Title: From Billabong to London
Author: Bruce, Mary Grant
Language: English
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[Illustration: “‘Why!—it’s some one signalling!’” (Page 145.)]

           _From Billabong to London_]         [_Frontispiece_



                                F R O M
                           B I L L A B O N G
                           T O   L O N D O N



                                   BY
                           MARY  GRANT  BRUCE
             _Author of “Mates at Billabong,” “Glen Eyre,”_
                     _“Timothy in Bushland,” etc._

           W A R D ,   L O C K   &   C O . ,   L I M I T E D
                    LONDON,  MELBOURNE  AND  TORONTO



                               CONTENTS.


        CHAPTER                                              PAGE
            I.  —  HOLIDAYS AT BILLABONG...................     9
           II.  —  UPHEAVALS...............................    24
          III.  —  OF A CHESTNUT BABY......................    42
           IV.  —  A BILLABONG DAY.........................    66
            V.  —  GOOD-BYE................................    91
           VI.  —  SETTLING DOWN...........................   105
          VII.  —  OF FISHES AND THE SEA...................   120
         VIII.  —  WHAT NORAH SAW..........................   140
           IX.  —  DETECTIVE WORK..........................   152
            X.  —  THE EMPTY CABIN.........................   166
           XI.  —  DURBAN..................................   178
          XII.  —  EXPLORING...............................   199
         XIII.  —  WHAT CAME OF EXPLORING..................   210
          XIV.  —  GOOD-BYE TO DURBAN......................   223
           XV.  —  MIST AND MOONLIGHT......................   237
          XVI.  —  WAR!....................................   253
         XVII.  —  WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT................   271
        XVIII.  —  LAS PALMAS..............................   285
          XIX.  —  THE END OF THE VOYAGE...................   297
           XX.  —  THE THING THAT COUNTS...................   307



                            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.



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

           _From Billabong to London_]              [_Page 11_



                              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.

“Baal that pfeller him goin’ to buck, mine thinkit,” said Billy, in low
tones of disappointment. “Him get walk about too much.”

“You let Mr. Jim alone, you black image of a haythen,” said Mr. O’Toole,
affably. “Think you can teach him how to break in a horse?”

“Not much,” said Billy, accepting the epithet and the criticism
cheerfully. “But mine like ’em buck—plenty! Wish Master Jim him wear
spurs.”

“Spurs—on that chestnut baby!” ejaculated Murty, in subdued accents of
horror. “Is it to butcher him ye’d like, then? Sure ye think every horse
needs as much encouragement as y’r old Bung-Eye. Sorra the horse I’d
give you to break, barring it was a camel; I’m told them needs
persuasion.”

“That pfeller mare Bung-Eye no good,” said Billy, scornfully—the
ancient piebald mare on which many of his duties were carried out, was
the chief bitterness of his life. “Mine thinkit she bin fall down—die,
plenty soon.”

“Not she!” chuckled Murty. “Don’t you hope it, me lad. Boss bin tell me
’tis Bung-Eye for you until you learn to ride a bit—if you ever do, an’
that’s no certainty, I’m thinking.” Then, as the outraged aborigine
turned his eyes upon him in speechless wrath, Murty grinned in friendly
fashion. “Never mind—there’s a quiet old pony mare running down in the
Far Plain, and we’ll see if you can’t have a thrifle of a turn on her,
if you’re good.”

Billy spluttered.

“Boss him bin say I could ride one of the young ones,” he protested.
Whatever Billy could or could not do, he could sit any horse that had
ever been handled. He had a wild, primeval desire to smite the broad,
good-humoured face grinning at him.

“The Boss said that, do ye say? Me poor lad, ye’ve misunderstood
him—‘twas to lead one about he meant!” Murty’s tone changed suddenly
and his smile faded. “Yerra now—look at that one!” he uttered.

The chestnut colt had made several unquiet attempts at progressing round
the yard. The weight on his back troubled him; there was a feeling
pervading him that he was being mastered, although he could no longer
see his conqueror. When he tried to break into a jog-trot there came on
his mouth a steady strain, gentle but quite determined, bringing him
instantly to a puzzled standstill. Then came a hint that more movement
was required of him—that he was expected to walk. But his mind was far
too excited for him to think of walking; he wanted to jog, to trot—to
break into a wild gallop that would rid him for ever of this strange,
perplexing Presence on his back. He came to a halt again, snorting.

“Go on, old chap!” Jim’s unspurred heel touched his side gently.

A sudden wild impulse came upon the colt. He flung himself forward,
plunging violently—snatched at the restraining bit, felt the strain on
his mouth and the pressure on his sides as Jim stiffened a little in his
seat; and then, quivering with one mad desire to be free, his head went
down and he bucked furiously. To the onlookers he seemed like a
ball—his head and tail tucked between his legs, his back humped until
the rider seemed perched upon the very apex. To and fro he went in one
paroxysm after another; writhing, twisting, pounding across yard until
brought up by the fence; coming to a standstill with a jerk after a wild
fit of bucking and then flinging himself into another yet more wild. Jim
sat him easily, his supple body giving a little to each furious bound,
but never shifting in the saddle. The five on the fence-cap watched him
breathlessly; however secure the rider may be there is a never-failing
excitement in watching a determined buck-jumper. And the chestnut was
bucking with a determination worthy of his good breeding.

He stopped suddenly, all four feet planted wide apart, panting heavily,
with nostrils dilated. For a moment it seemed as though he had enough.
Then his head went down again, he sprang into the air, bounding forward
with a sudden twist—the hardest buck of all to sit. It was too much for
the chestnut himself. As he landed he crossed his fore-feet, tripped,
and went headlong to the ground. A little cry broke from Norah, and
Wally drew in his breath sharply.

David Linton was off the fence almost before his son touched the earth.
Jim kicked his feet out of the stirrups as the colt tripped, and was
flung clear, not relinquishing his hold on the bridle. He landed easily,
and was up again as quickly as he had gone down, dusty but uninjured.
The chestnut lay on his side, panting, for a moment; then, with a
scramble, he came awkwardly to his feet. As he rose, Jim slipped into
the saddle. The whole incident was over so speedily that it seemed like
a trick of the imagination. David Linton gave an inaudible sigh of
relief, climbing back to his place on the cap of the rail.

The chestnut was beaten. He had done his worst, culminating in a display
that had shaken and alarmed him a good deal and had made his shoulder
ache badly; and the Presence on his back had not seemed disturbed at
all. It was evident that nothing could be done to annoy him; at the end
of a period which had been exceedingly trying for the colt himself, the
Presence was quite unruffled; not angry, not in any way moved, but
saying soothing things in his quiet voice, and patting his neck in the
same friendly way. The colt gave it up. Evidently it was prudent and
simpler to do as the Presence desired since in the long run it came to
the same thing, after much personal inconvenience if he resisted. The
fire died out of his wild eye, and the stiffness of his muscles relaxed.
In a moment he answered the rein meekly, and walked round the yard; and
when he found that he was expected to increase the pace to a trot, did
so awkwardly enough, but without any resistance.

Jim trotted him for a few minutes, pulled him up, and slipped to the
ground, talking to him, and patting the wet neck. Then he grinned up at
the trio on the fence.

