions about
that.  Any'ow, 'e's yours, an' I've christened 'im Captin, so there
ain't no way out of it."  He rose, cutting short further protests.
"Too much bloomin' argument about this camp; I'm off ter bed."



CHAPTER XII

ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE


"So you think he'll do, Jim?"

"Yes, I certainly do," Jim answered.  He was sitting with his
father in the smoking-room at Billabong, his long legs outstretched
before the fire, and his great form half-concealed in the depths of
an enormous leather armchair.  "Of course he'll want guidance; you
couldn't expect him to know much about stock yet, though he's
certainly picked up a good bit."

"Yes--so it seems.  His great point is his quick eye and his
keenness.  I haven't found him forget much."

"No, and he's awfully ashamed if he does.  He's a tiger for work,
and very quick at picking up the way to tackle any new job.  That
was one of the things that pleased old Joe about him.  I fancy the
old chap had suffered at the hands of other new-chums who reckoned
they could teach him how to do his work.  'Captin ain't orffered me
not one bit of advice,' he told me with relief."

Mr. Linton laughed.

"Yes, I've had them here like that," he said.  "Full of sublime
enthusiasm for reforming Australia and all her ways.  I don't say
we don't need it, either, but not from a new-chum in his first five
minutes."

"Not much," agreed Jim.  "Well, there's nothing of that sort about
old Bob.  He just hoes in at anything that's going, and doesn't
talk about it.  Joe says he must have been reared sensible.  He's
all right, dad.  I've had a lot of men through my hands in the last
few years, and you learn to size 'em up pretty quickly."

David Linton nodded, looking at his big son.  Sometimes he had a
pang of regret for Jim's lost boyhood, swallowed up in war.  Then,
when he was privileged to behold him rough-and-tumbling with Wally,
singing idiotic choruses with Norah and Tommy, or making himself
into what little Babs Archdale ecstatically called "my bucking
donkey," it was borne in upon him that there still was plenty of
the boy left in Jim--and that there always would be.  Nevertheless,
he had great confidence in his judgment; and in this instance it
happened to coincide with his own.

The door opened, and Bob Rainham came in, hesitating as he caught
sight of the father and son.

"Come in, Bob," Mr. Linton said.  "I was just wishing you would
turn up.  We've been talking about you.  I understand you've made
up your mind to get a place of your own."

"If you don't think I'm insane to tackle it, sir," Bob answered.
"Of course, I know I'm awfully ignorant.  But I thought I could
probably get hold of a good man, and if I can find a place anywhere
in this district, Jim says he'll keep an eye on me.  Between the
two, I oughtn't to make very hopeless mistakes.  And I might as
well have my money invested."

"Quite so.  I think you're wise," the squatter answered.  "As it
happens, I was in Cunjee yesterday, talking to an agent, and I
heard of a little place that might suit you very well--just about
the price you ought to pay, and the land's not bad.  There's a
decent cottage on it--you and Tommy could be very comfortable
there.  It's four miles from here, so we should feel you hadn't got
away from us."

"That sounds jolly," said Bob.  "I'd be awfully glad to think Tommy
was so near to Norah.  Is it sheep country, Mr. Linton?"

"So it's to be sheep, is it?  Well, I'd advise you to put some
young cattle on to some scrub country at the back, but you could
certainly run sheep on the cleared paddocks," Mr. Linton answered.
"We could drive over and look at it to-morrow, if you like.  The
terms are easy; you'd have money over to stock it, or nearly so.
And there's plenty to be done in improving the place, if you should
buy it; you could easily add a good deal to its value."

"That's what I'd like," Bob answered eagerly.  "It doesn't take a
whole lot of brains to dig drains and cut scrub.  I could be doing
that while the sheep turn into wool and mutton!"

"So you could; though there's a bit more to be done to sheep than
just to watch them turn," said the squatter, with a twinkle.  "I
fancy Tommy will be pleased if you get this place."

"Tommy's mad keen to start," Bob said.  "She says Norah has taught
her more than she ever dreamed that her head could contain, and she
wants to work it all off on me.  I think she has visions of making
me kill a bullock, so that she can demonstrate all she knows about
corning and spicing and salting beef.  I mentioned it would take
two of us quite a little while to work through a whole bullock, but
she evidently didn't think much of the objection."

"I'll see you get none fat enough to kill," grinned Jim.  "Norah
says Tommy's a great pupil, dad."

"Oh, they have worked as if they were possessed," Mr. Linton
answered.  "I never saw such painfully busy people.  But Norah
tells me she has had very little to teach Tommy--in fact, I think
the teaching has been mutual, and they've simply swapped French and
Australian dodges.  At all events they and Brownie have lived in
each other's pockets, and they all seem very content."

"Are you all talking business, or may we come in?" demanded a
cheery voice; and Norah peeped in, with Tommy dimly visible in the
background.

"Come in--'twas yourselves we were talking about," Jim said, rising
slowly from the armchair; a process which, Norah was accustomed to
say, he accomplished yard by yard.  "Sit here, Tommy, and let's
hear your views on Australia!"

Tommy shook her head.

"Too soon to ask me--and I've only seen Billabong," she said,
laughing.  "Wait until I've kept house for Bob for a while, and
faced life without nice soft buffers like Norah and Mrs. Brown!"

"I'm not a nice soft buffer!" said Norah indignantly.  "Do I look
like one, Jimmy?"

"Brownie certainly fits the description better," Jim said.  "Never
mind, old girl, you'll probably grow into one.  We'd be awfully
proud of you if you got really fat, Norah."

"Then I hope you'll never have cause for pride," retorted his
sister.  "I couldn't ride Bosun if I did, and that would be too
awful to think about.  Oh, and Tommy's making a great stock-rider,
Bob.  She declared she could never ride astride, but she's
perceiving the error of her ways."

"I thought I could never stick on without the moral support of the
pommels," said Tommy.  "When you arrange yourself among pommels and
horns and things on a side-saddle, there seems no real reason why
you should ever come off, except of your own free will.  But a
man's saddle doesn't offer any encouragement to a poor scared new-
chum.  I pictured myself sliding off it whenever the horse side-
stepped.  However, somehow, it doesn't happen."

"And what happens when your steed slews around after a bullock?"
asked Jim.

"Indeed, I hardly know," said Tommy modestly.  "I generally shut my
eyes, and hold on to the front of the saddle.  After a while I open
them, and find, to my astonishment, that nothing has occurred, and
I'm still there.  Then we sail along after Norah, and I hold up my
head proudly and look as if that were really the way I have always
handled cattle.  And she isn't a bit taken in.  It's dreadfully
difficult to impress Norah."

Every one laughed, and looked at the new-chum affectionately.  This
small English girl, so ready to laugh at her own mistakes, had
twined herself wonderfully about their hearts.  Even Brownie,
jealous to the point of prickliness for her adored Norah, and at
first inclined to turn up a scornful nose at "Miss Tommy's" pink
and white daintiness, had been forced to admit that she "could
'andle things like a workman."  And that was high praise from
Brownie.

The telephone bell whirred in the hall, and Jim went out to answer
it.  In a few minutes they heard his voice.

"Norah, just come here a moment."  He came back presently, leaving
Norah at the telephone.

"It's Dr. Anderson," he said.  "They're in trouble in Cunjee--
there's a pretty bad outbreak of influenza.  Some returned men came
up with it, and now it's spreading everywhere, Anderson says.  Mrs.
Anderson has been nursing in the hospital, but now two of her own
kiddies have got it, so she has had to go home, and they're awfully
shorthanded.  Nurses seem to be scarce everywhere; they could only
get one from Melbourne, and she's badly overworked."

"Norah will go, I suppose," said David Linton, with a half-sigh--
the sigh of a man who has looked forward to peace and security, and
finds it again slipping from his grasp.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure she will.  They have a certain number of
volunteers, not nearly enough."

"I'm going," said Tommy, and David Linton nodded at her kindly.

"What about you and me, Jim?" Bob asked.

"Well, Anderson says they have a number of men volunteers.  Such a
lot of returned fellows about with nothing to do yet.  I told him
to count on us for anything he wanted, but the need seems chiefly
for women."

"Must they go to-night?  It's pretty late," said Mr. Linton.

"No, not to-night," Norah answered, entering.  "It would be eight
o'clock before I could get in, and Dr. Anderson says I'm to get a
good sleep and come in early in the morning.  Tommy, darling, will
you mind if I leave you for a few days?"

"Horribly," said Tommy drily.  "It would be unpardonably rude for a
hostess.  So I 'm coming too."

Norah laughed down at her.

"Somehow, I thought you would," she said.  "Well, Jimmy, you'll
take us in after breakfast, won't you?  We'll have it early."  She
perched on the arm of her father's chair, letting her fingers rest
for a moment on his close-cropped grey hair.  "And I've never asked
you if I could go, daddy."

"No," said David Linton; "you haven't."  He put his arm gently
round her.

"But then I knew that you'd kick me out if I didn't.  So that
simplifies matters.  You'll take care of yourself while I'm away,
won't you, dad?  No wild rides by yourself into the ranges, or
anything of that sort?"

"Certainly not," said her father.  I'll sit quietly at home, and
let Brownie give me nourishment at short intervals."

"Nothing she'd like better."  Norah laughed.  "I don't believe
Brownie will really feel that she owns us again until one of us is
considerate enough to fall ill and give her a real chance of
nursing and feeding us.  Then the only thing to do is to forget you
ever had a will of your own, and just to open your mouth and be fed
like a young magpie, and Brownie's perfectly happy."

"She won't be happy when she hears of this new plan," Mr. Linton
said.  "Poor old soul, I'm sorry she should have any worry, when
she has just got you home."

"Yes; I'm sorry," Norah answered.  "But it can't be helped.  I'll
go and talk to her now, and arrange things--early breakfast among
them."

"You might make it a shade earlier than you meant to, while you're
at it, Nor," Jim observed.  "Then we could turn off the track as we
go in to-morrow to let Tommy have a look at the place that has been
offered Bob--you know that place of Henderson's, off the main road.
Bob can go over the land with us when we're coming back.  But once
you and Tommy get swallowed up in Cunjee, there's no knowing when
we could get you out; and Tommy ought to inspect the house."

"Oh, I'd love to," said Tommy enthusiastically.  "No mere man can
be trusted to buy a house."

"Don't go to look at it with any large ideas of up-to-date
improvements floating in your mind," Jim warned her.  "It's sure to
be pretty primitive, and probably there isn't even a bathroom."

"Don't you worry, Tommy; we'll build you one," said Mr. Linton.

"I'm not going to worry about anything; there are always washtubs,"
spoke Tommy cheerfully--"and thank you, all the same, Mr. Linton.
I didn't expect much when I came out to Australia, but I'm getting
so much more than I expected that I'm in a state of bewilderment
all the time.  Someday I feel that I shall come down with a bump,
and I shall be thankful if it's only over a bathroom."

"Distressing picture of the valiant pioneer looking for discomforts
and failing to find them," said Bob, laughing.  "It's so difficult
to feel really pioneerish in a place where there are taps, and
electric light, and motors, and no one appears to wear a red shirt,
like every Australian bushman I ever saw on the stage."

"Did you bring any out with you?" demanded Norah wickedly.

"I didn't.  But honest, it was only because I had so many khaki
ones, and I thought they'd do.  Otherwise I'd certainly have
thought that scarlet shirts were part of the ordinary outfit for
the Colonies.  And if you believed all the things they tell you in
outfitting shops, you would bring a gorgeous assortment.  We'd have
even arrived here with tinware.  It was lucky I knew some
Australians--they delicately hinted that you really had a shop or
two in the principal cities."

"I've often marvelled at the queer collection people seem to bring
out," said Mr. Linton.  "It's not so bad of late years, but ten
years ago a jackeroo would arrive here with about a lorry-load of
stuff, most of which he could have bought much more cheaply in
Melbourne or Sydney--and he'd certainly never use the greater part
of it.  Apparently a London shop will sell you the same kind of
outfit for a Melbourne suburb as if you were going into the wilds
of West Africa.  They haven't any conscience."

"They just never learn geography," said Norah.  "And 'the Colonies'
to them mean exactly the same thing, no matter in what continent
the colony may be.  If they can sell pioneers tinware to take out
to Melbourne, so much the better for them.  Well, I must see
Brownie, or there may not be early breakfast for pioneers or any
one else."

Brownie rose to the occasion--there had never been any known
occasion to which Brownie did not rise--and the hospital at Cunjee
was still grappling with early morning problems next day when the
Billabong motor pulled up at the door, after a flying visit to the
new home--which Tommy, regarding with the large eye of faith, had
declared to be full of boundless possibilities.  Dr. Anderson came
out to meet the new-comers, Norah and Tommy, neat and workmanlike;
Jim, bearing their luggage; and Mr. Linton and Bob sharing a large
humper, into which Brownie had packed everything eatable she could
find--and Brownie's capacity for finding things eatable at short
notice was one of her most astonishing traits.  The little doctor,
harassed as he was, greeted them with a twinkle.

"You Lintons generally appear bearing your sheaves with you," he
said.  "Well, you're very welcome.  How many of you do I keep?"

"Tommy and Norah, for certain," said Mr. Linton.  "And as many more
of us as you please.  Want us all, doctor?"

"Well, I really don't; there are a good many men volunteers.  But
if I might commandeer the car and a driver for a few hours, I
should be glad," the doctor went on.  "There are some cases to be
brought in from Mardale and Clinthorpe.  I heard of them only this
morning, on the telephone, and I was wondering how to get them in."

"We're at your disposal, and you've only to telephone for us or the
car whenever you want it," said Mr. Linton.  "How are things this
morning?"

"Oh--bad enough.  We have several very troublesome cases; people
simply won't give in soon enough.  My youngsters are very ill, but
I'm not really worried about them as long as my wife keeps up.  Our
biggest trouble is that our cook here went down this morning.  She
told me she couldn't sleep a wink all night, and when she woke up
in the morning her tongue was sticking to the roof of her head!--
and certainly she has temperature enough for any strange symptoms.
But we feel rather as if the bottom had dropped out of the
universe, for none of our volunteers are equal to the job."

"I can cook," said Norah and Tommy together.

"Can you?" said the little doctor, staring at them as though the
heavens had opened and rained down angels on his head.  "Are you
sure?  You don't look like it!"

"I can guarantee them," said Mr. Linton, laughing.  "Only you'll
have to watch Norah, for the spell of the war is heavy upon her,
and she'll boil your soup bones thirteen times, and feed you all on
haricot beans and lentils if nobody checks her!"

"Dad, you haven't any manners," said Norah severely.  "May I cook,
Doctor?"

"You can share the job," said Dr. Anderson thankfully.  "I really
think it's more than enough for one of you.  This place is getting
pretty full.  Of course, I've wired to town for a cook, but
goodness knows if we'll get one; it's unlikely.  Come on, now, and
I'll introduce you to Sister."

Sister proved to be a tall, capable, quiet woman, with war
decorations.  She greeted the volunteers thankfully, and
unhesitatingly pronounced their place to be cooks, rather than
nurses.

"I can get girls who will do well enough in the wards," she said,
"where I can direct them.  But I can't be in the kitchen too.  If
you two can carry on without supervision it will be a godsend."

