“My tent’s not large,” the Hermit said, leading the way to that erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.
“It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day,” said Wally.
“It would,” said the Hermit, “if I did untie them. They’re only part of my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally.” He slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.
“A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all those,” said the Hermit. “He’d be rather disgusted, on completing the job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And perhaps by that time I might be home!”
The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah, beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore marks of long and honourable use.
The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said, reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp, wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.
“A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser,” Wally said. “I wouldn’t like it myself.”
“Once would be enough for most chaps.” Harry grinned.
“Oh, get out! you know what I mean,” retorted Wally. “You chaps are never satisfied unless you’re pulling my leg—it’s a wonder I don’t limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose.”
“He’s an educated chap, too,” Harry said—“talks like a book when he likes. I wonder what on earth he’s doing it for?”