“Have a little sense, Nor.!” came from Jim. “Sit still, or you’ll be smacked and turned out!”
“Get out yourself!” said his sister, inelegantly. “When Dad has a plan in that voice it is time to sit up! Tell us, Dad.”
Mr. Linton laughed.
“How about Ben Athol?” he asked.
“Ben Athol!” Jim whistled. “By Jove, Dad, that’s an idea!”
“Oh!” said Norah. “Didn’t I tell you it was time to sit up!”
Ben Athol towered from the low ranges to the north of Billabong, beyond the stations and out to the wild country that was No Man’s Land because of its steepness and inaccessibility. “Old hands” told stories of well grassed valleys in the ranges, where stock might be pastured; of a mountain river, flowing clear as crystal all the year round, in a way very unlike the usual habit of Australian rivers. But comparatively few white men knew anything about the country between the hills. Blacks were reputed to camp there—some miserable, scattered families, who came into the townships as winter approached to beg for food and blankets, sometimes to hang about all through the cold months, a thievish, filthy pest.
Snow lay for the winter months upon the brow of Ben Athol. In spring, when the warm sun melted the great white cap, it slid away gradually, and the big peak stood out, dark blue among the lesser hills. Always it seemed to Norah like a friend.
For two years they had talked of climbing it. But the expedition required some organizing, for it was three days’ ride even to the last township that nestled at the foot of the hills. Then came a day’s stiff climbing for horses, after which it was only possible to proceed on foot, if one wanted to reach the peak. Few were adventurous enough to want to do so.
“Well, I think we may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, when his excited family calmed down. “I have been turning over various plans in my mind for the last few days, for we can’t stop here; it’s too dismal to look at the old place. We’re all in good form, fit for such a ride. I don’t quite know about Jean.”