“Come along, Jo,” said Jean, laughing. “Good old thick sandwiches, with the crust left on, I suppose. It’s a mercy we made extra cake!”
They stood together at the yard gate, twenty minutes later, to watch the pair ride away, each boy with a respectable parcel of lunch tied to his saddle. Their Scout blouses bulged in a peculiar way that suggested apples. They dug their heels into their ponies’ sides, and departed at full gallop, uttering demoniacal yells after the approved fashion of Red Indians.
“Nice kids!” said Jo inelegantly. “Hurry up, Jean; I’ve got a frock to iron, and there’s heaps to do. The Lawrences said they’d be out early.”
It was Saturday, and the spell of heat still lay upon the land. Everywhere was the thick blue haze that told of far-off bush-fires; although the Gulgong Flat fires had been checked, there had been other outbreaks, and there were miles of burnt country where charred logs and trees were smouldering; ready, should a wind spring up, to send burning fragments far enough to start a fresh blaze. Day after day the water shrank in the creeks and rivers, and the little remnant of dried grass grew less and less; day after day the worry-lines deepened on the faces of the men who saw their sheep and cattle grow weaker and weaker. The household at Emu Plains was cheery enough, to all outward seeming, for Mr. and Mrs. Weston had determined that the shadow should not lie heavily on the boys and girls there, if they could keep it from them awhile yet. But at night, when the children were in bed, they talked long together; and often it was hard next morning to follow the Scout prescription,—“Keep smiling!”—which they had adopted as the rule of the house.
There was no shadow resting on the small boys’ solitary picnic. Beyond doubt, it was a great adventure to ride out alone into the wide paddocks where a hundred interesting things might happen. They were Red Indians first; braves armed with deadly weapons and intent on scalps: they rode stealthily in the timber, keeping a keen look-out for palefaces and wolves; ejaculating “Hist!” when a leaf rustled, and stalking the sound in single file, prepared for anything, from a grizzly bear to a hostile Choctaw. Then a fox slipped away into the open, and on the instant they were pig-stickers, bursting out of the Indian jungle. They raced after him across a bare plain, Merrilegs hopelessly outdistanced by the swifter Punch, until an unexpected turn on the part of the quarry gave Rex a chance of cutting across and getting in the lead, where he remained until the fox dived under a fence to safety. This was triumph, and he exulted openly.
“Yah! Beat you!”
“He beat both of us,” said Billy, laughing.
“Yes, but I was nearest to him when he got away. Good old Merrilegs!” boasted Rex, patting his ancient steed.
They ate their lunch in a shady hollow near the river. It was a noble lunch, with a solid foundation of sandwiches and cake, and such added details as mince-pies, dried figs and prunes, and a package of toffee!
“There’s no mistake, the girls do know how to pack a lunch!” said the sated Billy, lying back on the ground. A large lump of toffee impeded, but by no means prevented, speech.