“ ‘Why!—it’s some one signalling!’ ” (Page 145.)

FROM

BILLABONG

TO LONDON

BY

MARY GRANT BRUCE

Author of “Mates at Billabong,” “Glen Eyre,”

“Timothy in Bushland,” etc.

WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED

LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO

CONTENTS.

FROM BILLABONG

TO LONDON.

—•—

CHAPTER I.

HOLIDAYS AT BILLABONG.

IF you came to the homestead of Billabong by the front entrance, you approached a great double gate of wrought iron, which opened stiffly, with protesting creaks, and creaked almost as much at being closed. Then you found yourself in a long, winding avenue, lined with tall pine-trees, beyond which you could catch glimpses, between the trunks, of a kind of wilderness-garden, where climbing roses and flowering shrubs and gum-trees and bush plants, and a host of pleasant, friendly, common flowers grew all together in a very delightful fashion. Seeing, however, that you were a visitor by the front entrance, you could not answer the beckonings of the wilderness-garden, but must follow the windings of the avenue, on and on, until the wild growth on either side gave place to spreading lawns and trim flower-beds, the pine-trees ended, and you came round a kind of corner formed by an immense bush of scarlet bougainvillea, and so found the house smiling a welcome.

Very rarely were any doors or windows shut at Billabong. The kindly Australian climate makes the sunlit winter air a delight; and if in summer it is sometimes necessary to shut out heat, and possibly intrusive snakes, as soon as the sun goes down everything is flung wide open to admit the cool evening breeze that comes blowing across the paddocks. Billabong always looked as if it were open to welcome the newcomer.

It was a red house of two storeys, looking lower than it was because of its width and the great trees that grew all round it, as well as because of its broad balconies and verandahs. From either side the garden stretched away until hedges of roses blocked the entrance to orchard and vegetable patches. The house stood on a gentle rise, and in front the trees had been thinned so that across the smooth lawn you looked over stretching paddocks, dotted with gum-trees, and broken by the silver gleam of a reed-fringed lagoon. There was no other house visible—only the wide, peaceful paddocks. The nearest road was two miles away, and it was seventeen miles to the nearest town. Perhaps, seen from the front, Billabong might have seemed a little lonely.

But, in fact, no one ever dreamed of coming to Billabong by the front. There had, of course, been a few exceptions to the rule; as in the case of a new Governor-General, who had been brought in state to see it as a typical Australian station, and had greatly annoyed the inmates by bringing his dogs in to luncheon and feeding them with bones on the dining-room carpet, which happened to be a Persian rug of value. The Billabong folk looked back to that visit with considerable disgust. Sometimes other strangers found their way to the great iron gates, and up the avenue; but not often. Occasional callers did not come to Billabong, since the owner and his motherless children were not ceremonious people, and in any case, no one drives seventeen miles in the Australian bush to pay a call of ceremony. Those who came were prepared to stay, and were more immediately concerned with the disposal of their horses than with any other consideration; so that it followed that the chief entrance to Billabong was known as “the back way.”

The tracks alone would have told you that. As you came up from the outer paddocks, the gravel of the drive was smooth and untouched save for the gardener’s rake; but the other tracks, deep and well trodden, swept round beside the garden and turned in to the courtyard of the stables—big, red-brick buildings, looking almost as large as the house itself. It was always cheerful and exciting at the stables, for all the dogs took charge of you directly you arrived, and made vigorous remarks about you, until they were quite sure whether you were a person to be trusted. “Swagmen”—the bush tramps of Australia—loathed the Billabong dogs very exceedingly; and the dogs returned the feeling in a lively fashion, so that the progress of a swagman from the outer gate to the security of the back yard was apt to be fraught with incident and marked by haste. But if your respectability were evident, the dogs became merely enthusiastic, inspecting visitor and horses with well-bred curiosity, and finally accompanying you to the gate with demonstrations of friendliness, and parting from you with regret.

Within the gate you had, as Murty O’Toole, the head stockman, put it, “your choice thing of tracks.” One led across the gravelled yard to the kitchen and its long row of out-buildings; another took you in the shade of a row of pepper-trees to Mr. Linton’s office, where interviews with the men were held, and all the business of a big station went forward. Another—Jim and Norah Linton liked this one—went directly to the orchard, where, on hot days, might be found cherries and apricots, peaches, nectarines, great red Japanese plums, guavas, and long beds of strawberries and raspberries. But the most worn track of all led through a porch that opened in a creeper-hung fence, on the other side of which you found yourself in the garden, and presently on the side verandah, a pleasant place, half closed in by passion fruit vines and clematis, and made very homely and comfortable with long basket-chairs and tables where books and magazines lay. There were rugs on the tiled floor, and, here and there, tall palms in oaken tubs. Nearly all the year round, the Billabong folk were to be found on the side verandah.

It was vacant just now, save for one inmate, a big man in riding dress, asleep on a rush lounge. His whip and broad felt hat were tossed on the table beside him, and a collie, also asleep, lay in a patch of sunlight near. It was mid-winter, yet the sun shone warmly across the sheltered space; a good corner to bask in, after the keen wind sweeping across the paddocks. Everything was very quiet. The glass doors leading into a room close by were open, but no sound came from the house, and the big man slept like a child. Presently, however, a chorus of barking came from the stables, and the sleeper stirred and opened his eyes.

“Billy, I expect,” he said, yawning. “Believe I’ve been asleep.” He glanced at his watch. “Half-past three!—it’s high time that black rascal was here.”

He got up, stretching himself, and went to the edge of the verandah—a mighty figure of a man, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a loosely hung frame indicative of great strength. His hair and close-cropped beard were turning grey; but the whole face held an indefinable boyishness, due perhaps to the twinkle that was never far from the deep-set eyes. As he watched, the chorus of barking drew nearer, the gate in the porch swung open, and a native boy came through, his black face a startling contrast to his white shirt and spotless moleskin breeches. He grinned broadly as he neared the verandah.

“You’re late, Billy,” David Linton said.

“Plenty that pfeller mare lazy,” said the dusky one, cheerfully. “That one gettin’ old, boss. Better me ride one of this year’s lot—eh?” He handed over a leather mailbag and a bundle of papers, remaining poised on one foot, in evident anxiety as to his answer.

“One of the new young horses?—what, to carry out mails and parcels? No, thanks, Billy, I’m not keen on experiments that lead to broken legs,” replied the squatter, laughing. “Old Bung-Eye is good for the job for a long time yet.” Then, in answer to the downcast face as the black boy turned away, “I’ll see what Mr. Jim says about your taking one of the new lot out mustering—if you behave yourself and take him gently.”

“Plenty!” said Billy, rejoicing. “That black colt, boss—him going to make a mighty good horse——”

“We’ll see what Mr. Jim says. Be off—it’s high time you had the cows in the milking-yard.” The gate slammed behind the ecstatic Billy as his master went back to his chair and unlocked the mailbag.

He lifted a rather furrowed brow half an hour later at a step beside him—the housekeeper, round, fat and cheery, her twinkling eyes almost lost in her wide, jolly face.

“Will you have tea now, sir?”

“The children are not in, are they, Brownie?”

“Not yet,” Mrs. Brown answered, smoothing her spotless apron. “Mr. Jim said they’d be back at four-ish; but when it comes to gettin’ back it’s generally—as a rule more ‘ish’ than ‘four.’ Would you rather wait a little, sir?”

“I think so,” said the squatter, absent-mindedly, his glance wandering back to the letter in his hand. “Yes—there’s no hurry, Brownie—and Miss Norah seems to like to pour out my tea.”

“She do, bless her,” said Mrs. Brown. “I always say meals aren’t the same to Miss Norah if you’re not there, sir. Poor lamb—and so soon goin’ back to that there school. Mighty little she gets for tea there, I’ll be bound.”

“Well, she doesn’t strike one as ill-fed, Brownie—and you know she likes school.”

“I know she likes home better,” said Brownie, darkly. “Me, I don’t hold with schools. I was glad when Master Jim came home for good an’ I’ll be gladder when it’s Miss Norah’s last term. Edication’s all very well in its way, like castor-oil; but you can get too much of it. Why, Miss Norah’s grandma never even heard of half them fancy things she knows, and where’d you find a better manager of a house than she was? What she didn’t know about curing bacon——!” Brownie sighed in inability to express fitly the superhuman attainments of her nursling’s ancestress.