So the kitchen swallowed up Norah and Tommy, and there they worked
during the weeks that followed, while the influenza scourge raged
round Victoria.  The little cottage-hospital became full almost
to bursting-point.  Even the rooms for the staff had to be
appropriated, and nurses and helpers slept in a cottage close by.
Luckily for the cooks, Cunjee now boasted a gas supply and its
citizens supplied them with gas-stoves, as Norah said, "in
clutches," so that they worked in comfort.  It was hard work, with
little time to spare, but the girls had learned method, and they
soon mapped out a routine that prevented their ever being rushed or
flurried.  And they blessed the cold weather that saved constant
watching lest supplies should go bad.

From Billabong came daily hampers that greatly relieved their
labours.  It was a matter of some amazement to the Lintons that
Brownie did not volunteer for the hospital, and indeed, it had been
the first thought of Brownie herself.  But she repressed it firmly,
though by no means feeling comfortable.  To Murty she confided her
views, and was relieved by his approval.

"I know I did ought to go," she said, almost tearfully.  "There's
those two blessed lambs in the kitchen, doing wot I'd ought to be
doing; and I know Mrs. Archdale 'ud come up an' run things 'ere for
me.  But wot 'ud 'appen if I did go, I ask you, Murty?  Simply
they'd take the two blessed lambs out of the kitchen an' put 'em to
nursing in the wards, an' next thing you knew they'd both be down
with the beastly flu' themselves.  They're safer among the pots and
pans, Murty.  But when the master looks at me I don't feel
comferable."

"Yerra, let him look," said Murty stoutly.  "'Tis the great head ye
have on ye; I'd never have thought of it.  Don't go worryin', now.
Are ye not sendin' them in the heighth of good livin' every day?"

"That's the least I can do," said Brownie, brightening a little.
"Only I'd like to think Miss Norah and Miss Tommy got some of it,
and not just them patients, gethered up from goodness knows where."

"Yerra, Miss Norah wouldn't want to know their addresses before
she'd feed 'em," said the bewildered Murty.  But there came a
suspicious smell from the kitchen, as of something burning, and
Mrs. Brown fled with a swiftness that was surprising, considering
her circumference.

Jim lived a moving existence in those days, flying between
Billabong and Cunjee in the car, bringing supplies, always on hand
for a job if wanted, and insisting that on their daily "time off"
Norah and Tommy should come out for a spin into the country.
Sometimes they managed to take Sister, too, or some of the other
helpers.  The car never went out with any empty seats.  Presently
they were recovering patients to be given fresh air or taken home;
white-faced mothers, longing to be back to the house and children
left in the care of "dad," and whatever kindly neighbours might
drop in; or "dads" themselves, much bewildered at the amazing
illness that had left them feeling as if neither their legs nor
their heads belonged to them.  Occasionally, after dropping one of
these convalescents, Jim would find jobs waiting to his hand about
the bush homestead; cows to milk, a fence to be mended, wood
waiting to be chopped.  He used to do them vigorously, while in the
house "mum" fussed over her restored man and tried to keep him from
going out to run the farm immediately.  There were generally two or
three astonished children to show him where tools were kept--milk
buckets, being always up-ended on a fence post, needed no
introduction, and the pump, for a sluice afterwards, was not hard
of discovery.  The big Rolls-Royce used to purr gently away through
the bush paddock afterwards, often with a bewildered "mum" looking
amazedly at the tall young man who drove it.

Meanwhile Bob Rainham, left alone with his host, set about the
business of his new farm in earnest, since there seemed nothing
else for him to do; and David Linton, possibly glad of the
occupation, threw himself into the work.  The farm was bought on
terms that seemed to Bob very easy--he did not know that Mr. Linton
stood security for his payments--and then began the task of
stocking it and of planning just what was best to do with each
paddock.  The house, left bare and clean by the last owners, was in
good repair, save that the dingy white painting of the exterior,
and the varnished pine walls and ceilings within were depressing
and shabby.  Mr. Linton decided that his house-warming present to
Tommy should be a coat of paint for her mansion, and soon it looked
new--dark red, with a gleaming white roof, while the rooms were
painted in pretty fresh colours.  "Won't Tommy get a shock!"
chuckled Bob gleefully.  The dinginess of the house had not escaped
him on the morning that they had made their first inspection, but
Tommy, who loved freshness and colours, had made no sign.  Had you
probed the matter, Tommy would probably have remarked, with some
annoyance, that it was not her job to begin by grumbling.

Wally came hurtling back from Queensland at the first hint of the
influenza outbreak, and was considerably depressed at finding his
twin souls, Jim and Norah, engaged in jobs that for once he could
not share.  Therefore he, too, fell back on the new farm, and found
Bob knitting his brow one evening over the question of furniture.

"I don't want to buy much," he said.  "Tommy doesn't, either; we
talked it over.  We'd rather do with next to nothing, and buy
decent stuff by degrees if we get on well.  Tommy says she doesn't
want footling little gimcracky tables and whatnots and things, nor
dressing-tables full of drawers that won't pull out.  But I've been
looking at the cheap stuff in Cunjee, and, my word, it's nasty!
Still, I can't afford good things now, and Tommy wouldn't like it
if I tried to get 'em.  Tommy's death on the simple life."

"How are you on tools?" queried Wally.

"Using tools?  Pretty fair," admitted Bob.  "I took up carpentering
at school; it was always a bit of a hobby of mine.  I'm no cabinet-
maker, if that's what you mean."

"You don't need to be," Wally answered.  "Up where I come from--we
were pretty far back in Queensland--we hardly ever saw real
furniture, the stuff you buy in shops.  It was all made out of
packing-cases and odd bits of wood.  Jolly decent, too; you paint
'em up to match the rooms, or stain 'em dark colours, and the girls
put sort of petticoats round some of the things."

"We began that way," said David Linton, with a half-sigh.  "There
was surprisingly little proper furniture in our first house, and we
were very comfortable."

"Couldn't we begin, sir?" asked Wally eagerly.  "This wet weather
looks like setting in.  Bob can't do much on the farm.  If we could
get out a few odd lengths of timber and some old packing cases from
the township--"

"Heavens, you don't need to do that!" exclaimed their host.  "The
place is full of both; packing-cases have been arriving at
Billabong since Jim was a baby, and very few of them have gone away
again.  There's plenty of timber knocking about, too.  We'll go
over to the farm if you like, Bob, and plan out measurements."

"I think it's a splendid idea, thanks, sir," said Bob slowly.
"Only I don't quite see why I should bother you--"

"Oh, don't talk rubbish!" said David Linton, getting up.  "I
believe I'm glad of the job--the place seems queer without Jim and
Norah."

"My word!" said Wally.  "Let's all turn carpenters, and give Tommy
the surprise of her life!"

They flung themselves at the work with energy.  A visit to the new
house, and a careful study of each room, revealed unsuspected
possibilities to Bob, whose English brain, "brought up," as Wally
said, "on a stodgy diet of bedroom suites," had failed to grasp
what might be done by handy people with a soul above mere fashion
in the matter of furniture.  They came back with a notebook bulging
with measurements and heads seething with ideas.  First, they dealt
with the bedrooms, and made for each a set of long shelves and a
dressing-table-cupboard--the latter a noble piece of furniture,
which was merely a packing-case, smoothed, planed and fitted with
shelves; the whole to be completed with a seemly petticoat when
Tommy should be able to detach her mind from influenza patients.
They made her, too, a little work-table, which was simply a wide,
low shelf, at which she could write or sew--planned to catch a good
light from her window, so that as she sat near it, she could see
the line of willows that marked the creek and the rolling plains
that ended in the ranges behind Billabong.  Tommy's room was
painted in pale green; and when they had stained all these exciting
additions dark green, Bob heaved a great sigh, and yearned audibly
for the swift recovery of the influenza patients, so that Tommy
could return and behold her new possessions.

"We could make washstands," said Mr. Linton, when they had fitted
out the two remaining bedrooms.  "But washstands are depressing
things, and would take up a good deal of space in these little
rooms.  You have a good water supply, Bob; why not have built-in
basins with taps, and lay on water through the bedrooms?"

Bob whistled.

"My aunt!  Is that really possible?"

"Quite, I should say.  It wouldn't take elaborate plumbing, and the
pipes could discharge into an irrigation drain for your vegetable
garden.  It would save Tommy ever so much work in carrying water,
too.  There's a fearsome amount of water carried in and out of
bedrooms, and I can't see why pipes shouldn't do the work.  It need
not cost you much--just a shelf across a corner, with an enamelled
basin let in."

"Save you buying jugs and basins," said Wally.  "Great money-saving
idea!"

"Rather," said Bob.  "Is there anyone in Cunjee who can plumb?"

"Oh, yes; there's a handy man who can do the whole thing.  We'll
get Jim to go and see him tomorrow."

They left this job to the handy man, who proved equal to all
demands, and went on themselves to higher flights.  Kitchen and
pantry were already fitted with shelves, but they built in a
dresser, and found a spare corner, where they erected a linen press
warranted to bring tears of joy to the eye of any housewife.  Round
the little dining-room and sitting-room they ran a very narrow
shelf, just wide enough to carry flowers and ornaments, and they
made wide, low window seats in each room.  Then, becoming bold by
success, they turned to cabinet making, and built into the dining-
room a sideboard, which was only a glorified edition of the kitchen
dresser, but looked amazingly like walnut, aided by a little stain;
and for both sitting-rooms made low cupboards, with tops wide
enough to serve as little tables.  Even the verandah was furnished
with wide shelf tables and a cupboard, and with low and broad
seats.

"And it's all done by kindness--and packing cases!" said Jim,
surveying the result with admiration.

"Indeed, I'm afraid a lot of your father's good timber has gone
into it," said Bob half ruefully.  "He was awfully good about it,
and the supply of just-what-you-want timber on Billabong seemed
inexhaustible."

"No, you really used very little good stuff," David Linton said.
"It's chiefly packing cases, truly, Jim.  But we had plenty of time
to plane it up and make it look decent.  Bob ran an electric light
into the workshop and we worked every night.  I believe it's kept
us from getting influenza from sheer boredom, with all you people
away."

"They'll soon be home," Jim said cheerfully.  "Influenza's dying
out, I believe.  No fresh cases for three days, and all the
patients are getting better.  The little Andersons are up and
about.  By the way, Dad, couldn't we bring those kiddies out to
Billabong for a change?"

"Why, of course," his father answered.  "Tell Mrs. Anderson to come
too, or, if she won't leave her husband, Brownie will be delighted
at the chance of getting two children to look after again.  Are the
cooks quite cheery, Jim?"

"As cheery as possible," Jim answered.  "They got off early to-day,
and I took them and Sister and the Anderson youngsters out for a
run.  Did 'em all good.  I'm coming home to-night, and they don't
want me to-morrow, because they're going to afternoon tea with some
one or other.  Flighty young things, those cooks!  So I can help
you carpenters or do any odd jobs."

"We've lots," said Wally, who was putting a finishing coat of dark
green enamel to a rod destined as a towel rail for Tommy's room.
"Simple jobs, suitable for your understanding.  Take care, Jimmy,
I've a wet paint brush, and you have a good suit on!  I want to put
shelves from floor to ceiling of the bathroom, because the walls
are rough and unlined, and nothing on earth will make it a
beautiful room.  So Tommy may as well store there all the things
she doesn't want anywhere else.  And you can make her a medicine
cupboard.  I shan't have time to look at any of you unskilled
labourers, for I'm going to build her a draining-rack for plates
and things over the kitchen sink.  And I can tell you, that takes
brains!"

"Then it's not your job!" said Jim definitely.

"Isn't it?  I'll show you, you old Bond Street fashion plate!"
Wally stretched his long form, simply attired in a khaki shirt and
dungaree trousers, much be-splashed by paint, and looked scornfully
at his neatly dressed friend.  "You needn't think, because you come
here dressed like the lilies of the field and fresh from motoring
girls round the country, that--"

"My hat!" said Jim justly incensed.  "And I after cleaning out and
whitewashing the hospital fowl-houses all the morning!  Young
Wally, you need some one to sit on your head."  He took off his
coat slowly.

"Ten to one," said Wally hastily, "if we had time to look into the
matter we'd find you'd whitewashed the fowls as well!  These Army
Johnnies are so beastly impractical!"  He gathered up his brushes
and fled, pursued by his chum.  Sounds of warfare came faintly from
the distance.

"It's a good thing some of us are sane," said Mr. Linton laughing.
"Nearly finished, Bob?"

He was painting a shelf-table, screwed to the wall within a space
at the end of the verandah, which they had completely enclosed with
wire mosquito netting.  Bob was hanging the door of this open-air
room in position, a task requiring judgment, as the floor of the
verandah was old and uneven.

"Nearly, sir," he mumbled, his utterance made difficult by the fact
of having several screws in his mouth.  He worked vigorously for a
few moments, and then stood back to survey his job.  "This is going
to be a great little room--though it's hard just now to imagine
that it will ever be warm enough for it."

"Just you wait a few months until we get a touch of hot weather,
and the mosquitoes come out!" said David Linton.  "Then you and
Tommy will thankfully entrench yourselves in here at dusk, and
listen to the singing hordes dashing themselves against the netting
in the effort to get at you!"

"That's the kind of thing they used to tell me on the Nauru," Bob
said laughing; "but I didn't quite expect it from you, Mr. Linton!"

The squatter chuckled.

"Well, indeed, it's no great exaggeration in some years," he said.
"They can be bad enough for anything, though it isn't always they
are.  But an open-air room is never amiss, for if there aren't
mosquitoes a lamp will attract myriads of other insects on a hot
night.  That looks all right, Bob; you've managed that door very
well."

"First rate!" said Jim and Wally approvingly, returning arm in arm.

"You're great judges!" David Linton rejoined, looking at the pair.
"Have you returned to work, may I ask, or are you still imitating
the lilies of the field?"

"Jim is; he couldn't help it," said Wally.  "But I have been
studying that oak tree out in the front, Mr. Linton.  It seems to
me that a seat built round it would be very comforting to weary
bones on warm evenings--"

Bob gathered up his tools with decision in each movement.

"Wally has come to that state of mind in which he can't look at
anything on the place without wanting to build something out of a
packing case in it, or round it, or on top of it!" he said.  "When
the sheep come I'll have to keep you from them, or you'll be
building shelves round them!"

"Why, you're nearly as bad yourself!" grinned Wally.

"I know I am, and that's why I've got to stop.  I'm going to leave
nice little chisels and spokeshaves and smoothing planes, and mend
up the pigsty; it needs it badly, and so does the cow-shed.  And
then I've got to think of ploughing, and cutting that drain across
the flat, and generally earning my living."

"Don't you worry," said David Linton.  "You couldn't have done much
outside in this wet weather, and at least your house is half-
furnished.  And we'll help you through with the other things."

"You're all just bricks," said Bob, his fair skin flushing--"only I
begin to feel as if I were fed with a spoon.  I can't always expect
to have my work done for me."

"You haven't shown much wish to leave it for anyone else," Jim said
drily.  "Neither you nor Tommy strikes this district as a loafer.
Just stop talking bosh, old man, and think what Tommy's going to
say to her mansion."

"Say?" queried Mr. Linton.  "Why, she'll point out to us all the
places where she wants shelves!"

"Shelves?" yelled the three as one man.

"Yes, certainly.  There was never a woman born who had enough.
Don't lose sight of your tools, Bob, for you'll go on putting up
shelves as long as you've an inch of wall to put them on.  Come
along, boys, and we'll go home."