“He’ll do now, I think,” he said. “That last outburst took all the
inquiring spirit out of him. You know, he hasn’t one little bit of vice;
he only wanted to know who was boss.”

“Did he hurt you, Jimmy?” Norah asked.

“Not a scrap, thanks. I’m awfully sorry the poor little chap came
down—it scared him. But he had to find out; and now we’ll be first-rate
friends—won’t we, old man?” This to the chestnut, who hung his head
meekly and looked comically like a naughty little boy released from the
corner. “Hope we didn’t give you a fright?”

“You were too quickly down and up for us to have much time for that,”
said his father, disguising the fact that in a moment of paternal
weakness he had moved with equal rapidity.

“There’s a lot of the tennis-ball in our Jimmy,” said Wally, bringing
his long legs over the fence and descending to earth. “Can’t keep him
down—what a nasty bit he’ll be for a solid, earnest German to tackle!
Going to rub him down, Jim?”

“Yes—bring me the things, Billy, and take this saddle,” Jim said,
addressing the dusky retainer, who hovered near, armed with cloths and
brushes. “No, I’ll do it myself, thanks; I want him to get thoroughly
used to me. Got a thistle for him, Norah?” And for the next quarter of
an hour the colt’s toilet proceeded with a thoroughness bent on
impressing the pupil with the knowledge that the human touch was really
a comforting thing and led to a tired chestnut baby ultimately feeling
good all over.

“There you are,” said Jim, giving him a final pat as he slipped off the
halter and watched him trot off into the freedom of the paddock. “When
you find out what to do with your legs and arrive at something
resembling a mouth, you’ll be worth riding. And now I’m going to give
myself a treat by getting on Garryowen and going to see how the fencers
are working in the new subdivision; they want a cheque on account, and I
want to see if they have earned it, before they get it. Who’s coming?”

“Me,” said Norah, with great and ungrammatical fervour.

“And me,” said Wally.

Jim looked at his father.

“Oh, well, we haven’t much more Billabong time left,” said David Linton,
smiling. “Me, too, I suppose.”



[Illustration: “Jim stiffened a little in his seat.”]

           _From Billabong to London_]              [_Page 62_



                              CHAPTER IV.


                            A BILLABONG DAY.

ONE of the men had found an injured wallaby in an outlying paddock. It
had caught in a sagging fence-wire, and broken its leg; the man, engaged
in restoring the fence to tautness, had found it lying helpless and
starving in a hollow. He was Murty O’Toole, and so he did not knock the
soft-eyed little beast on the head, as most stockmen would have done.
Murty had an Irishman’s tender heart. Besides, he knew Norah.

“Poor little baste!” he said, picking up the wallaby gently. It made no
resistance, but its great eyes were terrified, and he could feel the
thumping of its heart. He whistled over it. “Well, well—the treachery
of that barbed-wire! Broken, is it then; and me with never a thing to
mend ye! Well, Miss Norah ’ll be glad of the chance; she an’ Mr. Jim ’ll
make a job of ye, an’ they afther learnin’ first-aid, near as good as
doctors. Come along home now, an’ get fixed up.”

Norah had welcomed the invalid with enthusiasm. She had always kept tame
wallaby, which make one of the best Bush pets; and this one was a very
pretty specimen, the more attractive because of its helplessness and
pain. Jim set the broken leg deftly, and Norah took over the care of the
patient, which soon grew quite fearless and healed with the clean
thoroughness characteristic of wild animals. Before long it could hop
about the sheltered enclosure where it lived, never failing to limp to
meet her when she came to feed it.

The wallaby’s midday dinner was late to-day, since a job of mustering in
an outlying paddock had kept everyone out far beyond the usual luncheon
hour. Norah had hurried through the meal, excusing herself before the
others had finished, so that she might go to her patient. She was coming
back through the sunny garden, swinging her empty milk-tin, when a
curious sight met her gaze.

On the first verandah were two revolving figures; one immensely fat, the
other so thin that he seemed lost in the capacious embrace of the first.
As she came nearer, looking with puzzled eyes, it was evident that they
were Mrs. Brown and Wally; and that Mrs. Brown was not, indeed, the
embracer, but the most unwillingly embraced. From the open window of the
smoking-room came the voice of the gramophone, playing a waltz in time
more suited to an Irish jig; to which melody Wally was endeavouring to
tune his laggard partner’s footsteps. The unfortunate Brownie, purple of
face, did her best; but, for a lady weighing seventeen stone, the task
of emulating Wally would not have been easy at any time—and just now
Wally appeared to be compounded of quicksilver and electricity. His long
legs fairly twinkled; he gambolled and caracoled rather than danced.
Glimpses of his countenance, seen over Brownie’s shoulder as he twirled,
showed a vision of delirious joy. At the window behind him was Jim’s
face, scarcely less joyous. Mr. Linton, grinning broadly, was in a
doorway.

“Oh, Wally, aren’t you an ass?” Norah ejaculated, helpless with
laughter. “Brownie, dear, don’t let him kill you!”

“If she dies, it will be in a good cause,” Wally returned.
“Nevertheless, a substitute will do, and you’re a light-weight, Norah.
Thank you, ma’am”—to Mrs. Brown, whom he deposited in a chair, where
she subsided gaspingly. “Come along, Norah—let her go, Jim!” He seized
his hostess, and they spun up the verandah in a mad waltz, the wallaby’s
milk-can, which she had not had time to drop, banging cheerful time.

The gramophone having come to the end of its tether, ended in a
scratching howl, and Jim disappeared precipitately from the window.
Wally came to a standstill regretfully.

“I could have gone on for quite a while,” he uttered. “Bother you,
Jimmy—why couldn’t you keep her wound? Before we begin again, Norah, do
you mind laying aside that tin? It’s full of corners.”

“I’m not going to begin again,” said Norah, firmly, “so don’t delude
yourself. Now will you tell me why you’ve suddenly gone mad?” Then her
eye caught a leather bag lying open on the floor, and her face suddenly
flushed with delight. “Oh, Wally, it’s the mail—and you can go!”

“Of course it is,” Wally said, almost indignantly. “Do you think any
other cause could have induced me to waltz with Brownie at this hour of
day, no matter how much she wanted it?” There came a protesting gurgle
from Brownie, to which no one lent hearing.

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Norah caught Wally’s hand, and they pumped each other
enthusiastically. “I knew it must be all right, all the time, of
course—but it’s lovely to be sure. Were they nice, Wally?”

“Sweet as old pie,” said Wally, happily. “Mr. Dimsdale had waited to
communicate with Edward—and Edward was infesting a sugar mill somewhere
in the cane districts, and appeared to have taken special precautions to
dodge letters. However, he telegraphed to Mr. Dimsdale as soon as he did
hear—and he’s sent me an awfully jolly letter, and one to your father.
And old Dimmy’s written in his best style, giving me his blessing. And
they’ve sent word to school—won’t the Head kick! And they’ve fixed up
money. And everything’s glorious. Have another waltz, Brownie?”

