Lying in his den he brooded again on his grievances, and the life with which he was so sorely out of joint. What he seemed to resent more than anything in the world was the number of children in their house, and the noise they made, and the way they had to be looked after. He was always being pressed into the service himself to rock a cradle or push a perambulator, for between himself and the delicate baby just short-coated were three other little boys, and his mother had but one pair of hands. They could not afford a nurse; they could not even afford a well-trained [56] ]servant—only a rough Irish girl for everything—for Dr. Wise, the father, was club doctor to the colliery, and the salary a miserable one.
Sunnymeade this desolate place was called—in native language it had been termed Moondi-Moondi, or Swamp Place, and surely of all misnomers given by Australians in lieu of the curiously applicable aboriginal names, Sunnymeade for such a place was worst.
Clif’s grievance to-day was caused by a rankling sense of injustice on his mother’s part. She herself was one of the most absolutely unselfish women in the world, and strove to make her children the same. But Clif had a keen sense of the rights of property. That afternoon he had finished a little boat, and with infinite labour had fitted it with a mast and two sails. He took it proudly in to show his mother and gain her praise.
She was rocking the fractious baby and keeping a watchful eye at the same time on Richie and Alf, whose combined ages only made eight years.
“Yes, very pretty,” she said,—“mind the fender, Richie—very pretty indeed—made it all by yourself, my son—you’re getting famously clever, aren’t you?—you’ll be building us a new house soon.”
This was not the appreciation Clif wanted—it sounded humouring, as if his mother were talking to Richie or Alf. He yearned for some one to notice intelligently that there was a real rudder fastened on [57] ]with a bit of wire, and that the bow was shaped for cutting through the water.
Baby stopped crying a moment and sucked his fist ravenously—perhaps his mother could attend now for a minute or two.
“If you notice,” he said shyly, “the rudder moves; I’ve tied a bit of wire to it, and if you pull it, it will guide the boat just where you want it to go.”
The mother glanced at it wearily.
“Beautiful,” she said. “I don’t know how you could think of it—Richie, get off that chair, do you hear me—get down at once—Clif, lift him down, and put his shoes on; he’s kicked them off.”