“Well, you know, Brownie, I look to you for all that side of Norah’s education,” said Mr. Linton pacifically. “And you say yourself that the child is no bad housekeeper.”

“I should think she isn’t,” retorted Mrs. Brown. “Mighty few girls, though I say it as shouldn’t, cook better than Miss Norah, or can be handier about a house. But where’s the use of all them other things? Physics, which ain’t anything to do with medicine, an’ brushwork that’s not even first-cousin to a broom an’ physi—something—or—other, which is learnin’ more about your inside than any young lady has any call for. No, I don’t hold with it at all. But it doesn’t seem to hurt her, bless her!”

“No, I don’t think it hurts her,” David Linton said. “Learning does not seem to make her any less healthy, either in mind or body; and that’s the main thing, Brownie. You mustn’t grumble at the bit of extra polish—they all have it nowadays, and it’s no bad thing.” His eyes lit up suddenly. “There they come,” he said. “Is your kettle boiling?”

There were sounds of hoof-beats on the track, faint at first and then more distinct. The dogs burst into a wild chorus of welcome. Brownie disappeared hurriedly in the direction of the kitchen, and Mr. Linton lay back in his long chair and gave his letter a half-hearted attention, his eyes wandering to the door in the porch. Presently came quick feet and merry voices, the door swung open, and three people entered in a pell-mell fashion and descended upon the verandah like a miniature cyclone.

“I know we’re late, but we couldn’t help it,” Norah said breathlessly. “There was such a heap to do in the Far Plain, Dad—you ask the manager!” She shot a laughing glance at her brother, an immensely tall individual, who responded by lazily pitching his hat at her. “Oh, the wind is cold, Dad—we raced home against it, and it cut like a knife. But it was lovely. Have you had tea? I do hope you haven’t.”

“I waited for the mistress of the house; and Brownie gave me her views on the Higher Education of Women,” said her father. “She seems to think you’re learning too much, Norah. Are you worried about it?”

“Not so much as my teachers,” said Norah, laughing. “And their anxieties seem all the other way. Oh, don’t let us think of school, Daddy—it will be bad enough when the time really comes.”

The third of the newcomers uttered a hollow groan. Like Jim Linton, he was a tall, lean boy; but while Jim gave promise of as mighty a pair of shoulders as his father’s, Wally Meadows exemplified at the moment length without breadth. Everything about him was lean and quick and active; his brown hands were never still, and his merry brown face was always alight with interest, except in those deep moments when those who knew him had reason to suspect some amazing outbreak of mischief in his plotting brain. Finding that no one observed him, he groaned again, yet more hollowly.

“What’s the matter, old man?” Jim asked. “Toothache? Or lack of tea?”

“I don’t have toothache; and Billabong doesn’t have any lack of tea. If you haven’t just had tea here, it’s because you’re just going to have it,” said Wally severely, and with truth; for in an Australian bush home tea begins to occur at an early hour in the morning, and continues to occur with great frequency all day. “No, it’s only the idea of school. You’re so hideously old and important now that I suppose you forget all about it, but it’s only two Christmases ago that Norah and I used to dry your tears at going back. Didn’t we, Norah?

“What about your own tears?” Mr. Linton asked, laughing.

“Why, I shed them still,” said Wally. “I could begin now, quite easily. Didn’t you hear me groan?—I’ll do it again, if you’d care for it. It isn’t any trouble.”

“Don’t think of me,” begged his host. “I wouldn’t put you to the exertion for any consideration. And really I don’t believe that any of you mind school half as much as you make out. You have an uncommonly good time when you’re there.”

“Yes, of course we do,” Wally said. “School truly isn’t a bad old place, once you’ve got to it. But a fellow gets a bit restless as age creeps upon him, you know, sir—and especially since this old reprobate left and took to station-managing, I’ve been feeling it was about time I got busy at something beside cricket and footer and lessons. And now, of course, it’s worse than ever.”

“Now?”

“Well, you see, so many of the fellows one knew are in camp. Lots of the seniors left almost as soon as war broke out and the Australian Contingent was started. Wouldn’t I give my ears to go!” said Wally hotly. “And they say I’m too young. Well, Mills and Fisher and Ballantyne were under me in the footer team, and they’re taken; they may be a bit older, but I can handle any of them with one hand. It doesn’t seem fair. However, I expect there will still be war when I get to the age limit, and then I’m off!”

A slow flush had crept over Jim Linton’s grave face. He rose and went to the edge of the verandah, staring across the garden, and kicking with his heel at a grass-tuft trying to grow up in the gravel. There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence; and Wally, seeing his chum’s hand clench tighter on the stockwhip he still held, bit his lip and mentally informed himself that he was an idiot. Then came footsteps, and Mrs. Brown appeared, panting behind a loaded tea-tray.

“I was getting quite worried about your pa having no tea, Miss Norah,” she said, cheerfully. “But he wouldn’t let me bring it till you was all home.”

“And we were late, of course,” Norah said, penitently, jumping up and making swift clearance of the hats and whips encumbering the rush-work tea-table. “But there was such a heap to do. We found one poor old sheep down; and when we were close to it we discovered that it was in a sort of barbed-wire entanglement. It had picked up a loose piece of wire somewhere, and managed to wind it round and round its body, buried deep in the wool. And its poor cut legs!”

“Could you save it, Jim?” Mr. Linton asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s all right,” Jim answered, turning. “Beastly job, of course; the poor brute was even more stupid than the average sheep, and kicked itself into a worse mess when we came near it. We had to get Norah to hold down its head while Wally and I got the wire away—and that meant cutting it out of the wool. It looked as if a very amateur shearer had been at it with blunt nail scissors, by the time we had finished; I never saw anything like the way twisted old barbed-wire can imbed itself in wool. However, the patient was able to walk away afterwards; he had two battle-scarred legs, but they didn’t seem to worry him much.”

“How are the cattle looking in the Far Plain?” his father asked.

“Bad enough,” said Jim, stirring his tea. “The grass, such as it was, has gone off very much since I was out there last, a fortnight ago. The Queensland bullocks haven’t put on a bit of condition since we turned them in. And the creek is awfully low. Take it all round, Dad, I don’t think we’ve ever had such a bad season.”

“No; Billabong never was as dry—in my time, at all events,” said David Linton. “It’s the worst year in these parts that any one remembers. Australia is certainly having its full allowance just now—war, increased taxation, political troubles; and on top of all, the drought. I suppose we’ll worry through them all in time, but the process is slow.”

“Where were you to-day, Dad?” Norah asked.

“I’ve been through the lower paddocks; they always stand dry weather better than the Far Plain, but they’re not encouraging, for all that,” answered her father. “The cattle are holding their own, so far, but nothing more. Did you see any dead ones, Jim?”

“No—but two that were sick look weak enough to be thinking of dying. We got one poor brute bogged in the creek—not badly, thank goodness; we were able to get him out, but it took time. Some one will have to go out there every day until the boggy places are dry enough to be safe, or we’ll certainly lose some stock. Drought years,” said Jim, solemnly, “seem to mean plenty of extra work, extra expense, extra worry, and extra everything except money.”

“They do—but we’ll pull through all right,” said David Linton, cheerfully. “I know it’s disheartening to see the old place looking like a dust-heap; still, we’ve had a lot of good years, and we mustn’t grumble. And even if it does look dry, there’s plenty of feed and water yet on Billabong. Neither is the bank likely to worry me—if the worst came to the worst, and we had to shift the stock, or to buy feed, it can be managed.”

“Things might be a heap worse,” said Norah. “Why, we might be in Belgium.”

“You’re like Mrs. Wiggs, who consoled herself in her darkest hours by reflecting that she might have had a hare-lip,” said Wally, laughing, though his eyes were grave. The great war was in its very early stages, and only cable messages of its progress had yet reached Australia; but the heroism and the sufferings of Belgium and her people were ringing round the world, and from the farthest corners of the Empire men were flocking to fight under the Allies’ standard and to thrust back the German invaders. Half a dozen of the Billabong stockmen had gone; it was a sore point with the son of the house that he had not been permitted to join the Expeditionary Force with the men with whom he had so often ridden at work.

