“I’m afraid not,” said the Hermit hastily. “As I was explaining to Miss Norah, I’m a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again.”
The boys said “good-bye” and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.
“Good-bye,” he said.
Norah looked at him pitifully.
“I won’t say good-bye,” she said. “I’m coming back—some day. So it’s—‘so long!’”
“So long,” the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the saddle and kissed his cheek.
He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and, with slow steps, went back into the scrub.
They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well, and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode almost in silence.
It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great flapping thing flew into Harry’s face, and he uttered a startled yell before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to “Way Down Upon the Swanee River” and more modern songs, which aren’t half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry “obliged” with one of Gordon’s poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.