ON THE TRACK
A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—
Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.
—V. J. Daley.
THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock belonging to a station Mr. Linton knew well.
“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he said. “It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of good water in the creek over yonder.”
So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and across the long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time of the year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The horses were short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was pitched quickly.
The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near which the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for bathing—a deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over a sunken log at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply planned to stand on while you were drying. Most Australian creeks are unkind in this respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or the few available places are so muddy that the difficulty after a bathe is to keep clean.
“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the hole hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much mistaken.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t leave any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”
“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and there’s really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why don’t you take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”
“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the lady referred to, longingly.
“Don’t they appreciate you? I’m like that!” Wally said. “I often think I’ll die without any one finding out my true worth.”
“Jolly good job for you if they don’t, old man!” quoth Jim, retreating hastily, and cannoning with violence into his father as he dodged round a gum tree. Explanations ensued, and the party settled down to fish, soon catching enough to make tea a memorable meal. Then they lay about on the grass and talked until it was bedtime—a period which came early, though no one would admit any sense of fatigue.
It was a still, hot night—so hot that the girls slept with the tent flap tied back, and were openly envious of the men of the party, who disdained to erect a “wurley,” and slept bushman fashion out in the open, with their blankets spread in a soft spot, and their saddles for pillows. Black Billy disappeared along the creek, camping in some select nook after his blackfellow heart. Then silence fell upon the camp, and all that could be heard was a mopoke, steadily calling in a dead tree, throughout the night.
Norah was the first to awaken. It was daylight, but only faintly; looking through the opening of the tent she could see the sun coming slowly over the edge of the horizon, flushing all the eastern sky with gleams of pink and gold. A little breeze blew gently. She slipped quietly from her bunk, put on a light overcoat and went out barefooted into the sweetness of the morning.
There was an old moss-grown log near the tent, and she sat down upon it. Just beyond the belt of trees that marked the creek, the yellow paddock stretched away, unbroken by any fence, so far as her eye could reach. She could see grazing cattle here and there, and a few half-grown steers were standing in a little knot and staring towards the camp with curious, half-frightened eyes. From further down the bank came the chink of hobbles, and the chime of the bell on old Bung Eye’s neck. Near the tent her father lay sleeping; a few yards away were Jim and Wally, far off in the land of dreams. The clean bush scent lay over everything; the scent of tree and leaf and rich black earth, where the night-dew still lingers. Just below her the creek rippled softly, and the splash of a leaping fish sent a swirl across the wide pool. Norah sighed from very joy of the place, and the beauty of the morning, and the certainty of a happy day ahead.
Then she became aware that some one was awake—in the curious way in which we become conscious that the thoughts of another have entered into our solitary places. She looked round, and beheld one intent eye regarding her from the end of the roll of blankets that represented Wally. For a moment the eye and Norah continued to watch each other; at which point Norah suddenly realized that it was faintly possible that Wally might feel a shade of embarrassment, and modestly withdrew her gaze. She did Mr. Meadows great injustice. He yawned widely, sat up, and wriggled out of his blankets. Then, discovering that Jim’s mouth was slightly open, he proceeded to place within it three dandelions, which accomplished, he fled while his unconscious victim was waking up and spluttering. Wally sat down on the log beside Norah, with a face like an unusually lean cherub.
“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing. “Dandelions taste abominably—at least that milky stuff in them does.”
“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny things you seem to have lived on!”
“Poor old Jimmy!” said Norah, disregarding this insinuation, and bending a glance of pity on Jim, who was coughing violently, and evidently prepared for battle. Mr. Linton had wakened, and was regarding his son with curiosity.
“It’s a pneumonia cough, I should say, sir,” explained Wally, considerately, from the log. “Nasty lungy sound, hasn’t it. Shall I get you some water, my poor dear?” At this point the outraged Jim arose and hurled himself upon his tormentor, who dodged him round a bush until Jim managed to pick up a thorn with his foot, when he retired to a log for purposes of investigation.
“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!” he growled.
“Not too many larks,” commanded Mr. Linton, who had also cast off his blankets. “We’ve got to get away as early as we can, so as to have a long spell in the hottest part of the day.” He shook himself vigorously. “I think I’m too old for sleeping without a mattress.”
“So am I,” said Wally, who was sitting cross-legged on Norah’s log. “That bit of ground looked the softest I could see, but it found out every bone I have before I’d been there an hour. It would be a tremendous advantage to be fat! I was afraid at last that my hip bone would come right through, so I got up and scraped a little hole for it. Then I was much more comfortable, except when I wriggled in my sleep and failed to hit the hole.”
“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah averred.
“I should think so—sleeping in the lap of gilded luxury—at least in a beautiful sacking bunk!” said Wally, indignantly. “Then you get up at your elegant leisure and jeer at those whose lodging was on the cold, cold ground! Women were ever thus!” He choked, dramatically, and rose. “James, if you’ve finished operating, are you ready to come and bathe?”
