Dick Lester of Kurrajong

by Mary Grant Bruce

"Oh, we've had a beautiful night!" the nurse said, cheerfully. "My patient snored serenely, while the 'possums and wombats and things kept me awake. This boy of yours thrives on the bush, Mrs. Lester!"

"But, of course; isn't he a bush baby?" She laughed. Not since his illness had there been such a ring of health in Dick's voice. Looking at his face, with its touch of colour, it seemed impossible that presently he would not leap up to join her in the old way, to ramble through the trees, exploring the new world. Her thoughts flew back to their last day near Perth, when he had gone climbing, swinging from bough to bough with all his lithe young body like a steel spring, supple and strong. Now—she choked back the sigh that came to her lips.

"Can he get up to breakfast, do you think, nurse?"

"Oh, I think so, as he's so good!"

"Well, rather!" Dick stated. "Wash me quick, nurse, dear, and take me out. I want to see trees and scrub, and bacon frying, and everything. Oh—cocoa? Well, all right!" He submitted to be fed, more or less meekly.

So the days passed, one like the other. They left the main roads as they came near civilisation, finding good camping places, since Dick showed that he had a dread of being taken to hotels. "I don't want to be carted in and out, with people staring at me," he pleaded. "And the bush is so lovely. You don't mind camping, mother?" She would have lain on the bare earth to keep the ring of happiness in his voice. They made each day's journey short, so that the vibration, however softened, should not affect him. It never tired him to be in the open, watching them move about the camp. His old keen interest awoke again. They made a point of consulting him about everything, so that he should feel himself an active part of each day's life, his father desiring his opinion about the set of a tent rope with earnestness equal to that of Mr. Warner when he carried a pan of bacon to his side to find out if it were properly cooked. The motor driver entered into the spirit of it, and discoursed to him learnedly on the finer parts of his car's anatomy; and no one thought of watching the billy, since it was Dick's job to attend to it, and to call out when the steam poured from the lid. Merle had a task all her own. From the moment they halted each day she sought through the bush tirelessly bringing to his bedside whatever treasures she could gather—flowers, deserted nests, curiously marked stones, gorgeous beetles; all that keen eyes could find. Dick grew to look for her collections with delighted interest. "My word, you are a brick, the way you find things!" he told her.

As she had begged Mrs. Lester, so her desire came to her—she was indeed "legs" to him. He could not shake off his innate distaste for asking older people to run about for him. Even with the nurses he would go without something he wanted rather than send one on an errand. Somehow, Merle was different. He began to look on her rather as a younger brother; to find it easy to employ one whose eagerness to be employed was evident in every look. He never omitted thanks, but she did not want them. Her gratitude was for being used—thanks did not matter.

With everyone else she was as silent as ever. Sometimes Mrs. Lester would manage to make her talk a little; but for the most part she rarely spoke, and when she was not watching Dick her eyes followed her father about like a hungry dog's. She knew that he no longer wanted her. In his way he was sorry for her; but his overmastering feeling was angry disgust and impatience that through one of his children so bitter a calamity had befallen his friends. He had said to his wife, "When I look at that boy, remembering what he was, and then think it is Merle's fault that he lies there, I feel as if I never wanted to see her again."

The journey might have been accomplished much more quickly than it was. There was no need to hurry, for there was no doubt that the open-air life was doing Dick good. He was as helpless as ever, but his appetite was keener; he slept better and he had fewer attacks of pain. They watched him hungrily, snatching at each hopeful sign. Supplies ran out, but it was easy for one of the cars to run ahead into a town and lay in a store of all that they needed. The weather held good, with calm, starry nights, that made sleeping in the open delightful. They were all better for the trip when at last they rolled into Perth late one afternoon. Dr. Brereton had made all arrangements for them. His big private hospital was on the outskirts of the city, and there Dick was installed with his nurses in a room with a balcony overlooking the Swan, where he might be wheeled to pass the day. They found a corner also for Mrs. Lester, since she flatly refused to be parted from Dick; and there was a hotel not far off for the others. Dr. Brereton whistled with delight when he came in to see his former patient.

"Well, young man! Why, you look as fit as a fiddle!" he ejaculated. "What have you been doing with him, Mrs. Lester? He's brown as a berry."