CHAPTER XIII

THE HOME ON THE CREEK


"I think it's the loveliest home that ever was!" said Tommy
solemnly.

"Well, indeed, it takes some beating," Wally agreed.

"Creek Cottage"--the name was of Tommy's choosing--was ready for
occupation, and they had just finished a tour of it.  There was
nothing in it that was not fresh and bright and dainty--like Tommy
herself.  The rooms were small, but they had good windows, where
the crisp, short curtains were not allowed to obscure the view.
There were fresh mattings and linoleums on the floors, and the
home-made furniture now boasted, where necessary, curtains of
chintz or cretonne, that matched its colouring.  Norah and Tommy
had spent cheery hours over those draperies.  The curtains for
Tommy's "suite" had been Norah's gift--of dark-green linen,
embroidered in dull blue silks; and in the corner there was a
little sofa with cushions of the same.  Tommy had purred--was, in
fact, still purring--over that home-made furniture, and declared it
superior to any that money could buy.  She had also suggested new
ideas for shelves.

They had not troubled furniture shops much.  Save for a few
comfortable arm-chairs, there was nothing solid and heavy in the
house; but it was all pleasant and home-like, and the little rooms,
bright with books and pictures and flowers, had about them the
touch of welcome and restfulness that makes the difference between
a home and a mere house.  The kitchen was Tommy's especial pride--
it was cool and spotless, with fresh-painted walls and ceilings,
and shining white tiles round the white sink--over which Wally's
draining-rack sat in glory.  Dazzling tin-ware decorated the walls,
and the dresser held fresh and pretty china.  For weeks it had been
a point of honour for no one to visit Cunjee without bringing Tommy
a gift for the kitchen--meat fork, a set of skewers, a tin pepper
castor; offerings wrapped in many coverings of tissue paper, and
presented with great solemnity, generally at dinner.  The last
parcel had been from Mr. Linton, and had eclipsed all the others--
an alarum clock, warranted to drive the soundest sleeper from her
bed.  Bob declared it specially designed to ensure his getting fed
at something approaching a reasonable hour.

A wide verandah ran round the whole house, and rush lounges and
deck chairs stood about invitingly--Tommy had insisted that there
should be plenty of seating accommodation on the verandah for all
the Linton party, since they filled the little rooms to an alarming
extent.  Near where they stood the drawing-room opened out by a
French window.  Something caught Tommy's eye, and she dived into
the room--to return, laughing with new treasure-trove--a sink brush
and saucepan-scrubber, tied up with blue ribbon.

"Your doing?" she asked, brandishing them.

"Not mine."  Wally shook his head.  "I don't do frivolous things
like that.  But I heard Jim wheedling blue ribbon out of Norah this
morning, and I don't fancy he has much use for it ordinarily.
You'd better ask him."

"It's like both of you--you nice stupids!" she said.

"What?--the pot-scrub!  That's not polite of you, Miss Rainham; and
so untrue, where I'm concerned."  Wally sat down on the arm of a
lounge and regarded her with a twinkle.  "What's old Bob doing?"

Tommy laughed happily.

"I think whenever we don't know where Bob is, he's safe to be out
looking at either the sheep or the pigs," she said.  "He just loves
them; and he says he can see them growing."

There was a hint of Spring in the air, and more than a hint of good
grass in the green paddocks stretching away from the house.  By the
creek the willows were putting out long, tender shoots that would
soon be a thick curtain.  The lucerne patch that stretched along
its bank was dense and high.  The Rainhams had been delayed in
taking possession of Creek Cottage; a severe cold had smitten Tommy
just at the end of her labours in the hospital, and, being
thoroughly tired out, it had been some time before she could shake
off its effects.  Mr. Linton and Norah had put down their feet with
joint firmness, declaring that in no circumstances should she begin
housekeeping until she was thoroughly fit; so the Rainhams had
remained at Billabong.  Tommy was petted and nursed in a way she
had not known since Aunt Margaret had died, while Bob worked
feverishly at his farm, riding over every day from Billabong, with
a package of Brownie's sandwiches in his pocket, and returning at
dusk, dirty and happy.  Bob was responding to Australian conditions
delightfully, and was only discontented because he could not make
his farm all that he wanted it to be within the first week.

Therein, however, he had unexpected help.  The Cunjee district was
a friendly one; station owners and farmers alike looked kindly on
the young immigrant who turned so readily to work after four years'
fighting.  Moreover, Tommy's work in the hospital was well known;
the general opinion being that "anything might be expected from
young Norah Linton, but you wouldn't think a bit of a new-chum kid
like Bob Rainham's sister would turn to and cook for a crowd, and
she hardly off the ship!"  So the district laid its heads together
and consulted Mr. Linton; with the result that one morning Bob
found himself unexpectedly accompanied to work by his host.  It was
nothing unusual for Jim or Wally, or both, to go with him.  He was
cutting a drain, which they declared to be a job for which they had
a particular fancy.  But to-day he found Monarch saddled with the
other horses, and Mr. Linton, not only ready to start, but hurrying
them off; and there was no lunch to carry, Norah airily declaring
that since she and Tommy were to be deserted they declined to be
downtrodden, and would motor over with a hamper and picnic at Creek
Cottage.  There was a mysterious twinkle in Norah's eye; Bob
scented something afoot, and tried--in vain--to pump her on the
matter.  He rode away, his curiosity unsatisfied.

But when they rode up the homestead paddock at his farm, he gave a
long whistle.

"What on earth--?" he began amazedly.

There were men in sight everywhere, and all working.  Eight or nine
ploughs were moving across the paddocks destined for cultivation;
already wide strips of freshly turned earth showed that they had
been some time at work.  On the flat where Bob had begun his drain
was a line of men, and some teams with earth-scoops, cutting a deep
channel.  There were even men digging in the garden; and the sound
of axes came faintly from a belt of scrub that Bob was planning to
clear--some day.  He gaped at them.

"What does it mean?"

"It's a bee," said Wally kindly.  "A busy bee, improving each
shining hour."

Bob turned a puzzled, half-distressed face to Mr. Linton.

"I say, sir--what is it?"

"It's just that, my boy," said David Linton.  "The district had a
fancy to help you--Cunjee thinks a heap of soldiers, you see.  So a
lot of the fellows got together and planned to put in a day on the
creek, doing odd jobs."

"I say," said poor Bob flushing scarlet, "I never heard such a
thing--and I hardly know any of them.  Whatever am I to say to
them, sir?"

"I wouldn't say much at all," said David Linton laughing.  "You'll
only embarrass them if you do.  Just take a hand in any job you
like, and carry on--as we're all going to do."

"There's one man you know, anyhow," said Jim grinning.  He pointed
out old Joe Howard, the nearest to them among the ploughmen.

"Heavens!" ejaculated Bob.  "You don't mean to tell me old Joe has
come of his own accord!"

"Couldn't keep him away," Jim said.  "He remarked that you were a
very decent young feller, and he'd taught you how to work, so he
might as well lend an 'and.  It's like old Joe's cheek, but he'll
claim for ever that he made you a worker."

"Oh, let him," said Bob.  "It doesn't hurt me, and it may amuse
him."  His gaze travelled across the busy paddocks.  "Well--I'm
just staggered," he said.  "The least I can do is to get to work
quickly."

They turned the horses out and scattered; Bob to cutting scrub--it
was the job he liked least, so it seemed to him the decent thing to
tackle it--Jim to the drain construction, while Wally joined the
band of workers in the garden, since he knew Tommy's plans
concerning it; and Mr. Linton attacked a fence that needed repairs.
In the middle of the morning came the Billabong motor, driven by
Norah, with Brownie and a maid in the tonneau with Tommy, and
hampers packed wherever possible.  A cart with other supplies had
been driven over by Evans in the very early morning, since
Billabong had undertaken the feeding of the workers for the day.
The Rolls-Royce picked its way delicately round the paddocks, while
the girls carried drinks and huge slabs of cake to the different
bands of workers--this being the time for "smoke-oh."  Then they
hurried back to the cottage, where Brownie and Maria were busy
unpacking hampers on the verandah, and Brownie was preparing to
carve great joints of beef and mutton and pork in readiness for the
hungry horde that would descend on them at dinner time.

It was all ready when the men trooped up from the paddocks--
squatters and stockmen, farmers, horse breakers, bush workers of
every degree; all dirty and cheery, and filled with a mighty
hunger.  Soap and water awaited them at the back; then they came
round to sit on the edge of the long verandahs, balancing heaped
plates on their knees, and making short work of Brownie's
provisions.  Jokes and cheery talk filled the air.  Tommy, carrying
plates shyly at first, found herself the object of much friendly
interest.  "Little Miss Immigrant," they called her, and vied with
each other in making her feel that they were all welcoming her.
But they did not waste much time over dinner--soon one after
another got up and sauntered away, lighting his pipe, and presently
there were straggling lines of figures going back to work across
the paddocks.  After which Norah and Tommy bullied Bob into eating
something--he had been far too anxious to wait on his hungry "bee"
to think of feeding himself, and then the ladies of the party
lunched with the ardour of the long-delayed, and fell upon the
colossal business of dish-washing.

Afternoon tea came early, by which time nearly all the ploughing
was done, and the brown ribbon of the new drain stretched, wide and
deep, across the flat.  The girls took the meal round the paddocks,
this time with Bob to carry the steaming billies of tea; it gave
him a chance to thank his helpers, when it was difficult to say
whether the thanker or the thanked were the more embarrassed.  Soon
after "cow time" loomed for some of the workers, and whatever waits
in Australia, it must not be the cow; so that here and there a man
shouldered his tools, and, leaving them at the shed, caught his
horse and rode away--apologizing to Bob, if he happened to meet
him, for going so early, with the brief apology of the dairy
farmer, "Gotter get home an' milk."  But the majority worked on
until dusk came down and put an end to their efforts, and then came
up for their horses, singing and laughing.

Bob stood at the gate, bareheaded, as they rode away.  By this time
he had no words at all.  He wished from the bottom of his heart
that he could tell them what good fellows he thought them; but he
could only stand, holding the gate for them with Tommy by his side;
and it may be that the look on each tired young face moved "the
bee" more than eloquence would have done.  They shouted cheery
good-byes as they went.  "Good luck, Miss Immigrant!  Good luck,
Captain!"  And the dusk swallowed them up, leaving only the sound
of the cantering hoofs.

Thanks to "the bee," the little farm on the creek looked very
flourishing on the great day when the lady of the house came down
in state to take possession of her domain.  Bob had worked hard in
the garden, where already rows of vegetables showed well; Jim and
Wally had aided Norah and Tommy in the making of a flower garden,
laying heavy toll on Hogg's stores for the purpose; to-day it was
golden and white with daffodils and narcissi and snowdrops.  The
cultivation paddocks, no longer brown, rippled with green oats; and
cattle were grazing on the rough grass of the flats, once a swamp,
but already showing the influence of the big drain.  Bob had great
plans for ploughing all his flats next year.  Dairy cows pastured
in the creek paddock near the house; beyond, Bob's beloved sheep
were steadily engrossed in the fascinating pursuit of "turning into
wool and mutton."  He never grew tired of watching the process.

The ever-present problem of labour, too, had solved itself
pleasantly enough.  Sarah, for many years housemaid at Billabong,
had married a man on a farm near Cunjee, whose first attempt at
renting a place for himself had been brought to an untimely end by
the drought; and Sarah had returned to Billabong, to help in
preparing for the home-coming of the long-absent family, while her
husband secured a temporary job in Cunjee and looked about for
another chance.  There Jim had found him, while helping at the
hospital; the end of the matter being that Sarah and Bill and their
baby were installed at Creek Cottage, Bill to be general utility
man on the farm, and to have a share of profits, while Sarah helped
Tommy in the house.  Every one was satisfied, and already there
were indications that Tommy would be daft over the baby.

Sarah came out now to say that tea was ready--she had insisted on
being responsible for everything on this first day.  Not that there
was much to do, for Brownie had sent over a colossal hamper,
declaring that Miss Tommy shouldn't be bothered with thinking about
food when she wasn't 'ardly settled.  So they packed into the
little dining-room; where, indeed, it took no small ingenuity to
stow so large a party, when three of the six happened to be of the
size of David Linton and Jim and Wally; and Tommy did the honours
of her own table for the first time.

"And to think," she said presently, "that six months ago there was
only Lancaster Gate!  Of course, there was always Bob"--she flashed
him a quick smile--"but Bob was--"

"In the air," put in Norah.

"Very much so.  And it didn't seem a bit certain that I could ever
get him out of it; or, if I did, that I could ever escape from
Lancaster Gate."

"And you wouldn't, if the she-dragon had had her way," Bob said.

"No.  There was nothing to do but run.  But even when I dreamed of
running, I never thought of more than a workman's cottage, with you
earning wages and me trying to make both ends meet.  And now--look
at us!  Bloated capitalists and station owners."

"Well, you were a cook not so long ago.  I wouldn't be too proud,"
Wally gibed.

"All the more reason for me to be proud--I've risen in the world,"
declared Tommy.  "Left my situation to better myself--isn't that
the right way to put it?  And we've got the jolliest home in
Australia--thanks to all of you.  Do have some more cake, Mr.
Linton; I'd love to say I made it myself, but Brownie did--still,
all the same, it's mine."

"Don't you worry," he told her.  "I'm coming here plenty of times
for cake of your own baking."

"That's what I want."  She beamed at him.  "All of you.  Bob and I
will feel lost and lonesome if we don't see you all--oh, often."

"But you're going to," Norah said.  "We'll be over goodness knows
how many times a week, and you two are always coming to dinner on
Sunday, and ever so many other days as well."

"Was it in your plans that any work should be done on this estate?"
queried Bob solemnly.

"Why, yes, in your spare time," Wally answered.  "Any time you're
not on the road between here and Billabong, or catching a horse to
go there, or letting one go after coming back, or minding the
Billabong horde when it comes over, you can do a little towards
improving the creek.  I say, Bob, it sounds the sort of life I'd
love.  Can't you give me a job, old man?"

"Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you
came back from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for
a job," retorted Bob.  "However, I'll take you on as milker if you
like--it's about the only thing you haven't sampled."

"No," said Wally, "you won't.  Whatever beast I finally take to by
way of earning my living, it won't be the cow--if I can help it.
I'd sooner graze giraffes!"

"Oh, do try!" Norah begged.  "I'd love to see you trying to put a
bridle on one in a hurry!"

"Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?"
pondered Jim.

"You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns,"
Wally said.  "But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I
think they'd be very restful to deal with."

Every one laughed unsympathetically.  Restfulness was the last
quality to be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable
throughout his life for total inability to keep still.

"It's always the way," said Wally, in tones of melancholy.  "Every
fortune teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me."

"All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them
so clever," said Tommy.  "It's so soothing to think one is
misunderstood.  My stepmother always thought so.  Did Bob tell you,
Mr. Linton, that we had had letters from home?"

"No--from your people?"

"From Papa.  The she-dragon didn't write.  I think her words would
have been too burning to put on paper.  But Papa wrote a pretty
decent letter--for him.  He didn't speak of our letters from
Liverpool--the notes we wrote from the hotel, saying we were
leaving for Australia.  But he acknowledged Bob's letter from
Melbourne, saying we were going up country under your wing, and
actually wished us luck!  Amazing, from Papa!"

