“Oh, what a kitchen,” says Polly, as she came in, and really it did look a bit upset, and then seeing as she was put out, and going to make a fuss, I says—
“Bad job; ain’t it, my gal; but it warn’t me; it was the cats!”
“Drat the cats!” says Polly; and she looked so scornful and cross, that I give up all thoughts on the instant of ever getting a skin rug; but if there is any one mortal thing as I do hate, it’s a cat.
Chapter Thirteen.
An Australian Christmas.
No snow, no frosts, no bare trees, but in the daytime glowing, sultry heat, and of a night soft, balmy, dewy, moonlit hours, and yet it was Christmas-time, and the whole of the past day I had been picturing to myself the cold, sharp, bracing weather at home, with the busy shops and the merry Christmas faces, and now on that 24th of December I was dreaming away of the old home, fourteen thousand miles away; going over again the sad hearts with which we come away, and how we gazed till our eyes swam at the fast fading shores; recalling every sigh and sorrowful thought, when all at once there seemed to be a feeling of horror come over me, and I started up on the heath bed and looked about. But all was still; close beside me lay Abel Franks, my mate and companion, sleeping heavily; the moon was shining through the little window right upon the two dogs stretched before the fireplace, and made it light enough for me to see that everything was in its place. There were the skin rugs on the floor, the rough bench, stool, and table; the guns, rods, nets, and oars of our boat; the shelf with its pile of birds’ skins, the brightest hued which fell to our guns; skins of opossum and kangaroo hung against the wall; the burnt-out lamp on the table, with the fragments of our supper, all just as we had left them, while as the surest sign that nothing had disturbed me the dogs were curled up quite motionless, when their quick ears would have heard a step in an instant.
I lay down again and listened attentively for a few minutes, and once heard faintly the howl of a wild dog, but that was all, and there in the stillness of night, in that far-off Australian wild, I was slowly dozing off when I again started up and this time Abel was up too staring at me.
“What is it, Harry?” he cried, as at the same instant I asked him a similar question, and then up leaped both dogs, set up the rough hair round their necks, and ran to the door growling fiercely. The moment after came the cracking of sticks, a rustling through the bushes, and a heavy body fell up against the door, making the rough woodwork creak.