“Thank goodness!” she said. “And thanks to every one who worked for us!”
“Yes, indeed,” said her husband. “Half the district seemed to be there when I got out; it’s queer how the news of a fire will travel quickly in some directions. Some one passing in a motor saw it in Moncrieff’s, and sent the word along. That big fellow Conlan—Jo’s friend—was there, working like a tiger. Was Billy very done?”
“Yes, absolutely. The man who brought him home said he had almost to hold him on his pony: he was just dead with sleep and fatigue. He drank two cups of hot milk and was asleep before he had fairly swallowed the second. I undressed him and put him to bed without even washing his dear old dirty face; and he’s asleep yet.”
“Poor little chap!” The man’s voice was very tender. “They said he worked splendidly, galloping from place to place to beat out fires from flying embers: they wouldn’t let him beat near the main fire, much to his disgust. Mary, how on earth those kiddies managed to get the cattle out beats me! Moncrieff said it seemed no time after they went after them that Billy was back, saying all the bullocks were out.”
“As far as I can gather from Rex they just got them on the run and kept them running,” Mrs. Weston said. “Rex mentioned that they both yelled like fury: and certainly he has no voice left to-day. You must be very tired, John.”
“I’m not: I’m too thankful,” he said.
It was noon, and he had just ridden in, after having spent the night at the fire: for although the most acute danger was over, trees were still blazing in Moncrieff’s paddock, and a change of wind might have carried sparks into the dry grass on Emu Plains. It would be necessary to watch until the last tree was burned out.
“I thought the twins might go out and keep guard this afternoon, while I have a sleep,” he went on. “They would like to be in it: and there’s no hard work required, only watchfulness. I’ll go out again to-night. Conlan’s chopping down two of the worst trees.”
“What—is he still working?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“Can’t hunt him away. He says he has nothing particular to do—he has a farm of his own, you know, and does odd work occasionally for Harrison. I believe the poor chap thinks he’s working off a bit of his debt to Jo. As things stand, Mary, it’s a very lucky fire for us. It means that we have a big break of burned country between us and further danger. It has done Moncrieff good, too—cleared up a very dirty paddock, all over fallen trees and rubbish—a harbour for rabbits. He had no stock there, so he’s lost nothing except a little fencing. Moncrieff is jubilant.”