“No, indeed, thank you kindly,” said Brownie, hastily, grasping the arms
of her chair in the manner affected by those about to have a tooth
pulled. “Me figure’s against it, Mr. Wally, my dear, and it isn’t hardly
fair. If the day ever comes when you’re seventeen stone, you’ll
know—not as it seems likely, but you can’t be sure, and I was thin once
meself. Came on me like a blush—and me that active! Ah, well, I’ll be
thin enough with worry by the time you’re all safe home again.”

“Rubbish, Brownie,” said Jim, and smiled at her affectionately. “You and
Murty will be so busy managing the place that you won’t have time to
think of worry.”

“And there’ll be letters every week,” Norah added. “We’ll have such
heaps to tell you. And you’ll have to write to us.”

“Me!” said Brownie, visibly shuddering at the prospect. “Gettin’
letters’ll be all we’ll have to look forward to, Miss Norah, my
dear—but when it comes to writing them, it’s another thing. I never was
’andy at the pen, as you know. In my day our mothers thought a sight
more of making us ’andy about the house and with a cooking-stove. Girls
is very different nowadays. Even Mary and Sarah, though goodness knows
I’ve done me best with them.”

“Oh, they’re quite good girls,” said Mr. Linton. “They should be, too,
after the years you’ve trained them.”

“And they’ll write and say all you want if you’re tired, Brownie
darling,” Norah put in.

“I dunno,” said Brownie, despondently, “I’m stupid enough writing
myself, but I’d be stupider yet dealing with a—what is it, Mr. Jim
dear, when it’s someone as writes for you? Something about ham.”

“Amanuensis?” hazarded Jim.

“Yes, that’s it. No, I’ll have to do my own letters, an’ they’ll be bad
enough. You’ll have to excuse them, dearie.”

“The only thing I wouldn’t excuse would be not getting them,” Norah
answered. “I’ve had them whenever I was away at school, and you know I
can’t do without them, Brownie. Why, you tell me things no one else even
thinks of. And I’ll want home letters more than ever when I’m really
away from Australia. It was bad enough when I was at school; but to be
as far away from Billabong as England——” Norah stopped expressively.

“You’ll have all I can send you, my precious,” said Brownie tearfully.
“I s’pose it’s no good for me to make up a hamper now and then? Me
plum-cakes’ll keep a year!”

“I only wish it were,” said Jim. “Your hampers have brightened my life
from my youth up, Brownie—not that I ever gave one of your cakes a
chance to keep three days! But I expect we’ll have to wait until we come
home again. One thing’s quite certain, we’ll all be ready for your
cooking when we come back.”

“Bless his heart!” said Brownie. It was plain that comforting visions of
a culinary orgie of welcome were already materialising in her mind.
“It’ll be a great day for the station when we get you all again—and be
sure you bring Mr. Wally too. I’ll have pikelets ready for you, Mr.
Wally!”

“I’ll think of them, Brownie,” said Wally, his voice very kindly. “And
anyhow, one of the best things about getting back will be to see your
old face again. There now, I’ve made a sentimental speech. Take me away
Jim, and give me some work.”

“Haven’t any,” Jim answered, lazily. “You forget I’ve been out since
daylight, old man—at an hour when I believe you were snoring musically,
I was giving the chestnut an early morning lesson. He went jolly well
too; easy as a rocking-chair. Now it’s three o’clock and I’m thinking of
claiming the eight-hours-day of the honest Australian working-man.”

“Well, it’s not often you limit yourself to it,” his father said.

“Don’t encourage him, sir,” Wally remarked. “Family affection doubtless
blinds you to the idleness which has so long grieved me in your son’s
character——”

“Losh!” said Jim, in astonishment. He rose, and fell upon the hapless
Mr. Meadows, conveying him to the lawn, where they rolled over together
like a pair of St. Bernard puppies. Finally Jim, somewhat dishevelled,
sat up on the prostrate form of his friend.

“I don’t mind your maligning me at all,” he said. “But when you take to
talking like a copy-book, it’s time someone dealt with you, young
Wally.” He shifted his position, thereby eliciting a smothered howl from
the victim. “You needn’t think that because you’re going to the war you
can make orations. Not here, anyhow.”

“Take him off, somebody—Norah!” came from the earth, in a voice much
impeded by grass.

“Indeed, I won’t—you have me pained, as Murty says,” replied Norah
callously. “He never did anything to you that you should talk in that
awful way. You might be your own grandmother!”

“You’re not a nice family!” said Wally, gaspingly. He achieved a violent
convulsion, and Jim, taken off his guard, lost his balance and fell
over—of which his adversary was not slow to take advantage. The battle
that followed was interrupted by the hasty arrival of Billy, his ebony
countenance showing unusual signs of excitement. The tangled mass of
arms and legs on the lawn resolved itself into its original parts, and
Jim endeavoured to appear the manager of Billabong, even with much grass
in his hair.

“What is it, Billy?”

“Murty him send me,” Billy explained. “Big pfeller shorthorn bullock him
bogged in swamp—baal us get him out. Want rope an’ horses.”

“Where?”

“Far Plain. That pfeller silly-fool bullock—him just walk in boggy
place. Big one—nearly fat.”

Jim whistled.

“Nice game getting him out will be. Well, you’ve got your job, Wally,
old man, and if you take my advice, you’ll borrow some of my dungarees
to tackle it. There’ll be much mud. Billy, you run up old Nugget and put
a collar and trace chains on him, and lead him out. Take some
bags—we’ll bring ropes. Tell one of the boys to saddle our
horses—they’re in the stable.”

“Can I come, Jim?” Norah asked.

“Yes, of course; but you can’t very well help, so your habit will be all
right; good thing you hadn’t got out of it,” said Jim casting a glance
at his sister’s neat divided skirt and blue serge coat. “You might cut
along, if you’re ready, and hurry up the horses; Wally and I must go and
change.” The boys clattered into the hall and up the stairs.

Mr. Linton, who had retreated to his office, came out at the noise.

“Anything the matter, Norah?”

Norah explained briefly, securing her felt hat the while.

“H’m,” said her father. “No, I won’t come out, I think Jim and Murty can
manage without me; and Green and I are up to our eyes in the books. Take
care of yourself, my daughter.” He returned to the society of the
warlike Green, while Norah raced across to the stables.

A rather small lad of sixteen, a newcomer whom Murty was endeavouring to
train in the place of one of the enlisted stockmen, was trying to saddle
Jim’s big bay, Garryowen—an attempt easily defeated by Garryowen by the
simple process of walking round and round him. Norah came to his
assistance, and the horses were ready by the time Jim and Wally, clad in
suits of blue dungaree, ran over from the house.

“Good girl,” said Jim, well understanding that the new boy would not
have finished the task unaided. He dashed into the harness-room,
returning with two coils of strong rope, which he tied firmly to his
saddle. Norah and Wally were already mounted and out of the stable-yard.

There was a keen westerly wind in their faces as they cantered steadily
across the paddocks. Billabong was looking its worst; the drought had
laid heavy hands upon it, and its beauty had vanished. On every side the
plains stretched away, broken here and there by belts of timber or by
the long, grey, snake-like lines of fencing. The trees were the only
green thing visible, since Australian forest trees do not shed their
leaves; but they looked old and faded, and here and there a dead one
stood grey and lonely, like a gaunt sentinel. Grey too were the plains;
their withered grass merged into the one dull colour. It was sparse and
dry; even though the season was winter, a little cloud of dust followed
the riders’ track.