"I think he's jolly glad we got away," Bob said.

"I think that's highly probable," said David Linton.  "You'll write
to him occasionally, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," Bob answered.  "Sometimes I'm a bit sorry
for him; it must be pretty awful to be always under the heel of a
she-dragon.  Oh, and there was a really fatherly sort of letter
from old Mr. Clinton.  He's an old brick; and he's quite pleased
about our finding you--or you finding us.  He was always a bit
worried lest Tommy should feel lonesome in Australia."

"And not you?" Norah asked laughing.

"No, he didn't worry a bit about me; he merely hoped I'd be working
too hard to notice lonesomeness.  I think the old chap always was a
bit doubtful that any fellow would get down to solid work after
flying; he used to say the two things wouldn't agree.  But you sent
him a decent report of me, didn't you, sir?"

"Oh, yes--I wrote when you asked me, just after you bought this
place," David Linton said.  "Told him you were working like a cart-
horse, which was no more than the truth, and that Tommy was serving
her adopted country as a cook; and that I considered your prospects
good.  He'll have had that letter before now--and I suppose others
from you."

"We wrote a few weeks ago--sent him a photograph of the house, and
of Tommy on a horse, and Tommy told him all about our furniture,"
Bob chuckled.  "I don't quite know how a staid old London lawyer
will regard the furniture; he won't understand its beauty a bit.
But he ought to be impressed with our stern regard for economy."

"He should," said Mr. Linton with a twinkle.  "And I presume you
mentioned the sheep?"

"As a matter of fact," said Tommy confidentially, "his letter was
little but mutton.  He described all his ewes in detail--"

"Colour of their eyes?" queried Wally.

"And their hair," nodded Tommy.  "I never read anything so
poetical.  And any enthusiasm he had over went to the pigs and the
Kelpie pup!"

"But what about the cows?" laughed Norah.  "And the young
bullocks?"

"Oh, he mentioned them.  But cattle are just four-legged animals to
Bob; they don't stir his soul like sheep and pigs.  He couldn't
write beautiful things about them.  But when it comes to sheep, he
just naturally turns into a poet!"

The object of these remarks helped himself serenely to cake.

"Go on," he nodded at his sister cheerfully.  "Wait until my wool
cheque comes in, and you want a new frock--then you'll speak
respectfully of my little merinoes.  And if you don't, you won't
get the frock!"

"Why, I wouldn't disrespect them for anything," Tommy said.  "I
think they're lovely beasts.  So graceful and agile.  Will any of
them come yet when you whistle, Bobby?"

"Are you going to put up with this sort of thing, Bob?" demanded
Jim.

Bob smiled sweetly.

"I'm letting her have her head," he said confidently.  "It's badly
swelled just now, because she's got a house of her own--but you
wait until she wants a new set of shelves, or a horse caught in a
hurry so that she can tear over and find out from Norah how to cook
something--then she'll come to heel.  It's something in your
climate, I think, because she was never so cheeky at home--meek was
more the word to describe her."

"Meek!" said his sister indignantly.  "Indeed, I never was meek in
my life!"

"Indeed you were, and it was very becoming," Bob assured her.  "Now
you're more like a suffragette--"  He stopped, staring.  "Why,
that's it!  It must be in the air!  She knows she'll have the vote
pretty soon!"  He broke into laughter.  "Glory!  Fancy little Tommy
with a vote!"

Tommy joined in the general mirth.

"I hadn't realized it," she said, "and I needn't bother for over
eighteen months, anyhow.  And I don't believe that any of you have
ever voted, even if you are twenty-one--except Mr. Linton, of
course; and you don't know a bit more about it than I do."

"Hear, hear!" said Wally.  "I certainly don't, and neither does
Jim.  But when we do vote, it's going to be for the chap who'll let
us go and dig our own coal out if there's a strike.  That's sense;
and it seems to me the only sensible thing I've ever heard of in
politics!"  A speech which manifested so unusual an amount of
reflection in Wally that every one was spellbound, and professed
inability to eat any more.

Bob and Tommy stood on the verandah to watch their visitors go; Mr.
Linton and Norah in the motor, while Jim and Wally rode.  The merry
shouts of farewell echoed through the gathering dusk.

"Bless them," said Tommy--"the dears.  I don't believe we'd have a
home now but for them, Bob."

"We certainly wouldn't," Bob answered.  "And sometimes I feel as if
they'd spoon-fed us.  Look at all they've done for us--these months
at Billabong and all they've taught us, and all the things that
they've showered on us.  We couldn't pay them back in twenty
years."

"And they talk as if the favour were on their side," his sister
said.  "There's the buggy they've lent us--Mr. Linton spent quite a
long time in pointing out to me how desirable it was for them that
we should use it, now that they have the car and don't need it.
And the horses that apparently would have gone to rack and ruin
from idleness if we hadn't come."

"And the cows that don't seem to have had any reason for existence
except to supply us with milk," Bob said laughing; "and the farm
machinery that never was really appreciated until immigrants came
along--at least, you'd think so to hear Jim talk, only its
condition belies him.  Oh, they're bricks, all right.  Only I don't
seem as if I were standing squarely on my own feet."

"I don't think we could expect to, just yet," said Tommy pondering.
"And if they have helped us, Bobby, you can see they have loved
doing it.  It would be ungracious for us not to take such help--
given as it has been."

"Yes, of course," Bob answered and squared his shoulders.  "Well,
I'm going to work like fury.  The only thing I can do now is not to
disappoint them.  I feel an awful new-chum, Tommy, but I've got to
make good."

"Why, of course you're going to," she said, slipping a hand through
his arm.  "Jim wouldn't let you make mistakes; and the land is
good, and even if we strike a bad season, there's always the creek--
we'll never be without water, Jim says.  And we're going to have
the jolliest home--it's that now, and we're going to make it
better."

"It's certainly that now," Bob said.  "I just can't believe it's
ours.  Come and prowl round, old girl."

They prowled round in the dusk; up and down the garden paths by the
nodding daffodils, out round the sheds and the pigsties, and so
down to where the creek rippled and murmured in the gloom, flowing
through paddocks that, on either side, were their own.  Memories of
war and of gloomy London fell away from them; only the bright
present and a future yet more bright filled them; and there was no
loneliness, since all the big new country had smiled to them and
stretched out hands of friendliness.  They came back slowly to
their house, arm in arm; two young things, like shadows in the
gloom, but certain in their own minds that they could conquer
Australia.

Bob lit the hanging lamp in the little sitting-room, and looked
round him proudly.  A photograph caught his eye; a large group at
his Surrey Aerodrome, young officers clustered round a bi-plane
that had just landed.

"Poor chaps," he said, and stared at them.  "Most of 'em don't know
yet that there's anything better in the world than flying."

"But they've never met merino sheep," said Tommy solemnly.



CHAPTER XIV

THE CUNJEE RACES


"Who's going to the races?" demanded Jim.

He had ridden over to the creek alone, and Tommy had come to the
garden gate to greet him, since the young horse he was riding
firmly declined to be tied up.  It was a very hot morning in
Christmas week.  Tommy was in a blue print overall, and her face
was flushed, her hair lying in little damp rings on her forehead.
Jim, provokingly cool in riding breeches and white silk shirt,
smiled down at her across the gate.

"Races!" said Tommy.  "But what frivolity.  Why, I'm bottling
apricots."

"No wonder you look warm, you poor little soul," said Jim.  "You
oughtn't to choose a scorcher like this for bottling.  Anyhow, the
races aren't to-day, but New Year's day--Cunjee Picnic meeting.
We're all going, so you and Bob have got to come.  Orders from
Norah."

"Oh, New Year's day.  I'd love to come," Tommy said.  "I've never
seen races."

"Never seen races!" ejaculated young Australia in sheer amazement.
"Where were you dragged up?"  They laughed at each other.

"Aunt Margaret wasn't what you'd call a racing woman," Tommy said.
"I don't fancy Bob has seen any, either.  Bill and Sarah, to say
nothing of the baby, are going.  I offered to mind the baby, but
Sarah didn't seem to think the picnic would be complete without
her."

"People have queer tastes," Jim said.  "I wouldn't choose a long
day at races as the ideal thing for a baby; but Sarah seems to
think differently.  Wonder what Bill thinks?  Still, I'm glad she
didn't take you at your word, because we'd have had to dispose of
the baby somewhere if she had.  I suppose we could put it under the
seat of the car!"

"Oh, do you?"  Tommy regarded him with a glint in her eye.  "No;
we'd have made you nurse her--she isn't 'it.'  She's the nicest
baby ever, and I won't have her insulted."

"Bless you, I wouldn't insult the baby for worlds," grinned Jim.
"I'll look forward to meeting her at the races--especially as you
won't be minding her.  Then it's settled, is it, Tommy?  We thought
of riding; will it be too far for you?"

"Not a bit," Tommy said.  "Bob and I rode in and out of Cunjee the
other day, and I wasn't tired--and it was dreadfully hot."

"Then you'll be all right on New Year's day, because the racecourse
is two miles this side of the township," Jim said.  "But Norah said
I was to tell you some of us could easily go in the car if you'd
rather drive."

"Oh, no, thanks; I know you always ride, and I should love it,"
Tommy answered.  "Is Mr. Linton going?"

"Oh, yes.  Indeed, as far as I can tell, the whole station's
going," Jim said.  "All except Brownie, of course; she scorns
races.  She says she can't imagine why anyone should make anything
run fast in the 'eat if they don't want to."

"Does Brownie ever leave Billabong?"

"Hardly ever," Jim answered, laughing--"and it's getting more and
more difficult to make her.  I think in a year or two it will need
a charge of dynamite.  Oh, but, Tommy, we got her out in the car
the other evening--had to do it almost by main force.  It was a hot
evening, and we took her for a spin along the road.  She trembled
like a jelly when we started, and all the time she gripped the side
with one hand and Norah's knee with the other--quite unconsciously."

"Do you think she enjoyed it at all?"  Tommy smiled.

"No, I'm jolly well sure she didn't," Jim responded.  "Brownie's
much too well mannered to criticize anyone else's property, but
when she got out she merely said, 'You have great courage, my
dear.'  And wild horses wouldn't get her into it again, unless we
promised to 'make it walk,' like we did the day we brought her over
to help at your working bee.  The funny part of it is that Norah
believes she was just as frightened that morning, only she had a
job on, and so was too busy to think of it.  But as for going in a
car for mere pleasure--not for Brownie!"

"Brownie's a dear," said Tommy irrelevantly.  "Jim, can't you put
that fierce animal in the stable or the horse paddock, or
somewhere, and come in for some tea?  I simply must get back to my
apricots."

"And I've certainly no business to be keeping you standing here in
the heat," Jim said.  "No, I can't stay, thanks, Tommy--I promised
dad I'd meet him at the Far Plain gate at eleven o'clock, and it's
nearly that now.  You run in to your apricots, and don't kill your
little self over them; it's no day for cooking if you can avoid
it."

"Oh, but I couldn't," Tommy answered.  "They were just right for
bottling; the sun to-day would have made them a bit too soft.  And
it's better to get them done; to-morrow may be just as hot, or
hotter."

"That's true enough," Jim said.  "Feeling the heat much, little
Miss Immigrant?"

"Oh, not enough to grumble at," she answered, smiling.  "And the
bathing-hole in the creek is a joy; it's almost worth a hot day to
get a swim at the end of it.  Bob has built me a bathing-box out of
a tree, and it's a huge success; he's very pleased with himself as
an architect."

"That's good business," approved Jim.  "You two never grumble, no
matter what comes along."

"Well, but nothing has come along but good luck," Tommy said.
"What have we had to grumble at, I should like to know?"

"Oh, some people find cause for grousing, no matter how good their
luck is," Jim answered.  "I believe you and old Bob would decline
to recognize bad luck even if it did come your way."

"It's not coming," Tommy said, laughing.  "So don't talk about it--
I don't believe it exists."  She stood watching him for a moment as
he tried to mount; his big young thoroughbred resented the idea of
anyone on his back, and Jim had to hop beside him, with one foot in
the stirrup, while he danced round in a circle, trying to get away.
Jim seized an opportunity, and was in the saddle with a lithe
swing; whereupon the horse tried to get his head down to buck, and,
being checked in that ambition, progressed down the paddock in a
succession of short, staccato bounds.

"I think I should have to recognize bad luck coming if I had to
ride him instead of Jim," remarked Tommy quaintly.  She turned and
ran in to her neglected apricots.

New Year's day broke clear and hot, like all the week before it.
Norah, arriving at the Creek about ten o'clock, looked a little
anxiously at her friend.

"We're used to riding in the heat, Tommy, dear," she said.  "But
you're not--are you sure you feel up to it?"

"Why, I'm going to love it," Tommy said.  She looked cool and
workman-like in a linen habit and white pith helmet--Norah's
Christmas present.  "I hadn't these nice things to wear when Bob
and I brought the sheep out from Cunjee three weeks ago; and it was
just as hot, and so dusty.  And that didn't kill me.  I liked it,
only I never got so dirty in my life."

"Well, we shall only have a hot ride one way," said Norah
philosophically.  "There's a concert in Cunjee, and the boys want
to stay for it.  The concert won't be much, but the ride home in
the moonlight will be lovely.  You and Bob can stay, of course?"

"Oh, yes.  Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so
he will milk the cows," Tommy answered.  "He wanted them to stay
for the concert, but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense,
and said it was no place for a baby.  I didn't think she considered
any place unfit for a baby, and certainly Bill doesn't."

"Bush people don't," said Norah, laughing.  "If they did, they
would never go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter
what happens.  And the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry
nearly as much as pampered ones that are always in the nursery."

"Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early," said
Wally's voice from the door.  "It leaves them in later life, and
they stay gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving
their unfortunate fathers grilling in the sun.  Which he says--"
But at this point Norah and Tommy brushed the orator from their
path, and hastened out to the horses--finding all the men
comfortably smoking under a huge pepper tree, and apparently in no
hurry to start.

Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.

"They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago," he said.  "Now
look at them--why, they're like a crop.  The sun has burnt every
bit of moisture out of them."

"Don't let that worry you, my boy," David Linton said.  "The stock
are doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at
this time of the year they won't ask you for green grass."  He gave
a low chuckle.  "You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had
seen the country in the drought years--why, the paddocks were as
bare as the palm of your hand.  Now you've grass, as you say
yourself, like a crop."  He looked at it critically.  "I could wish
you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an anxiety later on."

"Grass fires?" queried Bob.

"Yes.  There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire.
But this grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like
tinder if any fool swagman drops a match carelessly.  However,
you'll just have to keep your eyes open.  Luckily, your creek can't
burn--you'll always have so much safeguard, because your stock
could take to it; and that row of willows along the bank would
check any grass fire."

"My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this
year!" said Wally.

"Yes, it would certainly travel," agreed Mr. Linton.  "Well, we've
ploughed fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only
hope for good luck.  You'd better burn a break round your house
soon, Bob."

"Bill was saying so only this morning," Bob answered.  "I nearly
chucked the races and stayed at home to do it--only I was afraid it
might get away from me single-handed, and I couldn't very well keep
Bill at home."

"Oh, time enough," the squatter said lightly.  "You're not so dry
as we are, and we only burned last week."