“I hear there’s no fresh news,” he said. “We met Mr. Harrison, and he said there was nothing.”

“No; I telephoned at lunch-time,” said his father. “But there’s an English mail in, and the papers should make interesting reading. We will have them to-night.”

“Well, it’s getting dusk, and I have one sick wallaby to look after, eggs to gather, and chicks to shut up,” said Norah. “Come on, Wally, and I will let you crawl in under the haystack to the old Wyandotte’s nest.”

“Your kindness, ma’am, would electrify me if I were not used to it,” said Wally, ruefully, getting his long form by degrees out of the low chair in which he was coiled. “Why you don’t put a chain on that old Wyandotte’s horny leg is more than I can imagine—I believe it’s because you like to see me worming my way under that beastly stack. Man was not made to emulate the goanna and the serpent, young Norah, and it’s time you realised the fact.”

“I don’t see how it affects you, at any rate,” said Norah, cruelly. “Boys of seventeen!” She tilted a naturally tilted nose, and patted Wally kindly on the head as she passed him. “In a few years you will probably be too fat to crawl under anything at all, and meanwhile it’s excellent exercise.”

“It’s a good thing for you that you’re a mere girl,” said the maligned one, following her. “When the meek inherit the earth I’ll come in for all Billabong, I should think, for certainly you and Jim won’t deserve it. Don’t you think so, Jimmy?”

“All the real estate your meekness is likely to bring you won’t embarrass you much,” said his chum, grinning. “One’s recollections of you at school don’t seem to include anything so meek as to be startling. In fact, now that I come to consider the matter, Dad and Norah are about the only people who ever have a chance of observing your submissive side. And not always Norah.”

“I should think not always Norah!” said that lady. “Meek, indeed!”

“As a matter of fact, there’s no one who makes me feel my own meekness so much as Brownie,” said Wally. “There’s a dignity about her that you would do well to cultivate, Norah, my child. I think it comes with weight. Still, as there seems no chance of your attaining it, how about looking after the wallaby?”

“It’s high time,” said Norah. “I told Billy to feed him whenever he thought of it, knowing that would not be more than once, and probably not at all. Coming, Jim?”

“No, thanks,” said Jim, from behind an outspread Times. “Not with the English papers in, old girl—and war flourishing.”

“You can tell us about it when we come in,” Norah said. “I’ll race you to the paddock, Wally!” The sound of their flying feet died away, leaving two silent figures on the verandah.

“The progress of a swagman . . . was apt to
be fraught with incident and marked by haste.”

CHAPTER II.

UPHEAVALS.

DUSK falls early in an Australian mid-winter, and as evening draws in, the frost in the air nips sharply after the brilliant sunshine of the day. It was half an hour later that David Linton put down his paper and glanced across at his son.

“Too dark to read—and too cold,” he said. “Come into the smoking-room.”

“I suppose it’s time to make a move,” Jim answered, rising, hat and stockwhip in one hand and a bundle of papers in the other. “It’s going to be a cold night. I wish this frosty weather would break, and there might be a chance of rain; we want it badly enough.”

“You’re getting worried about the place,” his father said, leading the way into the smoking-room, where the leaping light from a great fire of red-gum logs flung dancing shadows on deep leather chairs drawn invitingly near its warmth. The squatter sat down and glanced affectionately at his tall son. “Switch on the light, Jim. Drought is bad, but there’s no need to make yourself an old man over it; we won’t let the stock starve, and if we have a bad year—well, the old place is sound, and we’ve had many good ones. I’m not exactly a poor man, Jim, and one drought won’t make me so.”

“Oh, I don’t worry about being poor,” Jim answered. “After all, one doesn’t want to do much with money up here; and one can keep away from Sydney and Melbourne, if cash is short. It’s certainly disheartening to see the place looking its worst, and the stock getting poorer each week—there’s nothing jollier than riding over it when the grass is knee-deep and the creeks and the river high, and all the stock rolling fat, and the horses kicking up their heels with sheer joy at being alive. One doesn’t think then of the actual money it means; it’s only the feeling that it’s a good thing to be alive oneself. This sort of year does not come often, thank goodness, and one knows it can’t last for ever.”

“It is just a little rough on you that it should come in the first year you have helped me to manage the place,” said his father. “But then, from a selfish point of view, it’s better for me to have your help and companionship through a tough time. And it has been a help, Jim.”

Jim shot a grateful look at him. David Linton was a man of few words; the brief sentence meant much on his lips, and the boy’s eyes softened.

“I’m awfully glad if it has,” he said, awkwardly. “I haven’t had enough experience to be really useful, but I’m as interested as I can be—and there’s no life like it. I don’t want anything better than Billabong, and to work with you. But——”

He broke off, irresolutely. That which he had to say had never seemed easy; it was harder than ever, now, with his father’s kind words warm at his heart. All day, riding through the bare, bleak paddocks, he had tried to frame words that would be firm, and yet not hurt. Now, looking into the steady grey eyes that were like his own, he could not find speech at all. He rose, and taking a pipe from the mantel-shelf, began to fill it slowly.

“But you’re worried still,” said David Linton, watching him. “Well, so am I. And as open confession is good for the soul, and we’re all mates on Billabong, let’s have the worries out, old son. Tell me yours first.”

Jim stood up, straight and tall, on the hearthrug, forgetting his pipe. The light was full on his brown face, showing it older than his years warranted. He met his father’s eyes steadily.

“I can’t stand it, Dad,” he said. “I’ve tried, honestly, since we talked about it, and done my best to put it out of my head. But it’s no good. I’ve got to go.”

“You mean—to the war?”

“Yes. I know jolly well it’s rough on you—because I’m the only son. I suppose it doesn’t seem quite fair to you, my even wanting to go. But if you were my age it would. And all the fellows I knew best have enlisted; some of them are younger than I am; and I’m standing out. They used to look up to me in a sort of way when I was captain of the school. They can’t do it now. They’re doing their share, and I’m just a shirker.”

“That’s rubbish,” his father said, hastily. “You wanted to go from the first day, only you gave in to my wish. It’s my doing.”

“That doesn’t seem to matter,” Jim answered. “The only fact that matters is that I’m taking it easy, and they are getting ready. I know you had lots of good reasons, and I have tried not to care; and it was hard, when the men went, and I felt they were wondering why I didn’t go, too. You know it isn’t because I want to leave you and Billabong, don’t you, Dad?”

“Oh, I know that,” said David Linton.

“There are some things that get too big for a fellow,” Jim said, slowly. “Of course I’m only a youngster; but I’m tough, and I can shoot and ride, and I had four years as a cadet, so I know the drill. It seems to me that any fellow who can be as useful as that, and who isn’t really tied, has no right to stay behind. Lots of fellows younger than I am are joining in England—boys of sixteen are getting commissions. I don’t care about a commission, but I want to do my bit. I’ve got to do the square thing.”

“It is always a little difficult, I suppose, for a man to realise that his children are growing up,” David Linton said, heavily. “You were such babies when your mother died—and that seems only yesterday. I know that you’ll do a man’s work wherever you are. But to me you’re still in many ways the small boy your mother left me.”

“Well, except for this I don’t want to be any different,” Jim answered. “You’ve never made me feel it, except in being jolly good to me—look how you’ve treated me as a sort of equal in managing the place, ever since I left school. I’ve never said anything, but I’ve noticed it every day.”

“Well, you have common sense—and you don’t do wild things with your authority,” his father answered. “You’ve made it possible for yourself. And you know, Jim, I didn’t actually forbid you to enlist. I don’t give you orders.”

“That’s just it,” Jim burst out. “You never do—you’re so jolly decent to me. You asked me not to go; and I’d do anything rather than hurt you. But this is such a big thing, Dad—and it’s getting bigger. I want you to believe that it isn’t just the excitement and all that part of it. But——”

There was silence for a moment. Jim rammed tobacco into his pipe furiously, and then laid it aside again with a gesture of impatience.

“There are things a fellow can’t talk about,” he said. “I’m an awful fool at talking, anyhow. But one can’t open a paper without reading about Belgium and the things the Germans have done there; and it makes one feel one has simply got to go. Fighting men is all very well, and in the way of business. But—women and kids!”

