A clack of gate thrown open.
‘Who is it, Tom?’
Voices from gatewards, yelling, ‘Johnny Mears! They’ve got Johnny Mears!’
Then rose yells, and a cheer such as is seldom heard in scrub-lands.
Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the table, where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, which he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight; and, holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms, as a football is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe of his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick, the concertina shot out into the blackness, from which was projected, in return, first a short, sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by an enormous brick-coloured hand, and a voice that wanted to know who shot ‘that lurid loaf of bread?’
But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews, M.C.,—
‘Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They’ve got Johnny Mears with his fiddle!’