“They've gone, too, I suppose,” Wally said. “By George, where are all his stock? They can't all be burned, surely.”
There was nothing visible in the bare, black paddocks. He cast a wild look round, and then made for the creek at a staggering run. The fire had died away for lack of material as it neared the banks, for great willows overhung them, a camping-ground for the stock all through the summer heat, and the ground was always beaten hard and bare. Wally uttered a shout of relief as he came to the trees. Below in the wide, shallow pools, all the stock had taken refuge—carthorses and cows, sheep and pigs, all huddled together, wild-eyed and panting, but safe. They stared up at Wally, dumbly bewildered.
“Poor brutes,” said Wally. “Well, you chose a good spot, anyhow. I say, what a jolly good thing Bob let his pigs out. Poor old chap—he's not broke yet.” He leaned against the gnarled trunk of a willow for a moment. “Well, I suppose I'd better get up to the gate and tell them—it won't do for Tommy to come on the ruins all of a sudden.”
But he realized, as he made his slow way up from the creek, that he was too late. There was a little knot of horses beside the garden gate. His eye caught the light linen habit coats that Tommy and Norah wore. They were looking silently at the blackened heap of ashes, with the tottering chimney standing gaunt in its midst, Bob's face grey under its coating of smoky dust. Norah was holding Tommy's hand tightly. They did not hear Wally as he came slowly across the black powder that had been grass.
“I suppose the stock have gone, too,” Bob said heavily.
“No, they haven't, old man,” Wally said. “I believe every head is safe; they're in the creek.”
They turned sharply, and cried out at the sight of him—blackened and ragged, his eyes red-rimmed in his grimy face, his hands, cut by the broken window glass, smeared with dried blood. His coat and shirt, burnt in a score of places, hung in singed fragments round him. There were great holes burnt in his panama hat, even in his riding breeches. Jim flung himself from his horse, and ran to him.
“Wal, old man! Are you hurt?”
“Not me,” said Wally briefly. “Only a bit singed. I say, you two, you don't know how sorry I am. Tommy, I wish I could have got here in time.”
“You seem to have got here in time to try, anyhow,” said Tommy, and her lip trembled. “Are you sure you're not hurt, Wally?” She slipped from her saddle, and came to him. “Were you in the fire?”