Mates at Billabong

by Mary Grant Bruce

"All right," Norah nodded. "What about coo-eeing, Jim? He might hear a shout and answer it, even if he couldn't see us."

"Yes, but you can't keep coo-eeing all the time," said Jim, practically. "I'll tell you what—sing or whistle. You can do that easily, and it doesn't tire you. And of course, if you find him, fire the revolver—you're sure you've got it carefully?"

"Yes, it's all right," Norah replied, showing the revolver in its neat leather case. Jim and her father had taught her its use long ago, and she understood it quite well. Mr. Linton held the view that all women in the bush should know how to handle fire arms, since the bush is a place where no one ever knows exactly what may turn up, from burglars to tiger snakes. "Fire three times in the air, isn't it, Jim?"

"Yes, that's right. Go on then, kiddie, and do take care!" Jim's voice was strained with anxiety and wretchedness. While Norah was full of hope, and, indeed, could scarcely realize that they might not find Dad soon, the boy had the memory of the fruitless search all the previous day to dispirit him. As he looked at the forbidding wall of green scrub, his feeling was almost one of despair.

It did not take long for Norah to realize the difficulty of their task. She beat up and down among the trees, striving to keep an eye in every direction, since any one of the big stumps, any clump of brushwood, any old log or little knoll or grassy hollow might hide the one she sought—unable, perhaps, to see her or call to her even should she pass in his sight. She remembered Jim's advice, and began to sing; but the words died in her throat, and ended in something more like a sob. Whistling was more possible, and mechanically she took up a tune that Wally used to sing, and whistled it up and down the scrub as she went. Soon she did not know that she was doing so; but years after she used to shudder within herself if she heard that foolish little tune.

The men came out a little later, and soon the scrub was alive with voices and the noise of the searching. It was weary work, with many a flutter at the heart when a sudden call would bring Norah to attention, rigid and listening—forgetting for the moment that only the three signals agreed upon were to give evidence of success. Hour after hour went by.

They had settled a certain signal to meet for lunch, and when it finally summoned them the searchers struggled out of the bush one by one. Jim's heart smote him as he saw Norah's white face, and he begged her to cease; to stay resting during the hot afternoon, even if she would not go home. Norah shook her head dully. She could not do it; and Jim, knowing how he would have felt were he in her place, did not press her, although he was miserably anxious. They sat down together on an old log, finding a shred of comfort in each other's nearness.

It was a silent party that gathered round when black Billy had the big quart pots of tea ready. No one seemed to have anything to say. Norah thought, with a catch at her heart, of the last time they had picnicked in the scrub; the happy talk and laughter, the dear foolish jokes and merriment. This was indeed a strange picnic—each man eating rapidly and in silence, and everywhere stern preoccupied faces. There was no waiting afterwards for the usual "smoke oh"; the men sprang up as soon as the hurried meal was over, and lit their pipes as they strode away. Soon the temporary camp was deserted—black Billy, the last to leave, muttering miserably to himself, hurrying back into the bush. The search went on.

There was no riding in the afternoon; they were in country where the tangle of dogwood and undergrowth was so thick that to take a horse through it meant only lost time, and hindered the thoroughness of the quest. Norah fought her way through, keeping her line just as the men kept theirs; her white coat stained and torn now, her riding skirt showing a hundred rents, her boots cut through in many places. She did not know it; there was only room in her heart for one thought. When, while waiting for lunch, she had heard Dave Boone say something in an angry undertone about Bobs, she had wondered dully for a moment what he meant. She had forgotten even Bobs.

The hours went by, and the sun drooped towards evening. In the dark heart of the scrub the gloom came early, making each shadow a place of mystery that gave false hope to the searchers a hundred times. Gradually it was too dark to look any more; for that day also they must give it up—the third since Monarch had broken free from his master and left him lying somewhere in the green fastness about them. There scarcely seemed a yard of it left unsearched. Despair was written on most of the faces as the men came one by one to their horses and rode home, picking up on their way those who were still beating the bush as far as the Billabong boundary.