They crossed the river by a rough log bridge, built by Mr. Linton and
his men from trees felled by the stream. The dry logs clattered under
the horses’ feet. Looking up and down stream the water showed only a
shrunken remnant of its usual width, with boggy patches of half-dried
mud between the thin trickle and the dusty banks, where withered docks
reared gaunt brown stems. Even the riverside was dull and lifeless. But
the wattle-trees, bravely defying the drought, already showed among
their dark-green masses of foliage the buds that hinted at the
spring-time shower of gold.

“This time last year,” said Jim, “the river came down in flood, and all
but washed this bridge away.”

“It doesn’t look much like a flood now,” Wally remarked, surveying the
apology for a river with disfavour.

“No—it’s hard to imagine that it was over the banks and half across
these paddocks. By Jove, we had a busy time!” Jim said, reminiscently.
“It came down quite suddenly; it was pretty high to begin with, and then
a big storm brought a lot of snow off the mountains, and whish! down
came the old river. We had sheep in these paddocks, and saving them
wasn’t an easy job. Sheep are such fools.”

“Sheep and turkey-hens,” said Norah, “have between them an extraordinary
amount of idiocy.”

“They have,” agreed her brother. “Our blessed old Shrops. decided that
they would like to die—so, instead of clearing out on the rises at the
far side of the paddocks, they camped on little hills near the river;
and, of course, the water came all round them, and there they were,
stranded on chilly little islands, surrounded by a healthy brown flood.
Some slipped in and were drowned; the rest huddled together, and bleated
in an injured way, as if they hadn’t had a thing to do with getting
themselves into the fix.”

“Could you get them off?” Wally asked.

“Oh, most of them. Where the flood wasn’t very deep we just drove the
big cart in and loaded them into it. It was too deep in a lot of places,
and we had to get the old flat-bottomed boat from the lagoon near the
house and go paddling over the paddocks. That was all right, but the
stupid brutes wouldn’t let themselves be saved, if they could help it;
whether it was cart or boat they disliked it equally, and we had to swim
after half of them—they simply hurled themselves into the water rather
than be rescued. And when it comes to life-saving in pretty turbulent
flood-water, you can’t find anything much more unpleasantly awkward than
a big woolly Shropshire, very indignant at not being allowed to drown.”

“Jolly sort of job,” commented Wally. “Water cold?”

Jim gave a shiver of remembrance.

“Well, it was chiefly snow-water,” he answered “I don’t want to strike
anything much colder. We were in and out of it all day for three days
and the wonder was that some of us didn’t die—poor old Murty finished
up with a shocking bad cold. My share was earache, and that was bad
enough. But we had a job the week after that was nearly as exciting.”

“What was that?”

“Well, the flood-water went back, leaving a line of débris right across
the paddock—a solid belt of rubbish about six feet wide, made of reeds,
and sticks and leaves, and all the small stuff the water could gather up
as it came over the grass. Dry reeds were the basis of it—there must
have been tons of them. Then we had a few days of early spring
weather—you know those queer little bursts of almost hot days we get
sometimes. I was standing still on this layer of rubbish one morning,
looking at a bullock across the paddock when I felt something on my
leg—looked down, and it was a tiger-snake!”

“Whew-w!” whistled Wally.

“Only a little chap—but any tiger-snake is big enough to be nasty,” Jim
said. “It seemed puzzled by my leather gaiter; I kicked it off and
picked up a stick to kill it. And I nearly picked up another snake!”

“Some people are never satisfied,” Wally said, severely. “Were you
trying to qualify for a snake-charmer?”

“Not much—I can’t stand the brutes,” Jim answered. “I killed those two
and then went hunting among the rubbish—and do you know, it was simply
alive with snakes! The flood had brought them, I suppose, and the warm
sun had encouraged them to come out; anyhow, there they were, and a nice
job we had getting rid of them. I killed eight or ten more, and then it
struck me that the occupation was likely to last some time, so I went
home to lunch, and brought the men out afterwards. We had to turn over
every bit of that rubbish with forks—it was too damp to burn—and I
forget how many snakes we got altogether, but it was enough to stock a
menagerie a good many times over. Beastly game—we all saw snakes for a
week after it was finished, and I dreamed of them every night.”

“I should think you did,” Wally said, with sympathy. “Did any one get
bitten?”

“No—they were all pretty small and very sleepy. I daresay they thought
it was a little rough on them; after all, they hadn’t asked to be
brought from their happy homes and dumped out on the plain. But a
snake’s a snake,” finished Jim, emphatically. “It doesn’t pay you to
show mercy to one because he’s small.”

“It does not; he grows up, and bites you,” said Wally, grimly, referring
to a painful episode in his own career.

“Indeed, he doesn’t always wait until he grows up,” Norah put in. “Even
a baby tiger-snake can be venomous enough to be unpleasant. I don’t know
why snakes exist at all; they say everything has its uses, but I never
can see what use there is in the snake tribe.”

“Neither can I—unpleasant brutes!” Wally agreed. “You get used to them,
but you never learn to love them—unless you’re a freak. I knew an old
swagman in Queensland who made pets of them, though. He had a collection
of about a dozen, which he said were poisonous, but I believe, myself,
he’d taken out their fangs.”

“If he hadn’t, it’s the sort of thing nobody waits to prove,” Jim said.
“You have to investigate a snake pretty closely before you find out if
he has fangs or not; and if he has, the enquiry is apt to be unhealthy
for you.”

“That’s so,” agreed Wally. “No one ever waited to investigate old
Moriarty’s serpents. He made them pay very well; he would run up a good
big bill at a hotel, and borrow as much money as he could from men who
were there, drinking; and then he would pull out his snakes in a casual
way in a crowded bar-room. Well, it used to work like a charm—most men
can tackle a snake or two in a room, but when it comes to seeing a dozen
squirming in different ways, people are likely to get rattled. Old
Moriarty could clear out a room in quicker time than any fire-alarm. The
bar-lady, if she didn’t escape with the first rush, would faint, or have
a ladylike fit of hysterics; and by the time anyone collected enough
presence of mind to return, Moriarty would be far away, generally
helping himself to a couple of bottles of whisky as he went.”

“Horrid old pig!” was Norah’s comment.

“He wasn’t a nice man,” Wally agreed. “Still I suppose you might call
him a genius in his own particular line. Anyway, he travelled all over
Southern Queensland, leaving behind him a trail of memories of serpents
and missing cash.”

“What became of him?” Jim asked.

“What I believe becomes of every crank who goes in for
snake-catching—he got bitten at last. He lost his snakes one by one;
you see, quite often one or two would get killed when he let them loose
in a bar, if they happened to wriggle up against a man who was sober and
had his stockwhip handy. Then he tried the trick once too often; he came
to a place where there was a drover who had seen him play his game in
another township, and this fellow warned everyone else, and told them he
was sure the snakes were really harmless. So when Moriarty let them go,
everyone was ready, and nobody fled—but in about two minutes there
wasn’t a live wriggler left of all his stock-in-trade.”

