She looked at Norah, who was coming across the paddock with Wally, at a hard canter. Her pony was impatient, reefing and plunging in his desire to gallop; and Norah was sitting him easily, her hands, well down, giving to the strain on the bit, her slight figure, in coat and breeches, swaying lightly to each bound. The sunlight rippled on Bosun's glossy, bay coat, and on the big black horse Wally rode. They pulled up, laughing, at the gateway, just as the car turned off the road. There were confused and enthusiastic greetings, and the car dashed on up the track, with an outrider on each side—both horses strongly resenting this new and ferocious monster. The years had brought a good deal of sober sense to Bosun and Monarch, but motors were still unfamiliar objects on Billabong. Indeed, no car of the size of Norah's Rolls-Royce had ever been seen in the district, and the men gaped at it open-mouthed as Jim drove it round to the stable after unloading his passengers.
“Yerra, but that's the fine carry-van,” said Murty. “Is that the size they have them in England, now?”
“No, it isn't, Murty—not as a rule,” Jim answered. “This was built specially for a man who was half an invalid; he used to go for long tours, and sleep in the car because he hated hotels. So it's a special size. It used to be jolly useful taking out wounded men in England.”
“Sure, it would be,” Murty said. “Only—somehow, it don't seem to fit into Billabong, Mr. Jim!”
“So big as that! I say, Murty!”
“Yerra, there's room enough for it,” grinned the Irishman. “Only, motors and Billabong don't go hand in hand—we've always stuck to horses, haven't we, Mr. Jim?”
“We'll do that still,” Jim said. “But it will be useful, all the same, Murty.” He laughed at the stockman's lugubrious face. “Oh, I know it's giving you the sort of pain you had when dad had the telephone put on—”
“Well, 'tis the quare onnatural little machine, an' I niver feel anyways at home with it, Mr. Jim,” Murty defended himself.
“There's lots like you, Murty. But you'll admit that when we've got to send a telegram, it's better to telephone it than make a man ride thirty-four miles with it?”
“I suppose it is,” said the Irishman doubtfully. “I dunno, though—if 'twas that black imp of a Billy he'd as well be doing that as propping up the stable wall an' smokin'!”