“I must wake Jean,” said Norah, disappearing within the tent. Then they scattered up and down the creek for their swim—not a matter to be dawdled over, for even in the summer morning the water was very cold. Jim returned, fresh and glowing, before the girls were ready to vacate the tent, and proceeded to loosen its fastenings in a way that caused them great anguish of mind, since it threatened to collapse bodily upon them. The last stages of their toilet were performed hastily, and without dignity.
“Can’t be helped,” said Jim, imperturbably, as they emerged, wrathful. “Got to strike camp, and this is my job.” He brought the tent to earth with a quick movement. “Help me to fold this up, Nor.”
“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.
“I left him diving for the soap,” Jim grinned. “He was pretty cold, and didn’t seem exactly happy; but I couldn’t wait. Here he comes. Did you get it, Wal.?”
“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still inclined to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue. “He’s just the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly dry, out on the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness; and the brute actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive for it: fact is, I believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in again after it!”
“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.
“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He proceeded to roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.
Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was over the pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled through country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire fence bounded each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit for wheeled traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big station properties, on which the homesteads were far back; so that they scarcely saw a house throughout the day, except when now and then they passed through sleepy little townships, where dogs barked furiously at them and children ran out to stare at the riders. They were typical bush children, who scarcely ever saw a stranger—lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and shy as hares, and quite incapable of giving an answer when addressed. They paused in one township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post office to send a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were safe.
The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered in the light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark of distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a little, ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally falling to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide, through which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the township contained any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how they contrived to transact their postal business. It was very certain that Brownie could not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic pressure had been applied to her.
Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a small shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic simplicity was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-doorway, after Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.
“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall, freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her “fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is, I was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just corkin’!”
“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard, please.”
“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request. She propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as nature or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair ringers! That big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa ridin’ him?”
“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”
“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty workmanlike, don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair question?”
“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want——”
“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”
“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”
“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up there,” said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will y’, do y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what people ’ll do for fun!”
“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me have a postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.
“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without removing her face from the little window she fished in an unseen receptacle and extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.
“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating. “Can I have one—and some ink?”
“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided skirts comf’table to ride in?”
Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.
“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me father won’t let me get a pattron an’ try an’ make one. Yours don’t seem to mind.”
“He won’t let me ride any other way,” said Norah, writing busily.
“Go on! Well, ain’t men different!” said the postmistress. “Never know where you have them, do you? Is those long fellers your brothers?”
Norah nodded, feeling at the moment, unequal to detailed explanation.
“Thought so. An’ you’re re’ly goin’ to try old Ben Athol! Wonder if you’ll ever get there,” the postmistress pondered. Her freckled face suddenly widened to a smile. “Look at that blackfeller, now! Well, if he ain’t a trick!”
Billy was jogging up the street on old Bung Eye, smoking vigorously. Behind him, taking the fullest advantage of a long halter, the packhorse led, very bored by Life. The township children shouted and ran, but nothing affected Billy’s serenity. He passed out of sight, and the Postmistress, oblivious of further possible wishes on the part of her customer, quitted her little office and rushed outside to gaze after him. In this pleasurable occupation she was not alone, since three parts of the township was hanging over its front fence, gazing likewise.
From the street came Jim’s whistle, for the third time—this time with something peremptory in its note.
“Coming!” Norah called. She dropped her card into the slit marked “Letters,” and ran out, receiving voluble farewells from the postmistress as she fled.
“Good-bye!” Norah called. She swung herself upon Bosun’s back, and trotted down the street with Jim. Already the others were some distance ahead.
The postmistress came in, regretfully, as the dust of their going died away.
“Wonder who they were?” she pondered. “Well, at least, there’s the postcard!” She opened the letter box, and drew out the documentary evidence, receiving not much information from Norah’s hastily-scrawled lines. She turned the card over.
“Well, I’m blessed!” she gasped. Keen disappointment was in her voice. She pondered for a moment and then hurried out, locking the office door firmly, and affixing to it a battered notice, which read: “Closed for dinner.” The fact that she had already dined did not trouble the free and independent soul of the postmistress.
Half an hour later the sound of galloping hoofs on the road behind them made the Billabong party look round. A cloud of dust resolved itself into the vision of the postmistress, mounted on a raking chestnut, and somewhat bulky in appearance, by reason of the fact that she had slipped on a habit skirt over her other apparel.
“She’s waving,” said Norah, much puzzled. “Let’s pull up.”
They waited. The postmistress arrived with a wide and friendly smile.
“Thought I’d never catch you up!” she panted. “Blessed if you didn’t forget to put any address on that postcard you wrote!” She produced the card, a good deal crumpled by the vicissitudes of travel.
“Well, I am a duffer!” ejaculated Norah. “But how awfully good of you to come after us!”
“It was indeed,” said Mr. Linton, warmly. He produced a pencil, and Norah scribbled the address and handed the card back. “Uncommonly kind and thoughtful. We’re very much obliged to you. I hope it didn’t give you very much trouble?”
“Not a bit!” said the postmistress, genially. She read the address with care, and tucked the card into her bodice. “Fact is,” she said, “I was just dead keen to know it meself! Well, I must be gettin’ back—me office is shut up, an’ the coach is nearly due. So long!” She wheeled the chestnut, galloping back to the township.