“That was awkward for Moriarty,” Jim remarked “What did he do? Was he
wild?”

“I guess he was pretty wild. But from all we could hear, he hadn’t a
chance to do anything, because things became so actively unpleasant for
him. The drover was one from whom he’d borrowed money previously; and he
knew there was no chance of getting it back, so he was annoyed. He told
the story of Moriarty’s misdeeds until everyone else felt annoyed too,
and they ducked the old sinner in a horse-trough outside, and then
escorted him gently but firmly from the township, riding him on a
fence-rail. It was summer, so it really didn’t hurt him, but it
discouraged him.”

“Still, he went catching snakes again?” Norah asked.

“Oh, yes. I suppose he felt they were his only friends; they must have
twin-souls to a certain extent. If a snake wasn’t your natural affinity
you couldn’t go about with it in your pocket, could you?”

“I don’t expect you could,” said Jim, laughing. “I can’t imagine doing
it under any circumstances whatever; but there’s no accounting for
tastes, and your Moriarty seems to have been an unusual gentleman. I
suppose he felt lonely without his pets. One would.”

“One certainly would,” Wally assented. “Fancy a dozen of ’em wriggling
about you! Anyhow, Moriarty went off into the bush after more, and had
pretty good hunting; he turned up on our station with five or six. Of
course, he behaved all right there, and didn’t attempt to show them
unless he was asked—and, of course, we youngsters were as keen as
mustard to see them. We always enjoyed a visit from Moriarty, and he
used to be very careful with the snakes, not to run any risks for us. He
was really quite a decent old chap, except for whisky; when he couldn’t
get any you might have easily mistaken him for a respectable citizen.”

“Is that the kind you keep in Queensland?” enquired Jim, grinning.

“Don’t know,” returned Wally, evenly—“they wouldn’t let me mix in
respectable circles since I took to associating with you. However,
Moriarty stayed with us a few days, and then went off into the bush
again, saying he wanted more snakes. We never saw him again, poor old
chap; but one of the boundary-riders came upon his body a few days
later.”

“Dead?”

“Oh, yes, quite dead. He had evidently been bitten by a snake. He had a
theory that if one did bite him, it wouldn’t hurt him, and he’d always
said that he wouldn’t do anything to cure himself—that he was too tough
for poison to hurt him. All these snake-charming idiots say that sort of
thing. Well, old Moriarty found out his mistake, as they all do—too
late.”

“Poor old chap!” said Norah.

“Yes—we were all jolly sorry for old Moriarty. Of course, he was really
an absolute reprobate; but he always behaved decently on our station,
and he used to be jolly kind to us boys. We were lonely kids, and the
place was at the back of beyond—hardly a soul ever came there, and we
welcomed Moriarty’s visits tremendously. He was such an unusual animal.
Ah, well, rest his sowl, as Murty would say. I don’t suppose he’d have
done any good with himself, so perhaps it was as well he went out.”

They had been riding through a belt of sparse growing timber, the track
marked by the wheels of the bullock-drays that were sent to bring
firewood to the homestead. Now they emerged upon an open plain, where
quicker going was possible. Just ahead was Billy, jogging along upon the
hated Bung-Eye, whose piebald sides bore many marks of his spurs. He was
leading a heavy black horse; one of the generally useful “slaves” to be
found on any station, capable of being used as hack or stock-horse, in
buggy, cart, or plough, and equally handy in any capacity. It was said
of Nugget that in an emergency he was quite agreeable to pulling a load
with his tail; and it was known that by means of a halter fastened to
that useful appendage he had once “skull-dragged“ a jibbing horse home.
Nothing came amiss to him. If he had a temper, it was never shown. In
good seasons or bad, he throve, and under no circumstances was he sick
or sorry. His breeding was extremely doubtful, but in all that matters
he was a perfect gentleman.

Billy looked enviously at the unhampered riders as they swept past him.
He hated slow progress; to him, as to most natives, a horse was a thing
which should be kept at a high speed, and it was the sorrow of his life
that the work demanded of him very often meant quiet going. It was bad
enough to have to jog over the paddocks on lazy old Bung-Eye, leading
Nugget, heavy-footed and with trace-chains clanking dismally, without
being forced to watch these cheerful people tear by him on horses that
he would have bartered most of his small worldly possessions to ride. He
jerked Nugget’s leading-rein angrily, whereof the old black horse took
not the slightest notice. Nugget was certainly not a cheerful
proposition to lead; he went at his own pace or none, and at any attempt
to hustle him he simply leaned heavily on the bit, becoming in Murty’s
phrase, “as aisy as a stone wall.” At the moment. Billy was blind to all
his undoubted moral excellences.

Half a mile across the paddock was a swampy lagoon. Ordinarily it was
fringed with a thick belt of green rushes, which made splendid cover for
black duck, and always gave good shooting in the season. Now, however,
it was half dried up, and the rushes, withered and yellow, rattled
cheerlessly in the keen wind. There was a wide expanse of dried mud near
the bank; then another expanse, deep chocolate in colour, not yet quite
dry. Beyond was the water, dotted with clumps of rushes, and looking
rather like pea-soup. The mud was deeply indented with hoof-marks. A
loud croaking of innumerable frogs filled the air.

A dozen yards from the edge stood a big shorthorn bullock, girth deep in
water. He was hopelessly bogged. From time to time he made a violent
struggle to free his legs from the mud that held them; but each attempt
only left him sunk more deeply. It was quite evident that he fully
understood the seriousness of his plight. His sides heaved with his
panting breath; his great eyes were wild with fear. Now and then he gave
a low bellow, full of anxiety.

“I’ll bet he’s cold!” said Jim, with emphasis. “The great stupid ass!
Why couldn’t he have the sense to keep out of a bog-hole like that?” He
jumped off, and proceeded to tie Garryowen’s bridle to a tree. “Been at
him long, Murty?”

“Sure I kem upon him two hours ago, an’ I’ve been doin’ me endeavours to
shift him ever since,” replied Mr. O’Toole, picking his way across the
hoof-marked mud to meet the riders. His usually cheery countenance wore
a doleful expression, and was obscured by many muddy streaks. Mud, in
fact, clothed him from head to foot; in addition to which he was
extremely wet. He cast a look at his hands, plastered and dripping.
“Sorry I can’t take the pony for ye, Miss Norah.”

“It’s all right, thank you, Murty,” Norah answered, securing Bosun. “I
wish I had known you’d been at this horrible job so long. I could have
brought you out some tea. You must be frozen.”

“Don’t you worry; I’ve something better,” said Jim, producing a flask,
at the sight of which Murty’s eyes brightened.

“Well, I’ll not be sorry for a drink,” he said, gratefully. “Cold! It’d
freeze a poley bear to be standin’ in that water; and that’s what I’ve
been doin’ these two hours, coaxin’ of that onnatural baste. Thanks, Mr.
Jim.” His teeth chattered against the silver cup as he drank.

“I knew you’d need it,” Jim said. “This isn’t a winter job. Mud deep,
Murty?”

