“Yes—though I’m not an expert. But I like anything to do with an engine.”
“You’re a queer girl,” said Harry reflectively. “Most Melbourne girls don’t know a thing about the country, or engines, or anything of that kind, but you’re different. You weren’t even scared of the bull the other day!”
“That’s all you know,” I answered. “I was horribly scared, but I knew it wouldn’t do to let the old bull see it. You see, though we were brought up in Melbourne, Father took us to the country every summer: we generally hired a launch and camped out. Father didn’t believe in any of us being unable to manage the launch, if necessary, so we all had to serve an apprenticeship. And I happen to like engines, so I picked up a good bit. Father was a very stern camper!”
“How d’you mean, stern?” demanded Jack.
“Well, he believed in a camp being run properly. Everything had to be ship-shape, and he made us do things really well, from digging storm-water drains round the tents to burying and burning the rubbish every day. Father used fairly to snort when he spoke of people who leave greasy papers and tins lying about in the bush, to say nothing of egg-shells and orange-peel. We had to take it in turns to be cook and camp-manager, and he held a daily inspection of everything, from the rolling of the blankets to the washing of the frying-pan.”
“I say—that’s making camping into a job of hard work!” uttered Harry.
“No, it wasn’t—not a bit. It only made us camp-proud, and I can tell you, our camp was worth looking at. We enjoyed it ever so much more, and we had hardly any bother with flies and ants. We had heaps of fun; Father was the best mate that ever lived. Ship-shape camping is very easy when every one knows his job and sticks to it. And it makes a big difference when you come back tired and hungry after a long day, to find firewood and water all ready, and everything clean.”
“There’s something in that,” Harry admitted. “Six of us were camping last Christmas; we used to shoot off after breakfast, leaving things anyhow, and the greasy plates were pretty beastly at night: and we were eaten alive with flies and creepy things. Then rain came, and we were flooded out. It wasn’t a whole heap jolly. I’ll try your idea of a drain next time, Miss Earle.”
We had rounded the western headland of Porpoise Bay and were out in open water. Before us was a long stretch of blue, dotted with a dozen little islands—some mere heaps of rounded granite boulders, their sides washed smooth by the waves, others clothed with trees and undergrowth. The largest of these was a couple of miles ahead. It was a long, narrow island, densely wooded at one end, and with smooth green slopes running down to the water’s edge. A little building showed not far from the beach, half hidden by the trees.
“That’s Shepherd’s Island,” Harry nodded.