“I know,” said David Linton.

From the drawing-room came the cheerful sound of a piano, and Norah’s fresh young voice in a verse of a song, with Wally joining in. The father gripped the arms of his chair and stared in front of him; seeing, perhaps, blackened Northern cornfields, and children who fled, crying, before an army.

No one spoke for a long time. The silence in the room was only broken by the tick of the clock and the sputter and crackle of the wood fire. From his post on the hearthrug Jim watched his father, trying vaguely to read his answer in the grave face. But David Linton, staring into the fire, gave no sign. His thoughts were wandering back over the long years since his wife’s death had fallen upon him suddenly, tearing the fabric of his life to pieces. Then it had seemed to him that nothing could ever mend it or make it again worth living; but as time crept on, baby fingers unconsciously had taken up the broken threads and woven them into something new—not the old, perfect happiness, but a life full of interest and contentment.

Such mates they had been, he and his children. All through the years, they had shared things: worked, and played, and laughed together until their relationship had grown into a companionship and a mutual comprehension that held little of authority on one side, but all of love on both. For that short, terrible season after the little mother had gone away, the house had been home no longer, but a place of desolation; and then the father had realised that his babies needed more from him, and that through them alone lay his way of peace. There is nearly always something bigger than one’s personal grief, no matter how great it seems; and it is that one thing bigger that spells comfort. David Linton had never put aside his grief altogether, for it was part of himself. But he had put his children first, since to do so was part of his doctrine of doing “the square thing.” Little and helpless, their happiness must not suffer. Somewhere, he knew, the little mother was watching them. Heaven could not keep her from watching her babies—from straining hungry eyes to see how he was managing the task she had left him. When the time came to go to her he must be able to give a good account.

He knew, looking back, that they had been happy. Life had held no cares beyond the necessary trial of leaving home for school—a trial always compensated by the joy of getting back. They had known no loneliness; Billabong and its wild acres, its free, simple life, had filled each day with work that was pleasure and with the thousand cheerful recreations of the Bush. He had tried to make them healthy, wholesome, and useful, holding as he did that no life was complete without all three attributes. They had repaid him by coming up to his standard in other things as well; by being sound in mind and body, honest as the day, and of a clean, straight courage. Throughout all they had been his mates. The little watching mother would be satisfied.

Now, for the first time in sixteen years, the parting of the ways must come. Authority had never been one of his methods; and if it had been, this was not the time to use it. He had taught the tall lad who stood before him his version of “the decent thing,” and his teaching had come home; even in his pain he welcomed it. Jim would not have been Jim had he been willing to sit contentedly at home.

He looked up, and smiled suddenly at the boy’s unhappy face. “Don’t look like that, old son,” he said. “It’s all right.”

A great load rolled off Jim’s heart.

“Dad! You don’t mind——”

“Well, a fellow doesn’t cheerfully give up his only son,” David Linton said. “But I’ve seen it coming, Jim, and, as you say, this thing is bigger than we are. I wouldn’t have you not want to go.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” said Jim, and sat down and lit his pipe.

“I couldn’t make up my mind to it at first,” his father went on. “One didn’t know how far things were going; and it’s hard to realise you grown up. After all, you’re only nineteen, Jim, lad, and for all that I know, you are capable of doing a man’s work, to my mind soldiering demands an extra degree of toughness, if a fellow is to be of real use. Still, as you say, much younger boys are going; I won’t ask you again to stay. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask you in the beginning. I was doubtful in my own mind; but I had to be sure there was real need.”

“And are you satisfied now?”

“Oh, yes. There isn’t any room for further doubt. Every day brings evidence of what the job is going to be—the biggest the Empire ever had to tackle. And the cry from Belgium comes home to every decent man. I’d rather go myself than send you; but as I said, I’m glad you don’t want to stay.”

“Then that’s all right,” Jim said, with a mighty sigh of relief. “You don’t know what a weight it is off my mind, Dad. I’ve hated to seem a beast over it, and you know I always go by your judgment. But somehow I knew you’d have to think differently yourself. Why, great Scott! I couldn’t face you and Norah, in ten years, if I had stayed at home!”

“No; and I couldn’t face you if I had been the one to keep you,” said his father. “So that is settled. But there are other things to settle as well.”

“Rather!” said Jim. “I wonder, can I get into the first contingent, or if I’ll have to wait for the second.”

His father paused before replying.

“There is something else, altogether,” he said at length. “My own plans seem on the verge of an upheaval, just now.”

“Yours? Nothing wrong, is there, Dad?”

“Nothing in the main. But you know I’ve been bothered for some weeks over that business of the English property your uncle Andrew left me. There is a lot of complicated detail that would take me a week to explain—it’s all in the lawyer’s letters over there, if you’d care to go through them. (“Not me!” from Jim, hurriedly.) Some of it ought to be sold, and some apparently can’t be sold just now, and there are decisions to be made, at which it’s almost impossible for me to arrive, with letters alone to go upon. Last week’s English mail left me in a state of complete uncertainty as to what I ought to do about it.”

“And has to-day’s mail straightened out matters at all?”

“Well—it has,” said Mr. Linton, with a wry smile. “I can’t say it has exactly eased my mind, but at least the letters have made one thing abundantly clear, which is that the business cannot be settled from Australia. I’m needed on the spot. As far as I can see, there is no way out of it; I’ll have to go home.”

“Go to England!”

“Yes.”

“But,” Jim was on his feet, his face radiant. “Why, you’ll be there when I’m in France—we might come home together! How ripping, Dad! When would you go?”

“Very soon, I think.”

Jim sat down, the flash of joy suddenly dying away.

“Dad—what about Norah?”

“I wish I knew,” said his father, uneasily. “I could leave her at school, of course; and she has always invitations enough for twice as many holidays as are in the year. But she won’t like it, poor little girl. It would be bad enough if only one of us were going; as it is, she will feel that the bottom has dropped out of the universe.”

“I can’t see us leaving her,” Jim said. “Why not take her with you?”

“Why, I don’t even know if it’s safe,” said his father, his brow knitted. “The voyage is a certain risk; and who knows what will be the conditions in England? I can’t run the child into danger.”

“If Germany wins you may not be able to keep her out of it,” Jim answered. “One thing is certain—Norah would rather be in danger with you than feel that you were running risks and leaving her in safety. I think it would break her heart to be left here alone.”

“I’ve been turning it backwards and forwards in my mind for a fortnight,” said the father. “I felt that the time was coming to give you a free hand: and then, on top of that, came this complication.” He laughed a little. “Life has been too easy for me, Jim: I’m not used to big decisions.”

“Well, I am a beast,” said Jim, frankly. “I’ve been chewing over my own disappointment; and about the worst part of it was that I got hold of the idea that you had put it right out of your mind, and that you didn’t care. I wish I had known you were up to your eyes in worry. But you never let us suspect a thing.”

“Well, I kept hoping against hope that each mail would straighten things out,” his father answered. “Until I was certain I did not want to cast any shadows on Norah’s holidays. Poor little lass; she’ll have trouble in earnest now.”

“Well, Nor will face it,” Jim said, confidently. “She isn’t made of the stuff that caves in—and as far as I’m concerned, Dad, she wants me to go. She knew I’d only eat my heart out if I didn’t. But to have you go away is another matter. Don’t you think you can take her?”

“If I were sure England would be safe . . .” mused Mr. Linton. “You can be very certain I don’t want to leave her.”

“Well, I don’t think there’s much risk for England,” said Jim, with the cheerful optimism of youth. “And anyhow, there’s always America—you and she could slip across there if there were any real fear of invasion. My word, Dad, it would be grand to think you and Nor were so near. Just think if I got wounded, how jolly it would be to come over to you!”

“I’ve thought,” said his father, drily. The jollity of the idea seemed to him slightly exaggerated.

“Well, it would be heaps better than hospital. And then we’d all be together after the finish, and do London. It would be such a lark. Fancy old Norah in Piccadilly!”

“Me?” asked a startled voice.

