“That’s Hogg, snail hunting,” Jim answered.
“I’ll be fined for working him overtime some day,” said his father. “Most of them are only too glad to knock off, but Hogg’s a demon to work.”
“This isn’t work, it’s sport!” grinned Jim.
“I should think Hogg’s dreams would be haunted by the screams of slaughtered snails!” Wally said. “Wonder how many of their scalps he’s entitled to wear at his saddle bow—slain in gentle and joyous combat! He’s a mighty hunter.” He yawned, cavernously. “Jim, if you want me to help you feed those horses before I go to sleep you’d better hurry.”
“Come on,” Jim said, swinging himself over the low railing of the verandah. “Then I’ll race you to bed, if you like. Good-night, kids!”
“Kid yourself,” said Norah, in great scorn. “Jean, first into the bath gets it!” Uttering this mystic prediction, she kissed her father hastily, and fled upstairs, with Jean toiling in her wake. Sounds of much splashing kept the bathrooms lively for some time. Then Billabong, clean, refreshed and profoundly sleepy, tumbled into bed and became oblivious of the world.
* * * * *
Norah woke from a confused dream of Hogg, mounted on an immense Queensland bullock, and chasing a battalion of snails down Mount Kosciusko. Variety was lent to the vision by the fact that Kosciusko had become an active volcano, and was in wild eruption behind the Scotchman, who was silhouetted blackly against a background of burning lava. And the snails were screaming.
For a moment she did not think she could be awake. The ridiculous dream had been vivid, and still the glow filled her room. Then again came the sound she had dreamed, and Norah was suddenly broad awake, and, flinging herself out of bed, fled to the window. She uttered a cry, and tugged at Jean frantically.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Jean sleepily.