"We'll come over and help you to-morrow, if you like," Jim said.
"Wally wants work; he's getting too fat.  A little gentle exercise
with a racing fire on a hot day would be the very thing for him.
We'll come and burn off with you, and then have a bathing party in
the creek, and then you and Tommy must come back to tea with us."
Which was a sample of the way much of the work was done on the
Creek Farm.  It had never occurred to the two Rainhams that life in
Australia was lonely.

The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one
race day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted
along it, light buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the
universal two-wheeled jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers
and their families.  Wives, a little red-faced and anxious,
resplendent in their Sunday finery, kept a watchful eye on small
boys and girls; the boys in thick suits, the girls with white
frocks, their well-crimped hair bearing evidence of intense
plaiting overnight.  Hampers peeped from under the seats, and in
most cases a baby completed the outfit.  Now and then a motor
whizzed by, leaving a long trail of dust-cloud in its wake, and
earning hearty remarks from every slower wayfarer.  There were
riders everywhere, men and women--most of the latter with riding-
skirts slipped on over light dresses that would do duty that night
at the concert and the dance that was to follow.  Sometimes a
motor-cycle chugged along, always with a girl perched on the
carrier at the back, clinging affectionately to her escort.  As
Cunjee drew nearer and the farms closer together the crowd on the
road increased, and the dust mounted in a solid cloud.

The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the
fence, cantering over the short, dusty grass.  It was with a sigh
of relief that Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which
buggies and horsemen were making their way.

"There's the racecourse," he said.

"Racecourse!" Tommy ejaculated.  "But it just looks like an
ordinary paddock."

"That's all it is," said Jim, laughing.  "You didn't expect a
grand-stand and a lawn, did you?  Cunjee is very proud of itself
for having a turf club at all, and nobody minds anything as long as
they get an occasional glimpse of the horses."

"But where do they run?"

"Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees.  There's some talk
of clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee.
But they won't worry if it doesn't get done--every one will come
and have a picnic just the same.  You see, there are only two days
in the year when a bush place can really let itself go--Show day
and Race day.  Show day is more serious and business-like, but Race
day is a really light-hearted affair, and the horses don't matter
to most of the people."

They turned into a gate where two men were busily collecting
shillings and keeping a wary eye lest foot passengers should dodge
in through the fence without paying.  There were no buildings at
all in the bush paddock in which they found themselves.  It lay
before them, flat, save for a rise towards the southern boundary,
where already the crowd was thickening, and sparsely timbered.  As
they cantered across it they came to a rough track, marked out more
or less effectively by pink calico flags nailed to the trees.

"That's the racing track," Wally said.  "Let's ride round it, and
we'll have a faint idea of what the horses are doing later on."

They turned along the track, where the grass had been worn by
horses training for the races during the few weeks preceding the
great day.  The trees had been cleared from it, so that it was good
going.  In shape it was roughly circular, with an occasional dint
or bulge where a big red gum had been too tough a proposition to
clear, and the track had had to swing aside to avoid it--a practice
which must, as Jim remarked, make interesting moments in riding a
race, if the field were larger than usual and the pace at all hot.
Presently they emerged from the timber and came into the straight
run that marked the finish--running along the foot of the southern
rise, so that, whatever happened in the mysterious moments in the
earlier parts of a race, the end was within full view of the crowd.
The winning-post was a sawed-off sapling, painted half-black and
half-white; opposite to it was the judge's box, a huge log which
made a natural grand-stand, capable of accommodating the racing
committee as well.  Behind, a rough wire fence enclosed a small
space known as the saddling paddock.  The crowd picked out its own
accommodation--it was necessary to come early if you wanted a good
place on the rise.  Already it was dotted with picnic parties,
preparing luncheon, and a procession of men and boys, bearing
teapots and billies, came and went about a huge copper, steaming
over a fire, where the racing club dispensed hot water free of
charge, a generosity chiefly intended to prevent the casual
lighting of fires by the picnickers.  All over the paddock people
were hastening through the business of the midday meal; the men
anxious to get it over before the real excitement of the day began
with the racing, the women equally keen to feed their hungry
belongings and then settle down to a comfortable gossip with
friends perhaps only seen once or twice in the twelve months.
Children tore about wildly, got in the way of buggies and motors,
climbed trees and clustered thickly round any horse suspected of
taking part in the racing.  More than one candidate for a race
appeared on the course drawing a jinker; and, being released from
the shafts, was being vigorously groomed by his shirt-sleeved
owner.

"There's an awful lot to see!" ejaculated Tommy, gazing about her.

"That is if you've eyes," Jim said.  "But most of it can be seen on
foot, so I vote Wally and Bob and I take the horses and tie them up
while there's still a decent patch of shade left for them to stand
in--every tree in the paddock will have horses tied to it before
long.  Do you know where Evans was to leave the buggy, Dad?"

"Yes--it's under a tree over there," said his father, nodding
towards a bushy clump of wattles.  "I told him to pick out a good
shady place for lunch.  We'll go on and get ready, boys.  I'll take
the teapot for hot water."

"Not you!" said Jim.  "We'll be back in a few minutes and can
easily get it.  Just help the girls with the things, Dad, and we'll
get lunch over; I'm as hungry as a hawk."

"I'm not hungry," said Norah.  "But I want, oh! gallons of tea."

Tea seemed the main requirement of everybody.  It was almost too
hot to eat, even in the deep shade of the wattles.  The boys,
taught by the war to feed wherever and whenever possible, did some
justice to Brownie's hamper; but Mr. Linton soon drew aside and lit
his pipe at a little distance, while Tommy and Norah nibbled tomato
and lettuce sandwiches, kept fresh and cool by being packed in huge
nasturtium leaves, and drank many cups of tea.  Then they lay under
the trees until a bell, ringing from the saddling paddock, hinted
that the first race was at hand.  There was a surge of people
towards the rise.

"Come on," Jim said, jumping up.  "Help me to stow these things in
the buggy, Wally--we'll want most of them for afternoon tea later
on.  Then we might as well go and see the fun.  You girls rested?"

They were, they declared; and presently they set off towards the
rise.  Already the horses were appearing on the track, most of the
jockeys wearing silk jackets and caps, although a few were content
with doffing coat and waistcoat, and riding in blue and pink
shirts--occasionally, but not always, complete with collar and tie.
The horses were a mixed lot; some bore traces of birth and
breeding, but the majority were just grass-fed horses from the
neighbouring farms and stations, groomed and polished in a way that
only happened to them once a year.  The well-bred performers were
handicapped with heavy weights, while the others had been let off
lightly, so that all had a chance.

"Billabong has a horse running to-day--did you know?" Jim inquired.

"No!"  Tommy looked up, dimpling with interest.  "But how exciting,
Jim.  Is it yours?"

"No."  Jim shook his head.  "I won't enter a horse if I can't ride
him myself, and of course I'm too heavy.  He belongs to the
station, but he's always looked upon as Murty's, and black Billy's
going to ride him.  He's in the Hurdle Race."

"Do you think he has any chance?"

"Well, he can gallop and jump all right," Jim said.  "But he hasn't
had much training, and whether he'll jump in company is open to
doubt.  But I don't think he'll disgrace us.  You've seen Murty
riding him--a big chestnut with a white blaze."

"Oh, yes--he calls him Shannon, doesn't he?" said Tommy.  "I saw
him jump three fences on him last time we were out mustering with
your people.  He's a beauty, Jim."

"Yes, he's pretty good.  Murty thinks he's better than Garryowen,
but I don't," Jim observed.

"If the Archangel Gabriel turned into a horse you wouldn't think he
was up to Garryowen!" said Wally.

"No, and he probably wouldn't be," said Jim, laughing.  "If you
begin life as an archangel, how would you settle down to being a
horse after?"

"I suppose it needs practice," Wally admitted.  "Look out--here
they come!"

The horses were coming down the straight in their preliminary
canter, and the crowd abandoned the business of picnicking and
turned its attention to the first race.  The riders, mostly local
boys, looked desperately serious, and, as they pulled up after
their canter, and turning, trotted slowly back past the rise,
shouts of warning and encouragement and instruction came to them--
from the owners of their mounts--which had the effect of making the
boys look yet more unhappy.  A bookmaker, the sole representative
of his profession, yelled steadily from under a lightwood tree;
those who were venturesome enough to do business with him were
warned solemnly by more experienced men to keep a sharp look-out
that he did not get away with their money before the end of the
day.

"That happened in Cunjee some years ago," said Mr. Linton.  "A
bookmaker appeared from goodness knows where, and struck a very
solid patch of bad luck.  All the district seemed to know how to
pick winners that day, and he lost solidly on every race.  He
plunged a bit on the fourth race, hoping to get his money back; but
that was worse still, and when he saw the favourite winning, he
knew he had no hope of settling up.  So he quietly collected his
horse, which he had tied up in a convenient place, in case it was
wanted in a hurry, and made tracks before the race finished."

"What happened to him?" asked Bob.

Mr. Linton chuckled.

"Well, he added considerably to the excitement of the day.  Some
one saw him going, and passed the word round, and every man to whom
he owed money--and they were many--ran for his horse and went after
him.  He had a good start, and no one knew what road he would take,
so it was quite a cheery hunt.  I think it was Dave Boone who
tracked him at last, and he paused at a cross-roads, and coo-eed
steadily until he had a number of followers.  Then they set sail
after the poor bookie, and caught him about seven or eight miles
away.  They found he had practically no money--not nearly enough to
divide up; so they took what he had and presented it to the Cunjee
Hospital, and finished up the day happily by tarring and feathering
the bookie, and riding him on a fence rail round Cunjee that
night!"

"What do your police do in a case like that?" Bob asked.

"Well, there's only one policeman in Cunjee, and, being a wise man,
he went to the concert, and probably enjoyed himself very much,"
said Mr. Linton, laughing.

"And what happened to the bookie?"

"Just what you might expect--the boys got sorry for him, made a
collection for him, bought him some cheap clothes--I believe they
didn't err on the side of beauty!--and shipped him off to Melbourne
by the first train in the morning.  I don't think he'll try his
artful dodges on this section of the bush again; and it has made
all the boys very watchful about betting, so it wasn't a bad thing,
on the whole.  They think they know all about the ways of the world
now.  Look, Tommy--the horses are off!  Watch through the trees,
and you'll get a glimpse presently."

The gay jackets flashed into view in a gap in the timber, and then
were lost again.  Soon they came in sight once more and rounded the
last curve into the straight, amid shouts from the crowd.  They
came up the straight, most of the jockeys flogging desperately,
while everyone rushed to get as near the winning-post as possible.
Hats were flung in the air and yells rose joyfully, as a Cunjee
boy, riding a desperate finish, got his horse's nose in front in
the last couple of lengths and won cleverly.

"She's excited!" said Wally, looking down at Tommy's flushed face.

"I should think so," said Tommy.  "Why, it was dreadfully exciting.
I'd love to have been riding myself."  At which everyone laughed
extremely, and a tall young stockman from a neighbouring station,
overhearing, was so impressed that he hovered as near as possible
to Tommy for the rest of the day.

The next event was the Hurdle Race, and interest for the Linton
party centred in the candidate described on the race-card as Mr. M.
O'Toole's Shannon.  Nothing further could be done for Shannon--he
was groomed until the last hair on his tail gleamed; but black
Billy, resplendent in a bright green jacket and cap, the latter
bearing an embroidered white shamrock, became the object of advice
and warning from every man from Billabong, until anyone except
Billy would probably have turned in wrath upon the multitude of his
counsellors.  Billy, however, had one refuge denied to most of his
white brothers.  He hardly ever spoke; and if some reply was
absolutely forced upon him, he merely murmured "Plenty!" in a vague
way, which, as Wally said, left you guessing as to his meaning.

"Yerra, lave off badgerin' the boy," said Murty at last, brushing
aside Dave Boone and Mick Shanahan, and the other Billabong
enthusiasts.  "If he listens to the lot of ye anny longer he won't
know whether he's ridin' a horse or an airyplane.  There's only wan
insthruction to be kapin' in your head, Billy--get to the front an'
stay there.  Ridin' a waitin' race is all very well on the flat,
but whin it comes to jumpin', anything that's in front of ye is apt
to turn a somersault an' bring ye down in a heap."

"Plenty!" agreed Billy; and lit a cigarette.

"Shannon don't like anny other horse in front of him at all," went
on Murty.  "He's that full of pride he never tuk kindly to bein'
behind, not since he was bruk in.  He'll gallop like a machine an'
lep like a deer if he gets his head."

"I don't b'lieve you've much show, anyhow," Dave Boone said.
"There's that horse from the hotel at Mulgoa--Blazer, they call
him.  He's done no end of racin', and won, too."

"Well, an' if he has, hasn't he the great weight itself to be
carryin'?" demanded Murty.

"Why, he's top weight, of course; but you're carryin' ever so much
over weight," responded Mr. Boone.  "If you'd put up a boy instead
of Billy, you could be pounds lighter."

"Ah, git away with your advisin'," replied Murty.  "Billy knows the
horse--an' where'd a shlip of a boy be if Shannon cleared out with
him?  I'd rather carry too much weight, an' know I'd put a man up
as could hold the horse."  His anxious eye fell on the girls.
"Miss Norah and Miss Tommy!--come here an' wish him luck without
offerin' me any advice, or I'll lose me life over the ould race!
They have desthroyed me with all the things they're afther tellin'
me to do."

"We won't tell you a thing, Murty--except that he's looking
splendid," Norah said, stroking Shannon's nose, to which the horse
responded by nuzzling round her pocket in search of an apple.  "No,
I can't give you one, old man--I wouldn't dare.  But you shall have
one after the race, whether you win or not, can't he, Murty?"

"He can so," said Murty.  "Wance he's gone round that thrack he can
live on the fat of the land--an' Billy, too.  It's a dale aisier to
get the condition off a horse than off Billy.  No man on this earth
'ud make a black fellow see why he shouldn't have a good blow-out
whenever it came his way.  Only that Providence made him skinny by
nature, he'd be fat as a porpoise this day.  I've been watchin'
over his meals like a mother with a delicate baby these three weeks
back; but what hope 'ud I have with Christmas comin' in the way?
He got away on me at Christmas dinner, an' what he didn't ate in
the way of turkey an puddin' wouldn't be worth mentioning--an' him
booked to ride to-day!  'Plenty' always did be his motter, an' he
lives up to it.  So he's pounds overweight, an' no help for it."

"Never mind, Murty," Jim said.  "He knows the horse, and Shannon's
able to stand a few pounds extra.  He'll give us a good run."

"I believe ye, Masther Jim," said Murty, beaming.  "He'll not
disgrace us, an' if he don't win itself, then he'll not be far
behind.  There you are, Billy--that's the bell for weighin'.  Hurry
up now, and get over to the scales."

The black boy's lean figure, saddle and bridle on arm, threaded its
way through the crowd round the weighing enclosure--a little space
fenced off by barbed wire.  Presently they saw him coming back
grinning.

"That pfeller sayin' I plenty too much pounds," he said in an
unusual burst of eloquence.

"Ah, don't be rubbin' it in--don't I know it?" quoth Murty, taking
the saddle and slipping it deftly on Shannon's back.  "I dunno, did
he think he was givin' me a pleasant surprise with the information
by way of a New Year's gift.  Does he think we've never a scales on
Billabong, did ye ask him?  There now, he's ready.  Get on him,
Billy, an' shove out into the track for a canter.  I'll get nothing
but chat from every one as long as you're here.  Take him for a
look at some of the hurdles, the way he'll know all about them when
he comes to jump."  He stood with a frown on his good-humoured face
as Shannon and his rider made off.