Norah stood in the doorway, with Wally behind her. She had exchanged her riding-habit for a soft white frock, and her brown curls, released from their tight plait, fell softly round her face. No one would have dreamed of calling her pretty; but there was an indefinable charm in the merry face, lit by straight grey eyes. She was tall for her age; people found it difficult to believe that she was not yet sixteen, for she had left the awkward age behind her, and there was unstudied grace in the slender, alert form, with its well-shaped hands and feet. Occasionally—when she was not too busy—Norah had fleeting moments of regret, mainly on account of her men-folk, that she was not pretty. But it is doubtful if her father and brother would have cared to change a feature of the vivid face.

“Did you say Piccadilly? And me?” she asked, advancing into a startled silence. “I’ve always imagined Piccadilly must be rather worse than Collins Street, and I don’t fit in there a bit. Stella Harrison says there are rather jolly motor-busses there, and you can get on top. That wouldn’t be so bad.” She perched on the arm of her father’s chair. “Why are you talking about streets, Daddy? You know you don’t like them any more than I do.”

“No,” said David Linton, finding that some answer was expected of him. Something in his tone brought Norah’s eyes upon him quickly.

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” she asked.

No one spoke for a moment. Then Wally got up quietly and moved towards the door.

“Don’t go, Wally, my boy,” Mr. Linton said. “You’re so much one of the family that you may as well join the family councils. No, there’s nothing exactly wrong, Norah. But there are happenings.”

“Jim’s going?” said Norah, quickly. Her keen eyes saw that the new and unfamiliar shadow had lifted from her brother’s face. Jim nodded, smiling at her.

“Yes, I’m going. Dad says it’s all right.”

Norah drew a long breath, and Wally gave an irrepressible whistle of delight.

“Lucky dog—I’m so glad!” he cried. “Oh, why can’t I be eighteen!”

“There will be plenty of fighting after you are eighteen,” Mr. Linton said. “This isn’t going to be any lightning business. But that’s not all, Norah. Your old father has to pack up, too. I must go to England.”

“Daddy! You!”

The voice was a cry. Then Norah shut her lips tightly, and said nothing more, looking at her father.

“It’s business,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t want to go, my girl. It may not take me long.”

There was a long pause.

“I can’t ask to go,” said Norah at last, rather breathlessly. “It’s too big a thing—not like a trip to Melbourne or Sydney. I know it would cost a fearful lot of money—and there are other things. It’s—it’s all right, Daddy, if you say so—only I want to know. Have I got to stay behind?”

There was no answer. Jim was watching the set, childish face pitifully, longing to help, and powerless. Norah got up from the arm of her father’s chair at length, and turned her face away.

“It’s—it’s quite all right, Daddy,” she said, unsteadily. “I understand. Don’t go worrying.”

“Worrying!” said David Linton, explosively. “No, I’m not going to worry—if I can help it: and I’m not going to leave you, either. We’ll stick together, little mate.”

“Daddy!” said Norah, very low. She went to him like a little child, and he put her on his knee, one arm round her, while Jim beamed on them both.

“I knew you couldn’t do it,” he said laughing. “It was so altogether ridiculous to think of old Nor here alone, and you and me at the other side of the world. Things like that simply can’t occur!”

“Well—there may be danger” began his father.

“There would be strong danger of my losing my few wits if you did it,” Norah said. “I thought I was going to lose them a minute ago, as it was. Oh, Daddy won’t it be lovely! Think of the ship—and the queer ports—and England! It’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened. And we’ll be near Jim, and he’ll get leave and come over to see us!”

“That’s another thing,” Mr. Linton said. “It’s settled that you’re to enlist, Jim; that matter is decided. But is there any particular reason why you should enlist in Australia?”

“In Australia?” repeated Jim, blankly. “Why—where else?”

“Well, if Norah and I are going home, why should we not all go together? You would have no difficulty in joining the Army in England, if boys of sixteen are getting commissions there.”

“What?” burst from Wally.

“Oh, yes—you’d be quite a veteran, judging by to-day’s news, Wally,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “There would be no difficulty at all, I should think, Jim; I know enough people in London to pull a few strings, though even that would hardly be necessary. But if you wanted a commission I should think it could be managed. It would leave us all together a bit longer.”

“That would be ripping,” Jim said, doubtfully. “I don’t know, though; I’m an Australian, and I rather think Australians ought to stick together. And I would know such a lot of the fellows in our own contingent.”

“That counts, of course,” said his father. “But there’s another point; there are rumours that our men may not be sent direct to the Front. You might get hung up in Egypt, or the Persian Gulf, or Malta; I’ve heard suggestions that the Australians should even be used for garrison duty in India.”

“By Jove!” said Jim. “I wouldn’t like that.”

“No; and it would mean that you might never get to England at all, to join Norah and me after the show. If you’re going, I don’t want you to be shelved in some out-of-the-way corner of the earth; I’d like you to have your chance.”

“Oh, Jimmy, come with us!” said Norah. “Just think how jolly it would be—not like the voyage in a horrid old troopship, where you mightn’t be allowed to see a single port. And perhaps we’d be together quite a lot in England, before you were sent to the Front.”

Wally jumped up with such emphasis that his chair fell over backwards. He did not notice it.

“Let’s all go!” he cried.

Three pairs of eyes turned upon him for information.

“If it’s really true that boys younger than I am are being taken in England, I’d have a chance, wouldn’t I, Mr. Linton?”

“I suppose you would—yes, of course, my boy. You’re only a year younger than Jim, aren’t you?”

“Yes—and he knows as much drill as I do, to say nothing of shooting and riding,” Jim exclaimed. “Would you come, Wal?”

“I should just think I would!” Wally uttered. “But you’d have to join in England, Jim—not here.”

“But your guardian—and your brothers, Wally. Would they be willing?” Mr. Linton asked. “It’s rather an undertaking to arrange off-hand. And it would mean your leaving school.”

“I know it would be all right, sir,” Wally answered. “My brothers were only sorry I couldn’t get into the first contingent; and old Mr. Dimsdale never worries his head about me, except to look after the property and send me my allowance. He knows I’m to join as soon as I can. The money part of it would be all right; I don’t know much about it, but the money that’s to come to me has been accumulating since I was a kid, and there must be plenty. If you’d let me go under your wing, nobody would think of objecting.” He stopped, his brown, eager face flushing. “By Jove, you must think me awfully cool, sir. I sort of took it for granted I could go with you!”

“Well, you old goat!” said Jim, disgustedly. David Linton laughed.

“My dear boy, I think you’re pretty well established as one of the family,” he said. “You have been Jim’s chum for five years, and somehow we’ve come to regard Billabong as your home. I have liked to think you felt that way about it, yourself.”

“It’s the only real home I ever remember,” said Wally, still greatly confused. “And you’ve all been such bricks to me. I’ve quite forgotten I’m really a sort of lost dog.”

“It’s rude to say you’re a lost dog, when you belong to Billabong,” said Norah solemnly, though her eyes were dancing. “Isn’t he talking a lot of nonsense, Dad?—and this is much too exciting an evening to waste any time. I wish someone would sort me out, for I’m all mixed-up in my mind. We’re going to England, you and I, Dad.”

“And me,” said Wally, cheerfully disregarding grammar.

“And me, I suppose,” Jim followed. “If you think I’ve as good a chance there, Dad?”

“Better, I should think—judging from the rush of men here,” said his father.

“Then we’re all going,” finished Norah blissfully. “In a ’normously large ship, Dad?”

“Most certainly,” said David Linton, hastily. “I came out forty years ago in a five-hundred tonner, and I’ve no desire to repeat the experience. We’re built on lines that demand space, we Lintons.”

“And when we get to London?”

“We’ll settle down somewhere—where we can be near the boys until they are sent out to the Front, and I can attend to business.”

“And then——?”

“We’ll wander about a bit until they come back to us. If it’s likely to be long, you’ll have to resume your neglected education, young woman,” said her father severely.

“M’f!” said Norah, wrinkling her nose. “How unpleasant!—that’s the first dismal thing you’ve said, Daddy. But I suppose one has to take the powder with the jam. And after the war——?”

“Oh, after the war——” said David Linton; and fell silent, looking at his son.

“After the war,” said Wally, happily, “we’ll all meet in London, and see the Kaiser led in triumph down Piccadilly. My own preference leads me to hope that it will be on a donkey with his face towards the tail of the ass, but I’m sadly afraid the world has grown too civilised.”

