"I'll be there, never fret."
"Well, so-long. Wire in, and keep your pecker up."
Dingdongla was an up-river settlement; Tareela a down-river town. The latter named was the older and more substantial place, being the headquarters of the shipping. As a consequence it was instinct with the superior air generally to be met with in places of metropolitan pretensions. In schools, too, the down-river town had the advantage. Its school building was of sawn timber, with a shingle roof. Furthermore, it possessed two teachers, and pine desks. While, on the other hand, the up-river academy was constructed of roughly adzed slabs and a bark roof.
For the Dingdonglas to be thrashed in cricket by the Tareelians was not considered to be a disgrace. Per contra, their victory was a splendid achievement, and a great humiliation to their opponents. The latter was fairly beaten by the former last season, and naught would restore their prestige save the administration of an unmitigated licking. So, at least, thought the match Committee, as they conned names, and analysed the merits of the candidates on the name list.
Needless to say, Joe, Tom, and Sandy headed the list of certainties. Yellow Billy came next; for though a very irregular attendant at school, he was a tremendous swiper when he got his eye in. Billy had dragged more than one match out of the fire.
Saturday morning broke fair. Shortly after an early breakfast a cavalcade of about twenty youthful horsemen, followed by two teachers in a gig, were scampering along the bush road to Dingdongla, distant about nine miles up the river. Oh, the merry, merry days of youth! Those are the days of the superlative mood.
It was a merry, roaring, romping, racing crowd of youngsters that tore along the bush track. They jumped fallen timber and gullies; chased the flying marsupial; and spurted in couples for short lengths. There were minor accidents, 'tis true. Pincher Putnan's horse, in a fit of pig-jumping, broke a girth, sending Pincher and saddle to mother earth. Yellow Billy's half-broken brumby fairly bolted in a race, cleared off the road, and rushed through a belt of timber at breakneck speed, towards his native haunts in the Nulla ranges. It was only the superb horsemanship of the half-caste that saved him from being dashed against the trees in the headlong flight.
In due time Dingdongla is reached. The horses are turned out in a maize stubble paddock, where is a fine picking, and the boys stroll on to the ground to have a look at the pitch.
"Whatyer think of the pitch, Joe?"
"You'll have to keep your eye skinned for shooters Rody. The ball'll keep very low. Must keep a straight bat and forward play."