“Could you get lost?” demanded Mrs. Lane. “If so, I shall hang bells on all three of you before you start!”
“You wouldn’t be up,” said Barry, solemnly.
“I should rise to the occasion,” was his mother’s lofty reply. “But tell me, Robin: I am going to enter a protest if there is any fear of your being bushed.”
“Oh, we can’t get bushed if we stick to the creek,” Robin said. “There are short cuts, I know, that make the distance much less, but of course, it wouldn’t be safe to tackle them. So we must be prepared for a long day. I could get breakfast ready to-night, Mother, and pack the lunch.”
“Yes: I will help you. You must all eat enormous quantities of eggs and bacon before you start—then I shall feel more easy about you,” Mrs. Hurst said.
“If anyone, a month ago, had told me I could devour eggs and bacon at five o’clock in the morning, I should have thought him mad,” said Dr. Lane. “But I feel now that I could tackle anything that was offered me, at any hour. That’s the result of Hill Farm, Mrs. Hurst!”
Even though it was almost midsummer, it was chilly enough in the deep gullies when they set out the next morning. The mists had not yet risen: ahead of them the bush was dim and mysterious, and every bough dripped with moisture. For the first few miles they were able to keep above the creek, following sheep-tracks through the hill settlers’ country: they walked steadily, anxious to get as far as possible before the real fatigue of the journey began. Then they came to the last of the clearing. Before them ranged the tall rounded masses of the hills, covered with dense scrub and giant trees.
“Now we’ll have to stick to the creek, unless we can find a track,” Robin said.
They went down the steep hillside, and were lucky in coming upon a narrow path that followed the windings of the creek. It was not easy travelling: the track was so narrow, the greedy march of the bush so swift, that the undergrowth brushed their faces, and often they were forced to hold it apart while they forced their way through. Sometimes it curved sharply round the butts of huge trees, leaving only the barest footing, where one went, clinging to any stray shoot of musk or hazel as a support: sometimes it dipped into waterworn gullies where brambles disputed every yard of the way. But still, it was a track; and Robin, at least, was duly grateful for it. Below them the creek sang and rippled on its way: occasionally they caught glimpses of the brown water, gurgling over its boulder-strewn bed. But for the most part the scrub undergrowth hemmed them in, and they went in single file, seeing nothing but the dense green wall on either side.
It was past nine o’clock when the track suddenly ended in an enormous fallen tree, the butt of which, six feet high, made a grey wall before them. Its roots, now intertwined with scrub, stretched down to the creek. They followed along its great length, and the pale shadow of a track seemed to them to stretch away northward into the bush. But Robin, looking at it, shook her head.