“Well, you can’t call him and his crowd civilised, anyhow,” Jim said.

“No. But we’ll have to be, I suppose, to show how nicely we were brought up. Anyhow, after that we’ll explore all the things we’ve always wanted to see—London, and Stonehenge, and the Dublin Horse Show, and Killarney, and David Balfour’s country, and heathery moors, and the Derby, and punts on the Thames, and the Dartmoor ponies, and——” Wally’s extraordinary mixture left him breathless, but the others took up the tale.

“And English lanes——”

“And ruins—truly ruins——!”

“And old castles——”

“And woods and hedges——”

“And real hunting country——”

“And real hunts——!”

“And trout-streams——”

“And Irish loughs——”

“And then,” said Norah, as the dinner-gong clashed out its summons,—“then——”

“If we’ve any money left!” put in her father.

“Or even if we haven’t,” said Norah, and smiled at him—“we’ll go back to Billabong!”

CHAPTER III.

OF A CHESTNUT BABY.

“DO you know where Mr. Jim is, Murty?”

David Linton had just ridden into the stable-yard. It was midday, and though the night had been frosty, the sun was so warm that the master of Billabong was in his shirt-sleeves, his coat laid across the saddle before him. He swung himself to the ground as the head stockman came across to take his horse.

“At the stockyard, he is,” said Murty O’Toole. “Miss Norah and Mr. Wally too, sir; they’re handling the new chestnut colt, and it’s the fun of the world he’s been giving them. Mr. Jim had to lasso him before he could so much as lay a hand on him, but he’s goin’ nice and aisy now. Still in all, Mr. Jim’ll have his own troubles when he comes to ride that one; sure, he’d kick the eye out of a mosquito.”

“Has he saddled him yet?”

“Oh, yes; he’s been under the saddle these three hours,” Murty answered. “Mr. Jim hasn’t been on him, of course; he believes in walkin’ a young one round quiet and pleasant, to let him get used to the feel of the leather. ’Twas as good as a circus to see him when they girthed him up; he went to market good and plenty, and did his level best to buck himself clean out of the saddle. He’s the cheerfullest colt ever I seen.” Mr. O’Toole grinned at the recollection. “But he’s got his aiqual in Mr. Jim.”

“I’ll go down and have a look at them,” the squatter said. “Put Monarch in a loose-box and give him a feed, Murty; I may want him again.” He slipped on his coat and strode out of the yard as the stockman led the great black horse into the cool dimness of the stables.

The stockyards of an Australian station form a very important part of its working establishment. A big “run” may have several sets of yards to save the trouble of driving stock far on any direction; but the main yards are always near the homestead—sometimes, indeed, a great deal too near. The yards at Billabong, however, did not err in this respect, being planned in a secluded corner whence they opened upon two paddocks. A belt of dwarfed gum-trees surrounded and shaded them; and beyond this shelter a little lucerne-field led to the kitchen-garden and orchard, so that the house itself was screened completely, and no dust could drift to it, even when, on a big mustering day, the bullocks had trodden every inch of the earth of the yards into fine powder.

To an unaccustomed eye they presented a somewhat bewildering array of fencing. They were completely surrounded by a very high fence of red-gum slabs, laid horizontally and very close together, and finished at the top by a heavy, rounded cap of wood, bolted to the top of the massive posts, and forming an unbroken ring. This fence was calculated to withstand the rush of the maddest bullock, infuriated by the indignities of mustering; and at the same time, being easily climbed, formed a refuge in case of an animal charging a man on foot. The cap, broad and smooth, formed a pleasant place from which to watch the exciting manœuvres below; Norah had spent many a cheerful hour perched upon it.

Within the great ring-fence the space was divided into many enclosures, large and small; from the big general yard, capable of holding a mob of bullocks, to small calf-yards, where newly-branded babies were wont to bleat distressfully for their anxious mothers—little dreaming that within a very few days they would have forgotten all about them, in the joy of a wide run, new grass and youthful light-heartedness. A long race, just wide enough for a single bullock, led from the main enclosure to the drafting-yards. A gate at its further end worked on a pivot; Norah loved to watch her father stand at it as the big-horned cattle came down the narrow lane in single file, turning the gate with a movement of his supple wrist so that some bullocks were ushered into one yard and some into another, according to their class. A man needed a quick eye and hand, and keen judgment, to be able to work the drafting-gate when the bullocks were stringing quickly down the race, the nose of one beast almost touching the tail of the one in front of him. Sometimes two or three of a kind came down in succession, all bound for the same yard, and then the task seemed easy; but often they alternated, and the gate had to go backwards and forwards so quickly that either the tail of the yarded bullock or the nose of his successor was apt to suffer. Branding was done through the rails fencing the race; a brick oven was built beside it, for heating the irons. But this was one of the details at which Norah did not preside. On branding days she preferred to mount her special pony, Bosun, and go for long solitary rides along the bends of the river, or across plains where an occasional hare gave excuse for a gallop.

Altogether, the Billabong yards were the pride of its stockmen, and the cause of deep envy in men from neighbouring stations. Too often, yards are make-shift erections, hastily run up out of any timber that may be handiest, and generally awaiting a day of re-planning and re-building that never comes. But David Linton believed in perfecting the working details of his run; and his yards were well and solidly built, planned on a generous scale that gave accommodation for every class of cattle, and equipped with gates which, despite their massive strength, were so excellently hung that a touch closed them, and only another touch was needed to send home a solid catch. Once the owner of Billabong had seen a man killed, through a gate too stiff to shut quickly before a maddened bullock’s charge; and as he helped to rescue the poor, broken body he had vowed that no man of his own should ever run a needless risk through neglect on his part.

Black Billy was cutting lucerne for fodder as the squatter passed through the little paddock. He turned on him a dusky face full of ludicrous unhappiness. The black fellow of Australia takes kindly to no work that does not include horses; it was gall and wormwood to Billy to be chained to an uncongenial task almost within a stone’s throw of the breaking-yard, through the high fence of which he could catch glimpses of a chestnut coat and hear voices raised in quick interest. He hewed viciously at the tough lucerne stems.

“That pfeller him buck plenty, mine thinkit,” he vouchsafed to his employer.

“Master Jim bin ride him, Billy?”

“Baal—not yet. Lucerne plenty enough cut, eh, boss?”

David Linton laughed outright at the wistful face.

“If I say it’s enough, what’s the next job, Billy.”

“Mine thinkit Master Jim him pretty likely want a hand with that pfeller chestnut,” said Billy eagerly.

“Oh, do you?—I thought so,” said his master. “All right, Billy—cut along; but don’t get in Master Jim’s way. He’ll call you if he wants you.”

“Plenty!” said Billy, thankfully, and fled towards the yards like a black comet. He was already perched on the cap, a grinning vision of joy, when Mr. Linton arrived on the scene, and swung himself up beside Norah.

The big mustering yard was empty save for Jim and his pupil—a beautiful chestnut colt, rather dark in colour, and with no mark save a white star. He was fully saddled and bridled, with the stirrups removed from the saddle and the reins tied loosely back, while in addition to the bit, bore a pair of long driving reins by which Jim was guiding him round and round the yard. It was evident that the colt was not happy. His rough coat was streaked with dark sweat and flecked with foam, and, though he went quietly enough his eye was wild, and showed more than a glimpse of white.

“Hallo, Dad!” sang out Jim cheerfully. The colt executed a nervous bound and broke jerkily into a canter.

“Steady there, you old stupid,” said Jim, affectionately, bringing his pupil back to a walk with a gentle strain on the bit. “He has a curious dislike to the human voice if it’s raised, Dad; and as we can’t expect everyone to whisper for his benefit, the sooner he gets over it, the better. What do you think of him?”

“He’ll make a good horse,” said his father, surveying the colt critically. “A bit leggy now, but he’ll mend of that. How is he going, Jim?”

“Oh, he’s quiet enough; a bit nervous, but I don’t think there’s any vice in him,” Jim answered. “At present he is exactly like a frightened kid, but he’s calming down. I drove him, without a saddle on, most of yesterday, and he graduated to the saddle this morning—and at first I think he thought it was the end of the world. He’ll make a topping good hack, Dad.”

“Better than Garryowen?” came from Norah.