Norah laid a hand on his arm.

"There's not a horse on the course better turned out, Murty," she
said.  "No one can say the Billabong representative doesn't look
fit."

Murty turned on her, beaming again.

"Well, indeed, he'll not be doin' the station any discredit, Miss
Norah," he said happily, "an' if he don't win, well, we can't all
be winnin', can we?  Only we did win a race last year, whin none of
ye were here to be watchin' us an' make it worth while.  I'd like
to score to-day, now that ye're all here to see--an' Miss Tommy
too, that's never seen racin'."  He smiled down at the English
girl's pink face.

"I'm going to see you win to-day, Murty--I feel it in my bones,"
said Tommy promptly.  "I've always loved Shannon, ever since I saw
you jump those big fences with him when we put up the hare out
mustering."

"Yerra, that one'd make a steeplechaser if he got the trainin',"
declared Murty, all his troubles forgotten.  "Come a little higher
up, won't ye, Miss Norah; we can see every jump from the top of the
rise, barrin' the wan that's in the timber."

They followed him up the little hill until he declared himself
satisfied with his position; and he spent the time until the flag
fell in pointing out to Tommy the exact places where the hurdles
were erected--pausing only for a proud look when Shannon thundered
past below them in his preliminary canter, the green jacket bright
in the sun, and every muscle in the horse's gleaming body rippling
as he moved.  He was reefing and plunging in his gallop, trying to
get his head; but Billy soon steadied him, and presently brought
him up the straight again at a quiet trot.  The other horses went
out, one by one, until at length a field of eight faced the
starter; and presently they were off, and over the first jump in a
body.  They came down the straight on the first time round, packed
closely, a glittering mass of shining horses and bright colours.
One dropped at the jump near the judge's box, and as the other
horses raced away round the turn the riderless horse followed,
while his jockey lay still for a moment, a little scarlet blur upon
the turf.  Eager helpers ran forward to pick him up, but he was on
his feet before they could reach him, and came limping up the hill,
a little bruised and infinitely disgusted.

"He's all right," Murty said.  "Yerra, Mr. Jim, did ye see the ould
horse jump!  He wint ahead at his fences like a deer!"

The horses were in the timber; they peered anxiously at the bright
patch of colour that showed from time to time, trying to see the
familiar green jacket.  Then, as the field came into view Murty
uttered an irrepressible yell, for his horse shot ahead at the next
jump and came into the straight in the lead.  Murty gripped at the
nearest object, which happened to be Norah's shoulder, and clenched
it tightly, muttering, in his excitement, words in his native
Irish.  They thundered up the straight, Billy crouching on
Shannon's neck, very still.  Then behind him the Mulgoa horse drew
out from the ruck and came in chase.  Nearer and nearer he came,
while the shouts from the crowd grew louder.  Up, up, till his nose
was at Shannon's quarter--at his girth--at his shoulder, and the
winning-post was very near.  Then suddenly Billy lifted his whip
and brought it down once, and Shannon shot forward with a last wild
bound.  Murty's hat went up in the air--and Wally's with it.

"He's done it!" Murty babbled.  "Yerra, what about Billabong now?"
He suddenly found himself gripping Norah's shoulder wildly, and
would have apologized but that Norah herself was dancing with
delight, and looking for his hand to grasp.  And the crowd was
shouting "Shannon!  Shannon!  Billabong!"--since all of these
Cunjee folk loved Billabong and were steadily jealous of Mulgoa.
Jim and Wally were thumping Murty on the back.  Bob and Mr. Linton
stood beaming at him.  Below them Billy came trotting back on his
victorious steed, sitting with a grave face, as expressionless as
if he had not just accomplished his heart's desire.  But his dark,
mysterious eyes scanned the crowd as he turned from weighing in,
and only grew satisfied when he saw the Billabong party hurrying to
greet him.  They shook his hand, and smote him on the back, Dave
Boone and Mick Shanahan prancing with joy.  And Shannon, his glossy
coat dark with sweat, nuzzled again at Norah's pocket for an apple--
and this time got it.

This glorious event over, interest became focused on a trotting
race, which brought out a queer assortment of competitors, ranging
from King Lightfoot, a horse well known in Melbourne, to Poddy, an
animal apparently more fitted to draw a hearse than to trot in a
race--a lean, raw-boned horse of a sad countenance and a long nose,
with a shaggy black coat which rather resembled that of a long-
haired Irish goat.  There were other candidates, all fancied by
their owners, but the public support was only for King Lightfoot,
who ran in elaborate leather and rubber harness, and was clearly
regarded by his rider as of infinite condescension to be taking
part in such a very mixed company.

It proved, however, not to be King Lightfoot's lucky day.  The
horses started at intervals, according to their performances or
merit, Poddy being the first to move, the Melbourne horse the last.
King Lightfoot, however, obstinately refused to trot, whereas Poddy
revealed unexpected powers, flinging his long legs abroad in a
whirlwind fashion, and pounding along doggedly, with his long nose
outstretched as if hoping to get it past the winning-post as soon
as possible.  No other horse came near him; his initial lead was
never lessened, and he plugged doggedly to victory, while the crowd
roared with laughter, and out in the timber King Lightfoot's rider
wrestled with his steed in vain.  Later, his prejudice against
trotting in the bush removed by stern measures, King Lightfoot
flashed up the track like a meteor, with his furious rider
determined to show something of what his steed could do.  By that
time Poddy was once more unsaddled, and was standing under a tree
with his weary nose drooping earthwards, so that the crowd merely
yelled with laughter anew, while the stewards unfeelingly requested
the Melbourne man to get off the track.

"Oh, isn't it hot!"  Norah fanned herself with a bunch of gum
leaves, and cast an anxious look at Tommy.

It was breathlessly hot.  Not a hint of air stirred among the trees
or moved the long dry grass that covered the paddock--now showing
many depressions, where tired people or horses had lain down to
rest.  The horses stood about, drooping their heads, and swishing
their tails ceaselessly at the tormenting flies; men and women
sought every available patch of shade, while dogs stretched
themselves under the buggies, panting, with lolling tongues.
Children alone ran about, as though nothing could mar their
enjoyment; but babies fretted wearily in their mothers' arms.
Overhead the sun blazed fiercely in a sky of brass.  Now and then
came a low growl of thunder, giving hope of a change at night; but
it was very far distant, although a dull bank of cloud lay to the
west.  David Linton watched the cloud a little uneasily.

"I don't quite like the look of it," he muttered to himself.  "I'll
go and ask Murty what he thinks of it."  But Murty had been
swallowed up in a crowd anxious to congratulate him on Shannon's
success, and his employer failed to find him at the moment.  He
came upon Sarah, however--sitting under a tree, with her baby
wailing dismally.

"To hot for her, Sarah," David Linton said kindly.

"That's right, sir--it's too hot for anyone, let alone a little
tiny kid," Sarah said wearily.  "I'd get Bill to go home if I
could, but I can't get on his tracks--and it's too hot to take baby
out in the sun looking for him.  If you come across him, sir, you
might tell him I want him."

"All right," said the squatter.  "But you wouldn't take that long
drive home yet, Sarah--better wait until the sun goes down."

"Well, I'd go into Cunjee, to me sister-in-law's," said Sarah.
"She'd let me take baby's things off an' sponge her--an' I'd give a
dollar to do it.  No more races with kids for me in weather like
this!"  She crooned to the fretting baby as Mr. Linton went off.

He found Tommy and Norah together under a tree near the track--hot,
but interested.

"Where are the boys?"

"They're all holding ponies," Norah said.  "I don't quite know why,
but a very hot and worried man collected them to help start the
race.  What is it for, Dad, do you know?"

"Oh, I see!"  David Linton laughed.  "It's--a distance handicap--
the ponies all start at the same moment, but from different points
along the track."

"Yes, that must be it," Norah said.  "Jim's away over near the
timber with a little rat of a pony, and Bob is shepherding another
fifty yards behind him, while Wally is quite near here with that
big pony of the blacksmith's that has won ever so many races.
She'll have a lot of ground to make up.  But why must each one be
shepherded, Dad?"

"Human nature," said David Linton, smiling.  "These youngsters who
are riding would sneak a yard or two if they weren't closely
watched, and they would never start fair; the only way is to put
each in charge of a responsible man with a good watch, and let him
start them.  What time is the race?  Oh, four o'clock.  Well, I
never yet saw a pony race that started on time; neither the ponies
nor the boys are easy to handle, and I see there are ten of them.
Watch them; it's after four, and they must be nearly ready to
start."

The ponies were strung out round the course, each with a "shepherd"
standing to attention near its bridle, watch in hand.  They could
see Jim's great form standing sentinel over a tiny animal, whose
diminutive rider was far too afraid of the huge Major to try to
snatch even a yard of ground; nearer, Wally kept a wary eye on the
experienced jockey on the blacksmith's racing mare, who was afraid
of nothing, but nevertheless had a certain wholesome respect for
the tall fellow who lounged easily against a tree near him, but
never for an instant shifted his gaze.  The shepherds were waiting
for a signal from the official starter.

It came presently, a long shrill whistle, and simultaneously each
guardian stepped back, and the released ponies went off like a
flash--all save Bob's charge, who insisted on swinging round and
bolting in the wrong direction, while his jockey sawed at his mouth
in vain.  Yawing across the track the rebel encountered the
blacksmith's pony, who swerved violently in her swift course to
avoid him, and lost so much ground that any chance she had in the
race was hopelessly lost, whereat the blacksmith, who was standing
on the hill, raved and tore his hair unavailingly.  A smart little
bay pony fought out the finish with Jim's tiny charge, and was
beaten by a short head, just as Wally, walking quickly, came back
to his party.

"That was a great race," said Norah.  "Wally, you shouldn't walk so
fast on such a day.  It makes one warm only to look at you."

Wally answered with an absent air that was unlike his usual
alertness.  The girls, watching the ponies come in, noticed
nothing, and presently he drew Mr. Linton aside.

"Did you notice that cloud, sir?" he asked, in a low voice.  "I
didn't until I was down on the track with the pony, looking in that
direction.  But it's twice the size it was when I went down."

"I've been looking at it, and I don't like it," said Mr. Linton.
"It's smoke, I'm positive, and too near Billabong and the Creek to
be comfortable.  I think we'll make tracks for home, Wally.  Have
you seen Murty anywhere?"

As if in answer, Mr. O'Toole came running down the hill.

"I've been huntin' ye's everywhere," he panted.  "There's a man
just kem out from Cunjee lookin' for ye, sir--some one's
tallyphoned in that there's a big grass fire comin' down on the
Creek, an' 'twill be a miracle if it misses Billabong!  I've told
the men--they're off to get the horses."

Norah and Tommy had turned, with dismayed eyes.

"Will it be at our place, Murty?" Tommy asked.

"I dunno will it, Miss Tommy," the Irishman answered.  "But as like
as not 'twill miss it--or anyhow, we'll get there first, an' stop
it doing much damage.  Don't you worry your little head, now."

She looked up at him gratefully.  Norah's hand was thrust through
her arm.

"It may not be near the Creek at all, Tommy dear," she said.

"Oh, I hope it isn't--my poor old Bob!" Tommy said, under her
breath.  "Can we hurry, Norah?"

"They're bringing the horses," Norah answered.  "We'll be off in a
minute--see, dad has gone to meet Bob."

Wally had turned to Murty.

"Murty, do you mind if I ride Shannon and take him across country?
I'm on Marshal to-day, you know, and he can't jump for nuts.  But
Shannon can take every fence between here and the Creek, and I can
cut the distance in half if I go across.  I'm about the lightest of
us, I think."

"So ye are--an' the horse'll take ye like a bird," said Murty.
"Don't shpare him, Mr. Wally, if ye think ye can do any good.  He's
over there under the big wattle."

"Right-o!" said Wally.  "Tell Mr. Jim, will you, Murty?"  He turned
and ran down the hill with long strides.



CHAPTER XV

HOW WALLY RODE A RACE


Already the cloud was growing in the western sky--so high that it
threatened to obscure the sun that still blazed fiercely down.  At
first a dull brown, there was a curious light behind it; at the
edges it trailed away into ragged wisps like floating mist.  There
was something mysteriously threatening in its dense heaviness.

There were other men running for their horses, as Wally raced
towards Shannon.  The news of a grass fire had spread quickly, and
every man wanted to be on his own property, for the whole
countryside was covered with long, dry grass, and no one could say
where a fire might or might not end.  Boone and Shanahan passed
Wally, leading several horses--his own amongst them.  They hailed
him quickly.

"We've got Marshal, Mr. Wally."

"Give him to Murty," Wally answered as he ran.  "I'm riding
Shannon."  He raced on.

"That means he's going across country," said Dave Boone.  "For two
pins I'd go too."

"Don't you--you'd never get your horse over them fences," Shanahan
said.  "An' it'll take Mr. Wally all his time to get across them
wired paddocks of Maclennan's.  Hope he don't break Shannon's
laigs."

"Not he; Mr. Wally's no fool," said Boone.  "Git up, y' ol'
sardine!"  He kicked the horse he was leading, and they trotted up
to Norah and Tommy.

Shannon, standing with drooping head, showed little interest as
Wally flung the saddle on his back.  He had won his race
handsomely, and it was a scorching day; possibly the big chestnut
felt that no more should be required of him; in which case he was
soon to be rudely awakened.  Wally swung into the saddle with a
quick movement, and turned him, not towards the gate, but in the
opposite direction, which further puzzled Shannon.  But he was a
stock horse first and a hurdle racer as an afterthought; and a good
stock horse knows his rider's mind, if that rider is a good man.
He made one tentative movement towards his paddock mates, now
moving away towards the gate; then, feeling the touch of Wally's
hand on the bit, and the light pressure of his knee, he decided
that some new game was on foot, and cantered easily away.

They crossed the racing track, going westward over the big paddock,
away from the buggies and the crowd.  A belt of timber checked
their swift progress a moment; then they came out into clear ground
in sight of the boundary fence, a stiff three-railer.  Wally peered
at it anxiously, unable, for an instant, to see if there were a
wire on top; but it was clear, and he shook up his horse, putting
him straight at the middle of a panel.  Shannon pricked his ears
and flew it daintily--this was work he loved, and hot though the
day might be, he was ready for any amount of it.  Also Wally was
lighter than Murty, his usual rider; and although he loved Murty,
and respected him greatly, this new man had a seat like a feather
and a hand gentle as silk upon his tender mouth.  Shannon broke
into the gallop that he felt sure his rider wanted.

They were in a wide paddock, bare, save for a few clumps of timber,
in the shade of which sheep were thickly clustered.  It was good,
sound going, with a few little rises; and, knowing that he would
have to slacken speed presently, Wally let the chestnut have his
head across the clear grass.  They took the next fence and the next
before he drew rein.  He was in country he did not know--all big
farms, with many stubble fields with newly erected stacks, and with
good homesteads, where now and then a woman peered curiously from a
verandah at him.  There were no men in sight; every man in the
neighbourhood was at the races on New Year's day.

