Tom, in his father's old tennis-flannels and a neat linen jacket, looked quite handsome. But when he saw Jack in his real pukka riding rig, he exclaimed.
"God Almighty, but you've got the goods!"
"A bit too dashing?" asked Jack anxiously.
"Not on your life! You'll do fine. Reds all go in for riding breeks and coats as near sporting dog's yank as they k'n get'm. There's a couple o' white washing suits o' Dad's as he's grown out of, as I'll plank up in the loft to change into tonight. We can't come in this here cubby again. Once we leave it, it'll be jumped by all the women and children from round the country to put their things in."
"Won't they go into the house?"
"Hallelujah no! Only relations go upstairs. Quality into the dyin' room. Yahoos anywhere, and the ladies always bag our cubby!"
"Lor!"
But it had to be so. For the New Year's chivoo the settlers all saved up, and they all dressed up. By ten o'clock the place was like a fair ground. Horses of all sorts nosing their feed-bags; conveyances of all sorts unhitched; girls all muslin and ribbon; boys with hats on at an angle, and boots on; men in clean shirts and brilliant ties, mothers in frill and furbelow, with stiffly-starched little children half hidden under sunbonnets; old dames and ancient patriarchs, young bearded farmers, and shaven civilians ridden over from York. Children rushing relentlessly in the heat, amid paper bags, orange peel, concertina-playing, baskets of victuals and fruit, canvas, rubbish and nuts all over the scorched grass. Christmas!
Tom had asked Jack to organise a cricket eleven to play against the Reds. The Reds were dangerous opponents, and the dandies of the day. In riding breeches made India fashion, with cotton gaiters, and rubber-soled shoes, white shirts, and broad-brimmed hats, they looked a handsome colonial set. And they had a complete eleven.
Tom was sitting on a bat bemoaning his fate. He had only five reliable men.