“Better than your grandmother!” retorted Jim, to whom his own steed represented all that was perfection in horseflesh. “Better than your old crock, Bosun, if you like!” Which insult, Norah, who knew his private opinion of her pony, received with a tilted nose and otherwise unruffled calm.

“When do you think of riding him?” asked Mr. Linton.

“Oh, I’ll get on him this afternoon,” Jim answered. “It’s getting near lunch-time; and it won’t do him any harm to have another hour or so getting used to the feel of the leather, and the creak thereof—which is the part he dislikes. I’m not anxious to scare him by mounting him too soon. At present he is gradually realising that I’m a friendly beast; for a good while he was certain I meant to kill him.”

Mr. Linton nodded.

“Quite right—I don’t believe in hurrying a nervous young horse,” he said. “Scare him at first and he is apt to remain scared. I’m glad you’re taking him quietly. He will be up to my weight when he fills out, Jim, don’t you think?”

“Oh, easily,” Jim answered. “When we get back from England you’ll find him just about right; we’ll get Murty to keep him for his own use while we’re away. I don’t want him hacked about by any man who chooses; he is quite the best of this year’s lot.” He shook the reins very gently, and addressed the colt in friendly fashion. “Get on, old man.”

The chestnut broke into an uneasy jog, which his driver had some little difficulty in reducing to a sober walk. He went with sidling steps, hugging the fence as much as possible, as if longing for the space and freedom of the paddocks outside. The corners of the yard had been rounded off, so that he could not indulge his evident inclination to put himself as far as possible into one and dream of his lost youth. It was just a little hard on him—last week all he had known of life was the wild bush paddocks on the outer fringe of Billabong run, where there was good galloping ground for him and his mates on the rough plains, and deep belts of timber to shelter them from the hot noonday sun or the frosty nights of winter. Then had come a time of mad excitement. Men and dogs had invaded their peaceful solitudes, and the hills had echoed all day to shouts and barking and the clear cracks of stockwhips, that ran round the hills like a fusillade of rifle shots. It was all very alarming and disturbing. At first the young horses had been inclined to treat it as a joke, but they soon found that for them it had a more serious meaning, that gradually they were being surrounded and edged out of the timber to the open plain, that they had not even time to eat, and that the deepest recesses of the hills and creeks formed no secure hiding-place from their pursuers.

Then they grew afraid for the first time. They galloped hither and thither wildly, to the great annoyance of the men, who had no wish to see valuable young horses hurt or blemished by running into a tree or under a low-growing limb, in these wild rushes through the scrub. They tried to drive them as quietly as possible; but the horses thought they knew far too much for that, and before they were finally mustered there had been racing and chasing that had brought much secret and unlawful joy to Jim and Norah and Wally, but no little anxiety to the owner of the run. No great damage, however, had been done; gradually all the wild youngsters had been driven out of the timbered country, hustled through the gate that effectually barred them from such shelter in the future, and brought to the homestead through a succession of peaceful paddocks, peopled with sleek cattle almost too lazy to move aside for the drove of uneasy horses. The home paddock had received them at last; and then every day saw them driven up to the yards, where they were left for a few hours so that they might grow accustomed to being close to civilisation, and to the sound of the human voice. One by one they dropped out; a youngster would be edged away from his mates into a little yard, presently to find himself alone when the main mob was let out to go galloping down the hill to freedom. Then real education began; education that meant bit and bridle and saddle, and the knowledge that the strange new creature called Man was master and meant to remain so.

Jim had kept the chestnut colt for his own tuition. Mick Shanahan, chief horsebreaker of Billabong for many a year, had gone to the war; and though every man on the station had a settled conviction of his own ability to break horses, Jim and his father did not, in every instance, share the belief. The chestnut was too good to be given to any chance-comer to handle. Most of the youngsters were destined for use as stock-horses, and might as well be handed over to the men who were to ride them in their work; but not this well-bred baby “with the spirit of fire and of dew,” and with all his nerves jangling from the indignity of being made a prisoner. Jim had been carefully trained in Mick Shanahan’s methods; besides which, he had a natural comprehension of horses, and a rooted dislike of rough-and-ready ways of breaking-in. There was something in the strong gentleness of the big fellow that soothed a young horse unconsciously.

He pulled up the chestnut after a few turns round the yard, and proceeded, as he said, to talk to him, speaking in a low voice while he handled him quietly, stroking him all over. The colt, nervous for a moment, soon settled down under the gentle voice and hand; and so found the bit which he had champed indignantly all the morning, slipped out of his mouth, and an easy-fitting halter on his head. Then came Norah, at whom he was inclined to start back, until he remembered that he had met her twice before, that she also was a person who moved quietly and had an understanding touch, and that she always carried a milk-thistle—an article delicious at all times, but especially soothing to a tired mouth, hot and sore after even the broad, easy bit Jim always used. Norah said pleasant things to him and stroked his nose while he munched the cool, juicy thistle; and then he was led to a bucket, in itself a very alarming object, until he found that it held water which tasted just as good as creek water. After that he was tied up to the fence and left to his own reflections, while the humans who were causing him so much uneasiness of mind went away, apparently that they might seek milk-thistles on their own account.

It was nearly a week since the momentous decision to go to England; and while the life of the station had apparently pursued its ordinary course, in reality preparations had gone forward swiftly. To Brownie the news had been broken gently, with the result that for twenty-four hours the poor old woman had been thrown into a condition of stupefied dismay; then, rallying herself, with caustic remarks directed inwardly on “women who hadn’t no more sense than a black-beetle,” she set herself to overhaul the various wardrobes of the family with a view to the exigencies of foreign travel. Brownie’s ideas as to what was necessary for a long voyage were remarkably vast, and included detailed preparations for every phase of climate, from Antarctic to Equatorial. Mr. Linton had finally interfered at a stage when it appeared probable that it would be needful to charter a whole ship to convey the family baggage, and had referred the question of Norah’s outfit to an aunt in Melbourne who was well skilled in providing for damsels of fifteen.

Wally had written slightly delirious letters to his guardian and his brothers in far-off Queensland, and was impatiently awaiting replies, in much agony of mind lest these should not come in time to prevent his going back to school. The end of the holidays was fast approaching; unless within a very few days permission came for him to accompany Mr. Linton’s party to England he must pack up and return meekly to class-room and playground—a hard prospect for a boy whose head fairly seethed with war, while his pockets bulged with drill-books. His ordinary sunny temperament had almost vanished as he wavered from day to day between hope and despair. To go back would be bad enough in any case; but to go back when his one chum was about to gain their hearts’ desire, taking away with him all that meant real home to the orphan lad, was a sentence worse than banishment. Jim and Norah, themselves torn with anxiety as to his fate, endeavoured to cheer him by every means in their power; but Wally watched for the mails anxiously, and refused comfort.

The question of a suitable ship was causing Mr. Linton no small perplexity. He disliked the heat of the Suez Canal route, and wished to go by South Africa; but although it was possible to decide upon a ship, and even to engage cabins, embarking was quite another matter, since any vessel was liable to Government seizure as a transport for troops. No firm of agents could guarantee the sailing of a ship. The Government was hard-pressed to find transports for the thousands of men and horses that Australia was hastily preparing to despatch to the mother-country’s aid; and many a big “floating hotel” was commandeered within a very short time of her sailing and transformed by a horde of carpenters into a troopship—losing her name and identity and becoming a mere number. No one grumbled; it was war, and war meant business. But undoubtedly it increased the difficulty of going to England, and daily Mr. Linton knitted his brows over worried letters from shipping agents extremely anxious to have the conveyance of so large a party to England, but quite unable to offer a sailing date.

Jim, meanwhile, was preparing methodically for a long absence. Under Murty O’Toole the work of the station could be trusted to go steadily forward, agents being entrusted with the buying and selling of stock. But there were a hundred threads that Jim kept ordinarily in his own hands and which, it was necessary to adjust carefully before he gave up his work. It had been the boy’s ambition to be indispensable to his father. From the day he had left school he had worked for that end, succeeding so far that David Linton, understanding and appreciating his efforts, had gradually put more and more responsibility into his hands, discussing the management of the run with him, and treating him in all ways more as a man of his own age than as a boy newly released from school. Jim was not new to the work, and he loved it; instinctively he fell into step with his father, profiting by his experience, and learning every day. “Mr. Jim’s put his mark on Billabong,” Murty said, ruefully to Mrs. Brown. “ ’Twill not be an aisy matter to rub out that same.”