“Och, deep as you like!” said Murty lucidly. He handed back the cup.
“’Tis good to feel that sendin’ a taste of a glow through a frozen man!
The mud’s deeper than the water, Mr. Jim—there’s mighty little of that.
Good sticky mud too; it takes a powerful grip of the boot.”

“Have you moved him at all?”

“I have not. He’s precisely where he was when I found him, barrin’ he’s
sunk deeper. I tried driving and I tried pulling; Billy an’ I got our
stirrup-leathers joined and did our divilmost to haul him out; and I’ve
beaten the poor baste most unfeeling. There’s no stirring him. So I sent
Billy in f’r ye, and I’ve been employing me time laying down logs an’
slabs all round him, the way he’ll get a howlt for his feet when we do
move him—an’ have something f’r ourselves to stand on while we’re
getting the tackling on to him. That same is needed.” Mr. O’Toole looked
down ruefully at his mud-plastered feet and legs. “Near bogged I was
meself, an’ I beltin’ him; a good thing f’r me I got a howlt on his
tail, though I expect he thought it was a misfortunit thing for him. But
it was him or me.”

“You certainly must have had a cheerful time,” Jim observed. “I’d sooner
have lots of jobs than laying down a wood pavement under water in this
weather.”

“Well, it passes the time away, an’ that’s about all you can say f’r
it,” said Murty, grimly. “Here’s that black image. ’Twas all I wished
wan of us had been on old Nugget—we’d have skull-dragged the baste out
somehow, before he sank as deep as he is now. But we’ll manage it nice
an’ pleasant, with all that tackling.”

“I hope so,” Jim said, surveying the muddy water a little doubtfully.
“We’ll have a good try, anyhow. Better stay out of the water now, Murty;
you’ve had quite enough. We can rope him.”

“Is it me?” queried Mr. O’Toole, indignantly. “’Tis only used to it I
am—there’s no need f’r you to wet y’r feet at all. Billy an’ I can fix
it.”

Jim laughed.

“I might have known you wouldn’t be sensible,” he said. “Come on, then,
you obstinate old Irishman!” He picked up a coil of rope and some
sacking and marched off into the water, followed by his henchmen.

The big shorthorn seemed to understand that the new arrivals were bent
on helping him, for he showed no sign of fear as they waded across,
stumbling in the boggy mud and tripping over Murty’s unseen and uneven
pavement of logs. To stand on logs hidden under water is never the
easiest of pursuits—the log possessing an almost venomous power of
tipping up; and when such action on the part of the log renders its
victim exceedingly likely to be dogged by plumping him violently into
mud, the excitement becomes a trifle wearing. Norah, left alone on dry
land beside Nugget, who slumbered peacefully, was divided between mirth
and anxiety. To the looker-on there was much that was undoubtedly
comical.

“Scissors!” ejaculated Wally, making a mis-step and losing his balance
altogether. A violent splash resounded as he struck the water,
disappearing momentarily in a cloud of spray that half drenched his
companions. Mr. Meadows arose like a drowned rat, amidst unfeeling
laughter.

“Can’t you stand up, you old duffer?” queried Jim—and promptly lost the
use of one leg, which sank so far into the yielding mud that it was all
its owner could do to avoid sitting down in the water. Prompt action
rescued him, amidst jeers from Wally.

“Of all the evil places for a stroll!” ejaculated Jim. “What on earth
possessed you to come in here at all, you owl?” This to the bullock, who
very naturally made no reply.

“Contrary they do be, by nature,” said Murty, picking his way from log
to log. “You’d wonder, now, what he’d expect to be finding; and any fool
could have towld it’d be boggy. Well, he has his own troubles coming,
an’ serve him right.”

The bullock snorted uneasily when he found himself the centre of
attraction: a matter brought home to him sharply by the fact that Jim
slipped on a log near him, and fell against him with a violence that
would have disturbed anything less firmly bogged.

“No good trying to move him by ourselves, I suppose, Murty?” queried
Jim, recovering himself.

“Not a bit—we’ll help the ould horse, but ’tis Nugget that’ll pull him
out,” rejoined the stockman. “I doubt if we’d shift him in a month of
Sundays. Let ye be catching that rope, Mr. Jim, when I pass it under
him.”

To adjust the tackling was a matter requiring care, in order to avoid
injury to the bullock. They padded him with sacking wherever a rope was
likely to cut when the strain came upon it, with due regard that no
knots should press unduly. It took time—standing as the workers were on
slippery hidden logs that moved and squelched under them like living
things, and in icy water that chilled them through and through, and
numbed their fingers as they wrestled with the hard rope. When it was
done Norah led Nugget in to the edge of the boggy mud, and the
trace-chains attached to his collar were joined to the tackling on the
bullock.

“Lead him on, and we’ll see if he can shift him, Nor,” Jim called.

“Come up, Nugget,” responded Norah. She took the black horse by the
head; and Nugget, suddenly realising that great things were demanded of
him, woke up and went forward with a steady strain. The bullock, finding
himself more uncomfortable than he had ever dreamed of being, bellowed
indignantly. But nothing happened. The prisoner did not budge an inch.

“No good,” Jim sang out. “Back, Nugget,” and Nugget stopped and backed
with thankful promptness. “We’ll have to rig up some more tackling.”

The broad leather saddle-girths made an excellent foundation for
side-ropes. Jim and Billy took one, Murty and Wally the other. They
waded out until they were on firm ground. The bullock stood glaring at
them, wild-eyed.

“Now, Nor—and all together!”

The tackling tightened. On either side, the rope-holders threw their
weight on the stiffening cords, like men in a tug of war. Norah,
stumbling on the hoof-printed mud, urged Nugget by voice and hand. There
was a minute’s hard pulling.

“Slack off,” Jim commanded. “Back him, Norah.” Men and horse panted in
unison, getting their breath anew.

“I believe he came a little,” Wally said.

“Something came,” Jim agreed. “Let’s hope it wasn’t the tackling giving.
We’ll know this time, anyhow. Ready, boys?”

Once more the strain came. The four rope-holders struggled together,
their muscles standing out like knotted cords. Nugget, knowing his
business just as well as they, put his head down and leaned against the
strain, gaining foot by foot. An anguished bellow broke from the
bullock. There came a sucking, squelching sound.

“He’s coming!” Norah gasped. “Pull, boys!”

A final struggle, and the strain eased suddenly. The mud gave—the
bullock, feeling himself freed from the horror that had gripped his
legs, plunged stiffly forward, tripped, and fell bodily into the water.
They dragged him out on his side, a pitiful, mud-plastered object. It
required considerable coaxing to get him upon his feet, and then he
stood still, too numbed and confused to move, while the tackling was
removed.

“There you are,” Jim said at last, dealing him a hearty blow with a
girth. “Move on—you can’t stand there all night, you know.” But it was
only after repeated blows that the rescued one obeyed, stumbling across
the mud to the safety of the bank, where he stood, trembling with cold.

“We can’t leave him here,” Jim said. “He’s too cold altogether—he’ll
have to be housed to-night. Billy, you bring him in slowly—hitch old
Nugget to him if he won’t travel.”

