“Oh, I don’t worry about being poor,” Jim answered. “After all, one doesn’t want to do much with money up here; and one can keep away from Sydney and Melbourne, if cash is short. It’s certainly disheartening to see the place looking its worst, and the stock getting poorer each week—there’s nothing jollier than riding over it when the grass is knee-deep and the creeks and the river high, and all the stock rolling fat, and the horses kicking up their heels with sheer joy at being alive. One doesn’t think then of the actual money it means; it’s only the feeling that it’s a good thing to be alive oneself. This sort of year does not come often, thank goodness, and one knows it can’t last for ever.”
“It is just a little rough on you that it should come in the first year you have helped me to manage the place,” said his father. “But then, from a selfish point of view, it’s better for me to have your help and companionship through a tough time. And it has been a help, Jim.”
Jim shot a grateful look at him. David Linton was a man of few words; the brief sentence meant much on his lips, and the boy’s eyes softened.
“I’m awfully glad if it has,” he said, awkwardly. “I haven’t had enough experience to be really useful, but I’m as interested as I can be—and there’s no life like it. I don’t want anything better than Billabong, and to work with you. But——”
He broke off, irresolutely. That which he had to say had never seemed easy; it was harder than ever, now, with his father’s kind words warm at his heart. All day, riding through the bare, bleak paddocks, he had tried to frame words that would be firm, and yet not hurt. Now, looking into the steady grey eyes that were like his own, he could not find speech at all. He rose, and taking a pipe from the mantel-shelf, began to fill it slowly.
“But you’re worried still,” said David Linton, watching him. “Well, so am I. And as open confession is good for the soul, and we’re all mates on Billabong, let’s have the worries out, old son. Tell me yours first.”
Jim stood up, straight and tall, on the hearthrug, forgetting his pipe. The light was full on his brown face, showing it older than his years warranted. He met his father’s eyes steadily.
“I can’t stand it, Dad,” he said. “I’ve tried, honestly, since we talked about it, and done my best to put it out of my head. But it’s no good. I’ve got to go.”
“You mean—to the war?”
“Yes. I know jolly well it’s rough on you—because I’m the only son. I suppose it doesn’t seem quite fair to you, my even wanting to go. But if you were my age it would. And all the fellows I knew best have enlisted; some of them are younger than I am; and I’m standing out. They used to look up to me in a sort of way when I was captain of the school. They can’t do it now. They’re doing their share, and I’m just a shirker.”