For Norah the days went by like a dream. The even current of her life, that had known no break but school, was suddenly rudely disturbed. A prospect was opening before her, so vast that she was almost afraid of it. To every Australian whose parents are British-born, the old land overseas is always “home.” From childhood the desire grows to see it—to go back over the old tracks our parents trod, to visit the spots they knew, and to enjoy the share that belongs to us, as atoms of Empire, of its beauty and its tradition. It is ours, even though we be born at the other side of the world; “home”—and one day we shall go to see it. But when the day comes, even if we are older than Norah, we are very often a little afraid.

Norah was torn in more than one way. To go to England! that was beautiful, and wonderful, and mysterious; to go with Dad and Jim, and possibly Wally, who was almost as good as Jim, made the prospect in some way an unmixed delight. There would be the voyage, itself a storehouse of marvels to the little girl from the Bush; strange ports, queer people such as she had never seen, famous sights of which she had heard all her life, scarcely realising that she would ever see them. A voyage, too, with a spice of danger; there were German cruisers in the way, only too anxious to sink a fat Australian liner. It was easier to realise the excitement than the risk, at all events for people under twenty; and Norah and Jim were not quite certain that the appearance of a hostile warship might not add the last pleasing touch of exhilaration.

There was, however, another side to the picture. There was War, grim and terrible, and scarcely to be comprehended; it threatened to grip Jim and take him away, to unknown and dreadful dangers. But War was very far off, and that Jim should not come through it safely was simply not a thing to be imagined; besides which, many people thought it would be all over in a very few months—an idea which caused Jim and Wally acute uneasiness. They had no desire for “the show” to be finished before they arrived to take a hand.

Then there was Billabong; and at the thought of leaving that dearest place in the world, Norah’s heart used to sink within her. Each time she caught sight of Brownie’s face unawares a fresh pang smote her. Brownie was playing the game manfully, and wore in public an air of laboured cheerfulness that would not have deceived a baby; but when she fancied no eye was upon her, the mask slipped off, and her old face grew haggard with the knowledge of all that the coming parting meant to her. Norah had never known her mother. Brownie had taken her, a helpless mite, from the arms that were too weak to hold her any more; and since that day she had striven that the baby the little mistress had left to her care should never realise all she had lost.

Norah did not realise it at all. Her life had not led her much among girls with mothers, though she knew instinctively that they were lucky girls, it was beyond her power to think herself unlucky. For she had always had Billabong, and Jim, and Dad: Dad, who was splendid above all people, being father, and mother, and mate in one. She did not miss anything, because she did not fully understand. Brownie had been always at hand to supply a kind of mothering that had seemed to Norah very effective; and Norah paid her back with a wealth of hearty young affection that made the old woman’s chief joy on earth. Now her nursling was going out of her life, so far that her imagination could not follow her, and unknown dangers would be in her path. They were hard days for Brownie; and Norah, knowing just how hard they were, was heavy-hearted herself at the sight of the brave old face.

Nor was it easy to leave Billabong itself, seeing that no place could possibly be so good in Norah’s eyes. Home had always spelt perfection to her; and its simple, free life—the outdoor life of the Bush, with dogs and horses a part of one’s daily existence, the work of the station better than any game ever invented, and always the sense that one was helping—surely there could be nothing better. If there were, it was beyond the imagination of the daughter of the Bush. So, notwithstanding the fascination of their future plans, Norah clung to each day that was left to her of Billabong, and tried to act as though England were as dim and misty a prospect as it had always been.

Wally ate his lunch with a sober air that sat queerly on his usually merry face. The mail, to which he had been eagerly looking forward, had not arrived; but there was a telephone message from the newspaper office in Cunjee, the nearest township, giving more particulars of the fierce fighting of the early days of the war, and of Great Britain’s insistent call for recruits. The first Australian contingent of twenty thousand men was reported ready to go; there were rumours more or less vague, of warships, British, Japanese, and French, waiting at various ports in each state, to convoy the troopships; but these were only rumours, for the newspapers were not allowed to publish any information that might possibly be utilised by German spies—one of whom was said to have been caught at his pretty seaside home, near Port Phillip Heads, with an excellently equipped wireless in action. Every one was on the watch, and suspicious characters found themselves of unpleasant interest to the police. Small boys in the cities constituted themselves detectives and “shadowed” unfortunate and inoffensive people whose names chanced to sound “foreign,” on the principle that anything foreign might be German, and anything German was to be severely dealt with. Altogether, there was much excitement; and the station book-keeper, who had taken the telephone message, declared his intention of enlisting.

“Another item to be replaced before I can go,” said Mr. Linton, a trifle ruefully. “And Green knows his work, which is more than one can say for most book-keepers. Still, I’m glad he’s going. He’s young and strong, and has no ties; and no man with those qualifications has any right to be rounding his shoulders over station ledgers nowadays.”

“He can’t ride for nuts,” said Wally, despondently, “and as for shooting—well, did you ever see him try? It’s awfully risky for anyone who goes out with him, but very safe for the game.”

“Oh, he’ll learn,” Mr. Linton said. “He needn’t ride—and shooting can be taught. Why this sudden outburst against poor Green, Wally?”

Wally looked abashed.

“I didn’t mean to run Green down,” he explained. “He’ll be all right, sir, of course. I only meant it was hard luck to think they’ll take him, and they won’t take me—and I’m partly trained, at any rate. Silly asses! I’ve been wondering if I got a false moustache—a very little one, of course—would I pass for twenty, do you think?”

The Linton family shouted with joy.

“Oh, do, Wally!” Norah begged. “It would drop off in the riding tests, and everyone would be so interested.”

“Great idea,” Jim said. “But why a little one, old man? You might as well have one with a good curl—and a pair of side whiskers of the drooping variety. They’d lend a heap of dignity to your expression.”

“Get out!” said the victim, sheepishly. “All very well for you to jibe—you’re certain of going just because you’re older. And goodness knows you haven’t half as much sense!”—modestly. “Wait till you get into a regiment at home and they give you a platoon to handle, and see you tie it into knots!”

“Well, you’ll be somewhere handy to take some of the colonel’s wrath,” said Jim, comfortably.

“Wish I were sure of it,” Wally answered, his face falling. “I can’t make out why they don’t write; Edward may be up country, but there’s been quite time to get an answer from that blessed old slowcoach, Mr. Dimsdale. He said he was sorry I couldn’t get into the contingent, but he’s quite likely to change his mind now that I’ve really a chance. Guardians are like that!” And Wally, whose chief experience of his guardian had been occasional glimpses of a benevolent old gentleman who paid his bills promptly and tipped him twice a year, sighed as though his youth had been one long persecution.

“Oh, he’ll be quite meek, you’ll see,” said Jim. “Give them time—Queensland is a long way from Billabong. We’re not going without you, if we have to kidnap you, old man.” He rose from the table. “I must get back to my patient; I expect he thinks he’s had enough post-and-rails by now.”

The chestnut colt was looking sleepy, as though a post-and-rail diet had a sedative effect. He backed and snorted as Jim came up to him, and Jim stopped and talked to him soothingly until he was quiet enough not to resent a caressing hand on his neck, and presently the bridle slipped on so gently that he scarcely noticed it.

“Good lad,” said Jim. “Come and hold his head, Wally, while I tighten up the girths.”

Wally came, and the broad, soft leather girth was adjusted deftly, the colt making no further protest than to walk round several times. Jim ran his eye over him.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Take care, old man, in case he goes to market.”

Suddenly, quickly, but quietly, he was in the saddle, and his feet home in the stirrups. The colt stood stock-still, apparently petrified with astonishment. Wally took himself unobtrusively out of the way, joining Mr. Linton and Norah on the cap of the fence.

Jim leaned forward, patting the colt.

“Go on, stupid.” He touched the chestnut neck gently with the rein, and the colt took a few uncertain steps forward, coming to a standstill in bewilderment. The watchers on the fence were very quiet. Behind Jim two new faces appeared, as Murty O’Toole and Black Billy climbed to good positions.