He found himself in a paddock where rough ground, thickly strewn
with fallen timber, sloped down abruptly to a creek.  Checking
Shannon, he rode more steadily down to the water, and trotted along
the bank for a hundred yards, looking for a good place to ford--the
banks shelved abruptly down, and the water was unusually deep.  But
the only promising fords were too thickly snagged to be tempting;
and presently, with a shrug, Wally gave up the quest, and choosing
a place where the fall of the bank was a shade less abrupt, he put
the horse at it.

Shannon hesitated, drawing back.  Water was the one thing to which
he had not been schooled on Billabong, and this place was
mysterious and deep.  But Wally's hand was firm, and he spoke
sharply--so that the chestnut repented of the error of his ways,
and plunged obediently downwards.  The bank gave under them, and
they slithered down among its remnants and landed in the water with
a profound splash, almost hidden for a moment by the spray that
drenched Wally's thin silk coat and shirt.  Shannon floundered
violently, and nearly lost his footing--and then, deciding that
this was an excellent entertainment on a hot day, he thrust his
thirsty nose into the water.  Wally checked him after one mouthful.

"I'm sorry, old chap," he said regretfully.  "I'd like it as much
as you.  But I can't let you have a drink just now."

He pressed him on across the muddy stream, floundering over sunken
logs, slipping into holes, dodging half-concealed snags; and so
they came to a bank which scarcely seemed a possible place, so
steep was it.  But Wally looked at the smoke-cloud, and grew
desperate, and for the first time touched Shannon with the spur;
and the chestnut answered gamely, springing at the bank and
climbing almost like a cat.  Twice it broke under him; the third
time he made some footing, and Wally suddenly flung himself from
his back, scrambling up ahead of him, and hauling at the bridle.
Shannon followed, floundering and snorting; desperately relieved to
find himself on firm ground again.  Wally swung into the saddle and
they galloped forward.

The next two fences were log ones, and the chestnut took them
almost in his stride.  Then Wally's lips tightened, for he saw a
homestead that he knew must be Maclennan's, the most prosperous
farmer about; and Maclennan had strong views on the subject of
inflammable fences in a country so liable to grass fires, and all
his property was wire-fenced.  The first fence stretched before
him, taut and well-strung; he looked up and down its length in
search of a gate, but there was none in sight.

"I could put my coat on the top wire for you to jump if it was a
thick one, old chap," he told Shannon.  "But a scrap of wet silk
wouldn't be much good to you.  We'll have to chance a post."

He drew rein, trotting up to the fence, where he let the horse put
his nose over a post--and set his lips again when he saw that the
top wire was barbed.

"Just you remember to pick up all your toes well, old man," he
said.

He trotted back a little way, and, turning, came hard at the fence,
putting Shannon directly at the post.  This also was new to the
chestnut; but once, when a foal, he had been badly pricked on
barbed wire, and, ever since, one glance at its hideous spikes had
been enough for him.  Refusing was out of the question--Wally was
leaning forward, keeping him absolutely straight, lifting him at
the post with a little shout of encouragement.  He flew over it as
if it had been a hurdle.  Wally patted his neck with a big sigh of
relief.

"Eh, but I was scared for your legs, old man!" he said.

They galloped across a wide stubble field, while Wally's keen eyes
searched the fence for a gate.  He caught sight of one presently, a
stiff, four-railed gate, considerably higher than the fence.  High
as it was, Wally preferred it to barbed wire; and by this time he
had a queer feeling that no jump would prove too much for the big,
honest chestnut, who was doing so gamely everything that he was
asked.  Nor did Shannon disappoint him; he rose at the gate
cheerfully, and barely tipped it with one hind foot as he cleared
it.  Wally fancied there was something of apology in the little
shake of his head as he galloped on.

"If I'd time to take you back over that you wouldn't lay a toe on
it again, I believe.  Never mind, there's sure to be another."

There was, and the chestnut flew it with never a touch.
Maclennan's paddocks were wide and well cleared--such galloping
ground as Wally dared not waste--and he took full advantage of
them, leaving one after another behind swiftly, to the beat of
Shannon's sweeping stride.  Fence after fence the chestnut cleared,
taking them cleanly, with his keen ears pricked; never faltering or
flagging as he galloped.  Wally sat him lightly, leaning forward to
ease him, cheering him on with voice and touch.  Before him the
cloud grew dense and yet more dense; he could feel its hot breath
now, although a bush-covered paddock ahead blocked the fire itself
from his immediate view.  He had to choose between picking his way
through the trees or galloping round them; and chose the latter,
since Shannon showed no sign of fatigue.  He put the last wire
fence behind him with a sigh of relief.  A small farm with easy
enough fences remained to be crossed, and then he swung round the
timber at top speed.  Once round it, he should come within view of
the Rainhams' house.

He came into the open country, and pulled up with a shout of
dismay.  Before him was the long line of timber marking the creek,
but between lay nothing but a rolling cloud of smoke, lit with
flashes of flame.  A hot gust of wind blew it aside for a moment,
and through it he caught a glimpse of Creek Cottage, burning
fiercely.  Wally uttered a smothered groan, and thrust Shannon
forward, over the last fence, and up a little lane that led near
the Rainhams' back gate.

The paddock was nearly all on fire.  It had started somewhere back
in the bush country, and had swept across like a wall, burning
everything before it.  As Wally reached the gate, it was rolling
away across the paddocks, a sheet of flame, licking up the dry
grass; leaving behind it bare and blackened ground, with here and
there a fence post, or a tree burning, and, in the midst of its
track, Creek Cottage wrapped in flames.

The boy slipped from his saddle and flung Shannon's bridle over the
gate-post.  Then, as a thought struck him, he turned back and
released him, buckling the reins into one stirrup.

"I don't dare to tie you up, old man," he said.  "The beastly fire
might swing round.  Go home, if you like.  I can't take you across
that hot ground."  He gave the chestnut's neck a hasty pat; then,
putting one hand on the gate, he vaulted it cleanly and ran across
the burnt ground.

The grass was yet smouldering; it broke away under his feet,
crackling and falling into black powder.  He ran desperately, not
feeling the burning breath of the fire, in blind hope of being able
to save something.  The house itself, he knew, was doomed; no fire-
brigade could have checked the flames which had laid hold of the
flimsy weatherboard.  The fire had divided round it, checked a
little by Tommy's flower-garden, which was almost uninjured yet,
and by Bob's rows of green vegetables which lay singed and ruined;
then, unable to wait, it had swept on its way through the long dry
grass, which carried it swiftly forward, leaving the burning
cottage and the green garden in the midst of a blackened waste.

The front verandah, and one side, were yet untouched, nor had the
front rooms caught.  Wally raced through the garden and tried the
front door.  It was locked.  He sprang to the nearest window and
smashed it with quick blows from a hoe standing near; then,
flinging up the sash, dived in.  The room was full of smoke, the
heat stifling.  It was Tommy's room.  He gathered up her little
personal belongings from the dressing-table and flung them on the
quilt, following them with armfuls of clothes hastily swept from
shelves.  A trunk, covered with a bright Navajo blanket, stood near
the window.  He thrust it through to the verandah, and scrambled
out after it with the quilt and blankets bundled round the things
he had saved.  Dragging them across the lawn, he thrust them under
some green bushes, and returned for the trunk.

"I don't believe you'll catch there," he said, choking.  "Wonder if
I can try another room?"

He had opened the door from Tommy's room into the hall, but the
rush of flame and smoke were so appalling that he had to shut it
again quickly, realizing that the draught only helped the fire.  To
break in by another window was the only way.  He smashed his way in
to the other front room, and hurriedly gathered up all he could.
There was no time to save anything heavy.  His quick mind guided
him to the things he knew Bob and Tommy valued most--things that
had been Aunt Margaret's in the past, that spoke of their old happy
life in France.  He spread an embroidered cloth on the floor and
pitched his treasure trove into it--working feverishly, choking and
gasping, until the flames began to crackle through the wall, and
the ceiling above him split across.  Then he plunged through the
window, and staggered across the lawn with his burden--falling
beside it at last, spent and breathless, his throat parched with
smoke, and his eyes almost sightless.  But he picked himself up
presently and went back.  All the rooms were blazing now.  The side
verandah had not yet caught, and on it he saw an old oaken chest
that did double duty as a seat and as a wardrobe for Bob's spare
clothes.  The sight brought fresh energy back to Wally.

"By Jove, there's old Bob's box!" he uttered.  "I'll have to get
that."

He dragged it across the verandah and on to the path.  It was
cruelly heavy.  He had to stop and rest again and again; but still
he struggled on, a few yards at a time, until it, too, was in
comparative safety.  Then there was nothing else that he could do
but sit on the grass and watch the gay little home that they had
all loved as it fell into ruins.  The flames made mercifully short
work of it; they roared and crackled and spat wreathing fiery
tongues round the chimneys and up and down the verandah posts;
shooting out of the broken windows and turning the white-painted
iron of the roof into a twisted and blackened mass.  It fell in
presently with a deafening roar, bringing one chimney with it; and
soon all that Wally had to look at was a smouldering heap of coals,
in the midst of which one chimney stood, tottering and solitary,
with the kitchen stove a glowing mass of red-hot iron, and
strangely contorted masses of metal that once were beds.  The boy
uttered a groan.

"And they were so proud of it," he said.  "Poor souls--how are they
going to stick it?"

He got up presently and made his way round to the back.  All the
sheds and buildings were burned; he turned with a shudder from
where Bob's beloved Kelpie had died at his post chained in
helplessness.  The metal parts of the buggy, writhed into knots and
tangles, lay in the ashes of the big shed; beyond, the pigsty
smouldered.

"They've gone, too, I suppose," Wally said.  "By George, where are
all his stock?  They can't all be burned, surely."

There was nothing visible in the bare, black paddocks.  He cast a
wild look round, and then made for the creek at a staggering run.
The fire had died away for lack of material as it neared the banks,
for great willows overhung them, a camping-ground for the stock all
through the summer heat, and the ground was always beaten hard and
bare.  Wally uttered a shout of relief as he came to the trees.
Below in the wide, shallow pools, all the stock had taken refuge--
carthorses and cows, sheep and pigs, all huddled together, wild-
eyed and panting, but safe.  They stared up at Wally, dumbly
bewildered.

"Poor brutes," said Wally.  "Well, you chose a good spot, anyhow.
I say, what a jolly good thing Bob let his pigs out.  Poor old
chap--he's not broke yet."  He leaned against the gnarled trunk of
a willow for a moment.  "Well, I suppose I'd better get up to the
gate and tell them--it won't do for Tommy to come on the ruins all
of a sudden."

But he realized, as he made his slow way up from the creek, that he
was too late.  There was a little knot of horses beside the garden
gate.  His eye caught the light linen habit coats that Tommy and
Norah wore.  They were looking silently at the blackened heap of
ashes, with the tottering chimney standing gaunt in its midst,
Bob's face grey under its coating of smoky dust.  Norah was holding
Tommy's hand tightly.  They did not hear Wally as he came slowly
across the black powder that had been grass.

"I suppose the stock have gone, too," Bob said heavily.

"No, they haven't, old man," Wally said.  "I believe every head is
safe; they're in the creek."

They turned sharply, and cried out at the sight of him--blackened
and ragged, his eyes red-rimmed in his grimy face, his hands, cut
by the broken window glass, smeared with dried blood.  His coat and
shirt, burnt in a score of places, hung in singed fragments round
him.  There were great holes burnt in his panama hat, even in his
riding breeches.  Jim flung himself from his horse, and ran to him.

"Wal, old man!  Are you hurt?"

"Not me," said Wally briefly.  "Only a bit singed.  I say, you two,
you don't know how sorry I am.  Tommy, I wish I could have got here
in time."

"You seem to have got here in time to try, anyhow," said Tommy, and
her lip trembled.  "Are you sure you're not hurt, Wally?"  She
slipped from her saddle, and came to him.  "Were you in the fire?"

"No, I'm truly all right," Wally assured her.  He suddenly realized
that he had not known how tired he was; something in his head began
to whirl round, and a darkness came before his aching eyes.  He
felt Jim catch him; and then he was sitting on the ground, propped
against the fence, and blinking up at them all, while indignantly
assuring them that he had never been better.

"Did you meet the fire?  It was away from here before I got here."

"It crossed the road in front of us," Mr. Linton said.  "There were
a good many men about by that time--we got it stopped before it
reached Elston's."  His pitying eyes went back to the brother and
sister.  Anxiety for Wally had drawn them from their own disaster
for a moment; now they had moved away together, and stood looking
at the ashes of their home, where so many hopes were ashes, too.
David Linton went over to them, and put a hand on a shoulder of
each.

"You're not to be down-hearted," he said firmly.  "It's bad enough,
and bitter enough--but it might be worse.  The stock are safe, and
the land is there--one good shower will turn the paddocks green
again.  Why, there's even most of your garden left, Tommy.  And
we'll build the house and sheds better than before."

"You're jolly good, Mr. Linton," Bob said, with dry lips.  "But we
owe you enough already."

"If you talk that sort of nonsense, I'll be really annoyed," David
Linton said.  "Why, hard luck comes to all of us--we got burned out
ourselves once, didn't we, Norah?"

"Rather--and had to live in tents," said Norah.  "No, you'll have
to come back to us at Billabong until we build up the cottage
again--oh, and, Tommy darling, I've been lonesome for you!"  She
put a hand on Bob's arm.  "You won't worry, Bob?  One bit of bad
luck isn't going to beat you!"

"I suppose it won't," Bob said slowly.  "There's the insurance
money, anyhow.  But it was the jolliest little home--and our very
own.  And I was so jolly proud of being independent."

"Well, you're that still," Jim said.  "This is a country where
everybody helps everybody else--because you and Tommy come to stay
with us, and run your stock for a while on Billabong until your own
grass grows, that isn't going to make you less independent.
Wouldn't you do the same for us, if we were in the same box?"

"That goes without saying--and I'm as grateful as I can be," Bob
said.  "But the cases are different.  I'm deep enough in your debt,
as it is.  I--"  His lip quivered, and he turned away, staring at
the ruins.

"I don't see any good arguing about it, at all events," said Norah,
practically.  "We're all hot and tired, and I vote we just get home
and have tea.  We'll all feel better after a tub, and then we can
begin to make plans.  Come on, Tommy dear, it's just lovely to
think we're going to have you."

Bob stood with one hand on the scorched gate.

"I wish I could have got here in time to get out a few things," he
muttered.

"Oh, I did that," said Wally, brightening.  "I forgot, in the shock
of finding all Noah's Ark turned out in the creek.  Come along,
Tommy, and see my little lot of salvage!"

He dragged himself up from the ground and seized Tommy's hand.
They trooped across the lawn.

"I saved the cuckoo clock and that set of Swiss bears," said Wally.
"And lots of oddments from goodness knows where--the sort of thing
you can't buy in Cunjee.  I expect I've hauled out all the things
you wouldn't have saved, Tommy, but you'll just have to let me down
lightly--I'd have made a shot for the beloved cake tins, only I
hadn't time."

"Oh, Wally, you dear old idiot," said Tommy.  "And that's how you
nearly killed yourself."  They came in sight of Wally's heap of
loot, and she stopped in amazement.

"Bob--just look!"

"By Jupiter!" said Bob, "you saved my old box!  You old brick.  How
did you manage it?  Why, it weighs a ton!"