“Plenty,” said Billy, lugubriously. He also was cold, and the prospect
of tailing in behind the numbed bullock was anything but pleasant. He
began his slow journey as the other four cantered off across the
paddock.

Mr. Linton came out to the stable yard to greet them. He had been
watching for some time before he heard the beat of far-off hoofs, and
the echo of young voices, singing in the dusk.

“Well, you seem cheerful enough,” he said. “Job tough?” The light from
the stables fell on his mud-covered son, and he laughed a little. “It
was as well you put on dungarees, Jim.”

“Just as well,” said Jim, laughing. “Got him out, anyhow.”

“You’ve had a long day,” said his father.

“Have I?” Jim asked. “Oh, I suppose I have! Nothing to growl at, at any
rate.” He straightened his broad shoulders as they walked across to the
house. “Billabong days never do seem long, somehow. I wonder if——”
Whatever the conjecture was, it went no further. His hand fell on
Norah’s shoulder as they went in together.



[Illustration: “‘He’s coming!’ Norah gasped. ‘Pull, boys!’”]

           _From Billabong to London_]              [_Page 89_



                               CHAPTER V.


                               GOOD-BYE.

PORT Melbourne pier was a scene of hurry and bustle.

Along every yard of its great length lay mighty ocean-going steamers:
mail-boats, Orient and P. & O., big White Star cargo-ships, French
liners, and all the miscellaneous collection of ships that ply from up
and down the world to Australia. Trains were coming and going along the
railway lines running down the centre of the pier, piercing the air with
their shrieks of warning, while people moved hastily out of their way,
stumbling over the intricate network of rails. A motley crowd they were:
passengers from the steamers; officers—sunburned men in blue uniforms;
wharf labourers; sailors in blue jerseys, bearing the name of their ship
across their breasts; dark-skinned Lascars from the P. & O. ships;
Chinese; well-dressed city people tempted out by bright sunshine and
blue sea; and the never-failing throng of children to be found on every
great wharf, drawn to “the beauty and mystery of the ships.” Amidst the
crowd dock hands worked at loading and unloading cargoes; the shrieks of
steam-cranes sounded as great wooden cases were lifted from the trucks,
to be poised perilously in mid air over the pier before being swung
in-board and lowered into the gaping holds. Each ship bore on its
mooring-ropes wide discs of tin, to discourage the rats which would
otherwise have found the rope an easy track into the steamer.

It was the usual Australian wharf scene; but there was another factor in
it, by no means so familiar. Among the crowded ships were several
painted in neutral colours, bearing no name, but only the letter A and a
number. They were alongside the wharf, and on their decks men in uniform
were working with a feverish activity quite unlike the ordinary
movements of the dock-hand in Australia. At each gangway stood a sentry;
and other men in khaki went up and down swiftly, some of them receiving
salutes from the men who worked—not always, because the new Australian
soldier was a free-and-easy person, and, having much to learn, did not
easily see that saluting is a mark of respect to the King’s uniform,
more than to the man who wears it. The privates did not mean any
disrespect to the uniform—they only knew they were busy, and that it
seemed to them foolish to stop and salute a man whom they had perhaps
known for years as “Bill” or “Dick,” who might have been the fag of one
of them at school, or perhaps worked for another for wages on a farm.
There are all sorts of queer ups and downs in the composition of a
Colonial volunteer force, and social distinctions are apt to collapse
altogether before military ability; so that the man with a big property
and more money than he knows what to do with may find himself a mere
private working under a martinet of a captain who possibly delivered his
meat in the piping times of peace. Moreover, he will do it cheerfully.
But he will find the saluting hard.

There was a steady hum of preparation on all the grey troopships with
the white numbers. Stores and kit were being loaded into them rapidly,
each item checked by an officer; on some, the decks of which were
boarded up, soldiers, stripped to shirt and breeches, were working with
great bundles of compressed hay and straw, emptying truck after truck in
readiness for the horses that were to be the chief passengers. From
within these could be heard the sound of hammering; they had been
stripped of all their inside fittings, and every available inch of space
was being turned into stalls and loose-boxes, made with due regard to
the comfort of the puzzled four-footed occupants whose homes they would
be for so many weary weeks.

All the quay-room was taken up; and besides, out in Port Phillip Bay,
the ships lay thick: troopships; cargo-boats waiting their chance to
unload, or busy discharging their goods into lighters; sailing vessels,
tramps from every harbour in the world, with towering masts and rusty
sides; and a host of smaller craft that nosed in and out among the big
ships. Near some steps leading to the water a motor-launch tossed in the
wash of a paddle-steamer leaving for some Bay port.

A large party, variously laden with hand-baggage, came rapidly along the
wharf from the railway-station, and down the steps. At sight of their
leader one of the men in the launch steadied her, while the other busied
himself with the engine.

“We’ve sent all our heavy things on board, and this is quite the most
comfortable way to get over to Williamstown,” David Linton was saying.
“No, it’s quite unusual, of course, to be sailing from there; but war
has upset everything, and there’s simply no room for any more big ships
at this pier. Williamstown is a fearsome place to embark from; it’s bad
enough to get there, to begin with, and when you have done so, the pier
is miles from anywhere, and you traverse appalling tracks in finding
your ship. Much simpler to run across the Bay from Port Melbourne by
launch.”

Edward Meadows, a tall, lean man, very like Wally, nodded assent.

“I’ve never seen the fascination of travel,” he said lazily. “To me it’s
only bearable with the maximum of comfort—especially when you go to
sea.”

“Well, there’s not much maximum of comfort about your back-country trips
in Queensland,” said Wally, rather amazed. “And you have plenty of
those, Edward.”

“Oh, yes, but that’s different! You don’t expect comfort, and you’d be
rather surprised if you got it. And the Bush is different, too,” replied
his brother, a trifle vaguely, yet conscious that his hearers
understood. “You can live on corned-beef, damper and milkless tea for
weeks in the Bush, and sleep in the open, with your saddle for a pillow,
and on the whole you quite enjoy it; but you’d feel quite injured if you
had to do it on board ship. Possibly it’s the clothes you wear—I don’t
know.” He looked round, as if expecting to find enlightenment. “Let me
help you in, Miss Norah.”

The launch held them all comfortably, though they were a large party:
the travellers themselves, various relatives who had come to see them
off, and a sprinkling of school friends who were openly envying Norah
and the boys. They included a couple of lads in khaki, fresh from the
camp of the Expeditionary Force at Broadmeadows.

“Well, you’re lucky to be getting straight to the middle of things,”
said one of these. “Here we are, tied up week after week, waiting to get
away, and nobody quite knows why we don’t start—they talk about German
cruisers, of course, and there are stories of warships not being ready
to convoy us, and a dozen other yarns. Every now and then comes a rumour
that we’re just off, and we say good-bye wildly—and then we don’t go.
I’ve made all my fond farewells four times, and I believe my people are
beginning to feel a little less enthusiastic about it than they did. It
must be jolly hard to keep on regarding one as a departing hero!”

