“No; Billabong never was as dry—in my time, at all events,” said David Linton. “It’s the worst year in these parts that any one remembers. Australia is certainly having its full allowance just now—war, increased taxation, political troubles; and on top of all, the drought. I suppose we’ll worry through them all in time, but the process is slow.”
“Where were you to-day, Dad?” Norah asked.
“I’ve been through the lower paddocks; they always stand dry weather better than the Far Plain, but they’re not encouraging, for all that,” answered her father. “The cattle are holding their own, so far, but nothing more. Did you see any dead ones, Jim?”
“No—but two that were sick look weak enough to be thinking of dying. We got one poor brute bogged in the creek—not badly, thank goodness; we were able to get him out, but it took time. Some one will have to go out there every day until the boggy places are dry enough to be safe, or we’ll certainly lose some stock. Drought years,” said Jim, solemnly, “seem to mean plenty of extra work, extra expense, extra worry, and extra everything except money.”
“They do—but we’ll pull through all right,” said David Linton, cheerfully. “I know it’s disheartening to see the old place looking like a dust-heap; still, we’ve had a lot of good years, and we mustn’t grumble. And even if it does look dry, there’s plenty of feed and water yet on Billabong. Neither is the bank likely to worry me—if the worst came to the worst, and we had to shift the stock, or to buy feed, it can be managed.”
“Things might be a heap worse,” said Norah. “Why, we might be in Belgium.”
“You’re like Mrs. Wiggs, who consoled herself in her darkest hours by reflecting that she might have had a hare-lip,” said Wally, laughing, though his eyes were grave. The great war was in its very early stages, and only cable messages of its progress had yet reached Australia; but the heroism and the sufferings of Belgium and her people were ringing round the world, and from the farthest corners of the Empire men were flocking to fight under the Allies’ standard and to thrust back the German invaders. Half a dozen of the Billabong stockmen had gone; it was a sore point with the son of the house that he had not been permitted to join the Expeditionary Force with the men with whom he had so often ridden at work.
“I hear there’s no fresh news,” he said. “We met Mr. Harrison, and he said there was nothing.”
“No; I telephoned at lunch-time,” said his father. “But there’s an English mail in, and the papers should make interesting reading. We will have them to-night.”
“Well, it’s getting dusk, and I have one sick wallaby to look after, eggs to gather, and chicks to shut up,” said Norah. “Come on, Wally, and I will let you crawl in under the haystack to the old Wyandotte’s nest.”