Tommy was on her knees by the bundles.  "Look!" she said.  "Look,
Bobby!  My silver things--and all Aunt Margaret's, and my little
jewel box.  And my clothes!  How did you do it, Wally?"  Suddenly
her voice broke.  She put her head down on the bundle in a passion
of sobs.

"That's the best thing she could do," said David Linton gently.  He
turned to Norah.  "Let her cry--and bring her along presently, and
we'll take her home.  Come along, boys, we'll get the horses and go
and see Wally's Noah's Ark."



CHAPTER XVI

BUILDING UP AGAIN


It was three months later, and Billabong lay in the peace of an
exquisite autumn evening.  The orchard showed yellow and bronze
against the green of the pine trees; here and there oak and elm
leaves fluttered down lazily upon the lawn.  The garden flamed with
dahlias and asters, amidst which Hogg worked contentedly.  And
there was utter content upon the face of David Linton, as he stood
on the broad stone steps of his home, and looked towards the
setting sun.  Beyond the garden gleamed the reed-fringed waters of
the lagoon; further yet, the broad paddocks stretched away, dotted
with feeding Shorthorns.  It was the view, of all others, that he
loved--his soul had longed for it during weary years of exile and
war.  Now, it seemed that he could never tire of looking at it.

Brownie came up from the garden, a basket on her arm laden with
splendid mauve and pink asters.  David Linton strolled across the
gravel sweep to meet her.

"What, Brownie--taking Miss Norah's job, are you?"

"Well, it ain't 'ardly that, sir," Brownie answered.  "Miss Norah
she done the vases this morning, same as ushul, an' Miss Tommy
elpin' her.  Only she wouldn't pick these 'ere astors, 'cause
they're 'Oggs best, an' she didn't like to 'urt 'im; you see she
always remembers that onst they go into the 'ouse, 'Ogg, 'e don't
see 'em no more.  An' she do love 'em in the vases.  So I just put
the matter sensible like to 'Ogg, an', of course, 'e saw reason and
give me 'alf; an' I'll 'ave 'em on the table to-night.  Only
they've filled every vase in the house already, I believe I'll be
druv to puttin' 'em in Mason jars!"

"Miss Norah will love them, no matter what they're in," said Mr.
Linton.  "There's no sign of them yet, Brownie--it's nearly time
they were home."

"Well, they meant to 'ave a long day's work fixin' the 'ouse," said
Brownie comfortably.  "Mrs. Archdale druv me over to see them, an'
Sarah gave us all afternoon tea--she an' Bill are real toffs in
their little new cottage there.  Sarah ain't indulgin' in any
regrets over that fire!  And they were all busy as bees.  Miss
Tommy's room's fixed, an' her little sleep-out place off it, and
so's Mr. Bob's, an' they were workin' at the drorin'-room; 'omelike
it looked with all their nice old things in it again."

"I'm sure it will," David Linton agreed.  "How do you like the new
house, Brownie?"

"Why, it's lovely," said Brownie.  "An' a fair treat to work, with
all them new improvements--no corners to the rooms, an' no silly
skirtin' boards that'll catch dust, an' the water laid on
everywhere, an' the air gas, an' all them other patent fixings.
An' so comferable; better than the old one, any way you look at it.
Miss Tommy's the lucky young lady to be comin' in for such a
place."

"Well, she deserves it, Brownie."

"She do," said Brownie heartily.  "Ain't it lovely to see Miss
Norah an' 'er so 'appy together?  Our blessed lamb never 'ad a
friend like that before, and she needed one--every girl do."

"Long may it last, that's all I say," agreed the squatter.  "Norah
needed her badly, although she didn't know it.  And she and her
brother are the best type of immigrants, aren't they?"

"They are that," said Brownie, "always cheery, an' workin' 'ard,
an' takin' the ups and downs sensibly.  Now, it was a real nasty
knock to find their nice little 'ome burnt down on New Year's day,
but after the first shock they never 'ung their lip at all--just
bucked in to make good again."

She went on her way with her asters, and David Linton walked slowly
across the lawn and stood looking over the gate, along the track
where his children would come riding home.  Somehow, he found it
difficult not to think of them all as his children.  Wally had made
an attempt to go away and set up a place for himself, but the idea
had been received with such amazed horror by the whole household
that it had been temporarily shelved.  After all, Wally had more
money than was good for him, the result of having always been an
orphan.  He could establish himself in a place at any time if he
wished.  And meanwhile, he was never idle.  David Linton had handed
over most of the outside management of the big run to Jim and his
mate.  They worked together as happily as they had played together
as boys.  There was time for play now, as well; Mr. Linton saw to
that.  The years that they had left on Flanders fields were not to
rob them of their boyhood.

There had also been time to help the Rainhams--and there again the
district had taken a hand.  It was not to be imagined that the
people who had helped in the first working bee would sit calmly by
when so stupendous a piece of bad luck as the New Year fire
overtook the just established young immigrants; and so there had
been several other bees, to replace Bob's burnt fencing, to clear
away the ruins of the house and sheds, and, finally, to rebuild for
him.  There had been long discussions at Billabong over plans--the
first Creek Cottage had taught them much of what was desirable in
the way of a house; so that the second Creek Cottage, which rose
from the ashes of the old one when kindly rains had drawn a green
mantle over all the blackened farm, was a very decided improvement
upon the old house, and contained so many modern ideas and "dodges"
that the wives and sisters of all the working bees, who helped to
build it, came miles to see it, and went home, in most cases,
audibly wishing that they could have a fire.  It was illuminating,
too, to the working bees, to see how Bob and the Billabong men
planned for the comfort of the women who were to run the house, and
for its easy working; so that presently a wave of labour-saving
devices swept through the Cunjee district in imitation, and wives
who had always carried buckets of water found taps conveniently
placed where they were needed, and sinks and draining racks built
to ease the dreary round of dish-washing, and air-gas plants
established to supersede the old kerosene lamps.  After which the
district was very much astonished that it had not done it before.

The cottage was finished now, and nearly ready for its occupants;
Bill, Sarah and the baby had been installed for some time in a neat
little two-roomed place with a side verandah, a short distance from
the main building.  Home-made furniture, even more ambitious than
the first built, had been erected, and a fresh supply of household
goods bought during an exciting week in Melbourne, where Mr. Linton
had taken them all--all, that is, but Bob, who had steadfastly
declined to go away and play when other people were helping him.
So Bob had remained at his post, giving Tommy a free hand as to
shopping; a freedom cautiously used by Tommy, but supplemented by
the others with many gifts, both useful and idiotic.  Tommy had an
abiding affection for the idiotic efforts.

She had spent so much time in the saddle that she now rode like an
old hand; the brown-faced girl who came up the paddock presently
with the cheery band of workers was very different to the pink and
white "little Miss Immigrant" of eight months before.  She rode
Jim's big favourite, Garryowen, who, although years had added
wisdom to him, was always impatient when nearly home; he was
reefing and pulling, as they swept up at a hand gallop, but Tommy
held him easily, and pulled up near Mr. Linton, laughing.  He
looked at them with grave content.

"I began to think you meant me to have tea alone," he said.  "Have
they been doing any work, Bob, or couldn't you keep them in hand at
all?"

"Oh, they've been working," Bob answered.  "I told Sarah not to
give them any afternoon tea if they didn't, and it acted like a
charm."

"You to talk!" said Norah, with tilted nose.  "They said they'd
sample the new deck chairs, dad, and it took them about an hour to
make sure if they liked them--they just smoked while Tommy and I
toiled."

"Well, you'd only have been annoyed with us if we hadn't done the
sampling properly, and had grumbled afterwards," said Wally.  "I'm
always trying to teach you to be thorough, Norah.  Of course, they
say they work all the time, sir--but when they disappear into
Tommy's room there's an awful lot of talking."

"There would be something wrong with them if there weren't," said
the squatter sagely.  "And I have no doubt there yet remains much
awaiting their expert supervision in Tommy's room."  Whereat Tommy
and Norah beamed at him, and commended him as a person of
understanding, while Wally remarked feelingly to Bob that there was
no chance of justice where those two females were concerned.  At
this point Jim observed that the conversation showed signs of
degenerating into a brawl, and that, in any case, it was time the
horses were let go.  They trotted off to the stables, a light-
hearted body.

Tommy slipped her arm into Bob's as they went upstairs to dress.

"Come into my room and talk for a moment."

He came in and sat down in a low chair by the window.

"Your quarters at the new place won't be as big as this, old girl."

"They'll be bigger, for it will all be ours," rejoined Tommy
promptly.  "Who wants a big room, anyway?  I don't.  Bobby, I'd be
hard to please if I wanted more than I've got."

"You're always satisfied," he said.  "There never was anything
easier than pleasing you, old Tommy."

"Life's all so good, now," she said.  "No hideous anxiety about
you--no Lancaster Gate--no she-dragon.  Only peace, and
independence, and the work we like.  Aren't you satisfied, Bob?"

"I'd like to be really independent," he said slowly.  "Our amount
of debt isn't heavy, of course, and it doesn't cause real anxiety,
with Mr. Linton guaranteeing us to the bank--"

"And as we had to build again, it was worth while to improve the
house and make it just what we wanted," Tommy added.  "We'll pay
the debt off, Bob.  Mr. Linton assures me that with ordinary
seasons we should easily do it."

"I know, and I'm not anxious," Bob said.  "Only I'll be glad when
it's done; debt, even such an easy debt as this, gives me the
creeps.  And I want to feel we stand on our own feet."

"And not on the Lintons'!" said Tommy, laughing.  "I quite agree--
though it's amazing to see how little they seem to mind our weight.
Was there ever such luck as meeting them, Bob?"

"Never," he agreed.  "We'd have been wage-earners still, or
struggling little cocky farmers at the best, but for that letter of
General Harran's--though, I think more was due to the way you
butted into their taxi!"

"I believe it was," laughed Tommy.  "It was the sort of thing to
appeal to the Lintons--it wouldn't to everybody.  But the letter
was behind it, saying what a worthy young man you were!"

"Well, when you start calling me such a thing as 'worthy,' it's
time I left and got dressed for tea," said her brother, rising
slowly.  "English mail ought to be in, by the way; I'm wondering
what old Mr. M'Clinton will say when he hears we were burned out in
our first season."

"He'll wish he'd sent us to the snows of Canada, where such things
don't happen on New Year's day," Tommy said.  "Still, he ought not
to be anxious about us--Mr. Linton wrote and told him our position
was quite sound."

"Oh, I don't think he'll worry greatly," said Bob.  "I must hurry,
old girl, or I'll be late--and I want a tub before tea."

The boys came down in flannels, ready for a game of tennis after
tea; and Bob and Wally were just leaving the court after a stoutly-
contested set, when black Billy brought the mail-bag across the
lawn to Mr. Linton.  The squatter unlocked it and sorted out the
letters quickly.

"Nothing for you, Tommy; two for Norah; three for Bob, and bundles
for Wally and Jim.  Papers beyond counting, and parcels you girls
can deal with."  He gathered up a package of his own letters.
"Chiefly stock and station documents--though, I see, there's a
letter from your aunt, Norah; I expect she's anxious to know when
I'm going to cease bringing you up like a boy, and send you to
Melbourne to be a perfect lady."

"Tell her, never," said Norah lazily.  "I don't see any spare time
ahead--not enough to make me into a lady after Aunt Winifred's
pattern.  Cecil is much more lady-like than I am."

"He always was," Jim said.  "Years ago we used to wonder that he
didn't take to wool-work, and I expect he'll do it yet.  Even
serving in the war didn't keep Cecil from manicuring his nails--he
gets a polish on them that beats anything I ever saw."

"Never mind--he's got a limp," said Norah, in whose eyes that
legacy of the war covered a multitude of sins.

"Well, he has.  But he even limps in a lady-like way," grinned Jim.
"And he has no time for Wal and me.  He told me that he was
surprised that five years of France and England hadn't made us less
Australian."

"It's a matter of regret to us all," said Norah placidly.  "We
hoped for great things when you came out--more attention to polite
conversation, and a passion for top-hats, and--"  At which point
further eloquence was checked by a cushion placed gently, but
firmly, by a brotherly hand on her face, and so she subsided, with
a gurgle of laughter, into the cool depths of the buffalo grass
where they were all lying.

"Oh, by Jove!" said Bob suddenly.  He looked at them, and finally
at Tommy, his eyes dancing.

"What's up, old man?" Jim asked.  "Not your stepmother coming out?"

"England couldn't spare her," Bob said.  "But the sky has fallen,
for all that.  Just listen to old M'Clinton.

"'. . . It was with deep regret that I learned from you and from
Mr. Linton of the calamity which had befallen you on New Year's
day.  Such disasters seem common in Australia, like blizzards in
Canada, and I presume every settler is liable to them.  In your
case your loss, being partly covered by insurance, will not, Mr.
Linton assures me, be crushing, although it seems to me very
severe.  To have your initial endeavours, too, handicapped by so
calamitous an occurrence would have excused despondency, but--'"

"Hasn't he a lovely style?" chuckled Wally, as the reader paused to
turn over.

"'But Mr. Linton assures me that you and your sister are facing the
situation with calmness and courage.'  Did you know you were calmly
courageous, Tommy?"

"I am not," said Tommy.  "I am courageously calm.  Go on, Bobby--my
calmness will waver if you don't get to the point.  Where does the
sky fall?"

"Half a second.  'Further, I am immensely interested to learn from
Mr. Linton, who appears to be the kindest of benefactors'--that's
you, sir--'that the people of the district, who have already helped
you so remarkably by a working bee, are so much in sympathy with
you both that they intend again lending you their assistance over
rebuilding your house.  This shows me, even without Mr. Linton's
letter, that you have earned their esteem and regard.  Nevertheless,
I estimate that you cannot fail to be at some monetary embarrassment,
and this I am luckily able to ease for you. Certain rubber
investments of your late aunt's have recently risen in value, after
the long period of depression due to the war; and I deemed it
prudent to sell them while their price in the market was high.  The
terms of your aunt's will enable me to reinvest this money,
amounting to a little over nine hundred pounds, for you, or, at my
discretion, to hand it over to you; and such is the confidence I
repose in you, after Mr. Linton's letter, that I feel justified in
remitting you the money, to use as you think best.  I presume that
will be in the reduction of your liabilities.  I should like to
think you had the benefit of Mr. Linton's advice in the matter.'
Shall I, sir?"

"I never listened to such language," returned the squatter.  "I
should like it read three times a day, before meals.  But if it's
my advice you want, Bob, you can have it.  Meanwhile, I'm very glad
for you to have such a windfall, my boy."

Tommy and Norah had collapsed on each other's shoulders,
speechless.

"Joy never kills, they say," said Wally, regarding them anxiously.
"But it's been known to turn the brain, when the brain doesn't
happen to be strong.  Will we turn the hose on them, Jim?"

"Sit on him, Bob," came faintly from Norah.

"I will--with the weight of nine hundred pounds!" said Bob--and did
so.

"Get off, you bloated capitalist," said Wally, struggling.  He
succeeded in dislodging him, with a mighty effort.  "You're just
purse-proud, that's what's the matter with you.  What'll you do
with it, Bobby--go racing?  Or buy an aeroplane?"

"Get out of debt," said Bob, sitting up with rumpled hair and a
face like a happy child's.  "And there'll be a bit over to play
with.  What shall we put it into, Tommy?  Want any pretty things?"

"Just merino sheep," said Tommy.



THE END








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