Mates at Billabong

by Mary Grant Bruce

"Ah, Jim, be steady with her," said Norah. "It's a polka!"

"I'll be steady as old Time," Jim told her, smiling. True to his promise, when the music began he danced mildly and moderately, and Brownie emerged from the ordeal in far better order than might have been expected.

After that the evening flew. Dance after dance went by in rapid succession—for the guests were out to dance, and where no time is wasted in talking much may be done with a few hours. Cecil steadfastly declined any partner but Norah, and as that maiden had no mind to spare him more than two, his evening was dull, since his sense of humour was not equal to finding any fun in the entertainment. He was the object of considerable curiosity among the visitors, and was generally voted "stuck-up," and "too big for his boots." As for Jim and Wally, they flung themselves cheerfully into the business of the night, and even succeeded in making most of their partners talk, albeit this was a daring proceeding, and not looked upon with favour by the M.C. They were too popular, however, to come in for any real criticism, and being regarded by the majority of the men as "just kids," were allowed to do very much as they liked.

Supper was a majestic meal, spread on long tables in a big tent. Mr. Linton led the way to it with Mrs. Brown, followed by Mick Shanahan, who conveyed Norah much in the way he danced with her—as if she were a piece of eggshell china, and apt to crack with careless handling. There was no "head of the table"; every one sat in the place that seemed good, and tongues flew as fast as the knives and forks. At the end Mr. Linton made a little speech.

"My friends," he said, "it's a great pleasure to Billabong to see you all here. I hope you'll keep it up till morning, and come again next year; you're always welcome. However, it is time my daughter went to bed." (Dissent, and cries of "Not her!") "Before she goes, though, I would like to see one more dance. I move that our old friend Andy Ferguson play the 'Royal Irish.'"

There was frantic applause, and supper adjourned hastily, while every one hurried back to the loft; in the midst old Andy, his quavering voice a little raised in excitement, his fiddle held firmly in one hand. "Too old to work," some called him, wondering why David Linton kept the old fencer, when younger men were always wanting work on Billabong; and now, as he faced the long room with his faded blue eyes a little misty, Andy looked an old man indeed. But the pride of work was in him, and his master knew it—knew how the gnarled hands ceased to tremble when they grasped the adze and mattock, just as there was now no quiver in them as he raised the brown fiddle and cuddled it under his chin. Age would seize on Andy only when he could work and play no more. The light came back into his eyes as he saw the boys and girls waiting for the music—his music.

He drew the bow lovingly across the strings, and swung into the Irish dance the old, common tune with the little gay lilt to it that grips the heart and makes the feet beat time, and has the power to wake old memories across the years. There were no memories to wake in the happy young hearts in the loft at Billabong that night. But Andy looked over the heads of the dancers at his master, meeting his eyes as man to man, and each knew that the mind of the other had gone back to days long dead.

The long floor echoed under the dancers' feet—up and down, swing in the centre, hands across; the pace was always a good one when Andy Ferguson played the "Royal Irish." One foot tapped out the time, and his grey head nodded in sympathy with it. They called to him now and again, "Bravo, Andy! Good man, Andy! Keep it going!" and he smiled at the friendly voices, watching them with the keenness of the Irishman for a light foot in a dance.

Just before him, Mrs. Brown, dancing with Jim, was footing it in and out of the figures like a girl, holding her skirts quaintly on either side as she advanced and retired, and came back to sweep a curtsey that shamed the quick bow of the younger generation, while the tall lad she had nursed waited for her with a grave gentleness that sat prettily on his broad shoulders. Near, too, the old man's eyes dwelt lovingly on Norah, whose eyes were dancing in time with her feet as Wally pranced her madly up and down, his own brown face glowing.... just for a moment Andy saw "the little mistress" who had known her baby for so brief a time fourteen years before; her face looked at him through her child's grey eyes. He looked across at his master again, a little wistfully.

The tune broke into "St. Patrick's Day," and Murty O'Toole gave a sudden involuntary shout, his hand above his head, Mick Shanahan echoed it; the Irish music was in their blood, and the old man with the brown fiddle had power to make them boys again. He, too, had gone back on the lilt of the tune; back to his own green country, where the man with the fiddle has his kingdom always, and the lads and lasses are his subjects. There was a girl with blue Irish eyes, coming to meet him on St. Patrick's morning... the tune wavered ever so little then, as his heart cried out to her. Then the dream passed, and he knew that he was a boy no more, but old Andy Ferguson, playing for the boys and girls in the loft at Billabong. The bow moved faster and faster yet—only a good pair could see him right through the "Royal Irish." They were panting when he dropped his hand at last and stood looking at them a little vaguely. Then they crowded round him, thanking him. Even the Cunjee musicians were saying that he could beat them all, and Miss Norah had put her hand into his, and was patting his arm. There was a mist before him—he could not see them all, though he knew his triumph.