“And when we do start, it’s going to be slow enough,” put in his
companion. “There will be such a crowd of us—and we’ve got to make the
pace by the slowest ship.” He jerked his hand towards a troopship round
the stern of which the motor-launch was chug-chugging slowly. “That’s
one of them. She was a German tramp steamer that strolled in here after
war broke out and was collared; she didn’t know a thing about the war,
and her captain said most unseemly things to the pilot who had gone out
to bring them through the Heads and held his tongue about war until he
had the ship covered by our guns at Queenscliff.” The soldier grinned
with huge enjoyment. “I wish I’d seen him! But she’s not much of a tub,
anyhow; I expect the Orient boat that has been turned into the Staff
troopship has just about twice her pace, but she will have to
accommodate herself to the slowest.”

“Yes, it will be a deliberate sort of voyage,” said the other. “No
ports; no news; just dawdling along for weeks, packed like herrings.
Hope they’ll keep us busy with drill; it will be something to pass the
time away.”

“And you don’t know when you are to sail? Edward Meadows asked.

“For all we know it may be a case of strike camp to-night. There are too
many German warships in the way—it wouldn’t be healthy to let the news
leak out. Wouldn’t the _Emden_ like a chance of meeting a crowd like
ours!—a lot of transports like helpless old sheep, with a few
men-o’-war to protect the whole mob. The _Emden_ would not mind going
down herself if she sank some of us.”

“Well, at least you’ll have the men-o’-war” Norah put in. “We won’t have
anything at all to protect us.”

“You don’t seem very troubled about it, either,” grinned the soldier
lad.

“Why, it would be an experience. I don’t suppose they would hurt us,
even if they sank the ship. And our luggage is insured,” said Norah,
practically.

“The danger of a hostile cruiser does not seem to weigh heavily on the
minds of the insurance companies,” remarked her father. “It cost me a
good deal more to insure against pilfering than against war risks!”

“You don’t say so!” said Edward Meadows, staring.

“I do, though. It’s a queer state of affairs, but I suppose they know
their business. There’s the old ship.”

They had nearly crossed the narrow portion of the Bay that lies between
Port Melbourne and Williamstown, and the docks were coming into view.
Everywhere the wharves were crowded with shipping, mostly of a smaller
character than the vessels they had seen; but towering above everything
else, larger than even the Orient liner, lay a great ship. She had but
one funnel, painted a vivid blue; it loomed vast above them, a mighty
cylinder—large enough, if it lay on its side, to drive a coach-and-four
through it.

“Whew-w! She’s a big one!” ejaculated the young soldier.

“Yes; there’s only one larger ship in the Australian trade,” Jim
answered.

“Many passengers?”

“Hardly any, I believe. But she’s enormously valuable; she’s carrying a
huge cargo—the richest, with the exception of gold, that ever left
Australia. And it’s just what they want in England—frozen meat, wool,
tallow, and things like that, and a huge consignment of food the
Queensland people are sending to the troops at the Front. They say she’s
worth a million and a half!”

“By Jove, what a prize she’d make!” said the soldier. “I should think
the German cruisers will be keeping a pretty sharp look-out for her.”

“Yes—and I believe the _Emden_ is particularly anxious to get a Blue
Funnel ship before she goes under. The _Perseus_ would make a pretty
good scalp, wouldn’t she?”

The engineer shut off the motor, and the little launch came to rest
beside a gangway under the lee of the _Perseus_—whose bulk, seen close
above them, seemed like that of a mountain. A sailor ran down the steps
to steady the launch and offer a helping hand as its passengers climbed
out. In a moment Norah stood for the first time upon the deck of a ship.

It gave her a queer little thrill of exultation. Everything about her
was new and unfamiliar: the long lines of the deck, the hurrying
officers and sailors, the creak of machinery, punctuated with crisp
commands; and over all, the smell of the ship and the salt air blowing
up from the wider spaces of the Bay. It seemed to mount to her head.
Instinctively she put out her hand to her father.

“Well, my girl,” he said. “It’s a bit different to the old wind-jammer
that I came out in.”

“It’s—it’s lovely, Daddy!”

He laughed. “I hope you’ll continue to think so,” he said. “Come and
we’ll find our cabins.”

A passing steward, to whom they gave their numbers, took them in charge
and piloted them below. They went down a winding oak staircase with
rubber treads that were soft to the feet, and passed through an open
space invitingly furnished with lounge-chairs. Thence a passage led a
little way until their guide turned sharply to the right.

“This is yours, sir,” said the steward. “The young lady’s is opposite.”

The cabins were alike—roomy ones, each containing three berths, and lit
by wide port-holes. The _Perseus_ had accommodation for over three
hundred passengers, and at an ordinary time went out with every berth
taken; but war had made people disinclined to travel, and on this voyage
her passenger-list held only about thirty names. Therefore there was
room and to spare, and each passenger could have had two or three cabins
had he been so disposed.

Already Norah’s luggage was placed in readiness; and scattered on one of
the berths were a number of parcels and letters, to which so many were
immediately added that the bunk looked like a jumble-stall, but very
interesting.

“No, you mustn’t open them now,” said her special school-chum, Jean
Yorke; “they will keep, and you’ll have loads of time going down the
Bay. Come and explore the ship.”

At the entrance to their alley-way they met Jim and Wally, returning
from inspecting their cabin, which was near-by and “very jolly,” said
its owners; and then they all trooped off to find their way about the
steamer, discovering big drawing-rooms and lounges, a splendid
smoking-room panelled in oak, with a frieze of quaint carvings running
round it, and the dining-saloon—a roomy place, furnished with
swing-chairs and small round tables, on which ferns and tall palms
nodded a friendly greeting. Everything was big and spacious and airy.
Smart stewards, white-jacketed, darted hither and thither. They passed
the galley, catching a glimpse of rows of bright cooking-ranges,
gleaming copper saucepans, and busy cooks, with snowy aprons and flat
caps—all so spotlessly clean that Norah wished audibly that Brownie
could see it—Brownie having expressed dark doubts as to whether her
belongings would be decently fed on board, coupled with unpleasant
allusions to cockroaches. Then they came out on the decks, of which
there were three—roomy enough for a regiment to drill, and with
pleasant nooks sheltered from the wind, no matter from what quarter it
might come. In one of these the deck steward had already set up their
long chairs—made of Australian blackwood and dark green canvas, with
“Linton” painted on each of the four.

“I ran you in as one of the family, Wally,” said the squatter.

“Thanks awfully, sir,” said Wally, gratefully.

People were coming aboard quickly; though there were so few passengers,
the _Perseus_ was a popular ship, and many came to see her off. The
first of the three warning bells clanged out sharply above the din.

“Come and have tea,” said David Linton. “I told them to have it ready at
first bell.”

They crowded round the biggest table in the saloon, while the stewards
brought tea. Every one was becoming a little silent; there seemed
suddenly a great many things to say, but no one could remember any of
them. No one wanted tea at all, except the soldier boys, who drank
immense quantities, and did their best to keep the conversation going.
Aunts and cousins heaped on Norah good advice about the journey. Edward
Meadows stared at his young brother’s bright face—a sudden fear at his
heart lest he should be looking at it for the last time.

“He’s such a kid,” he said inwardly. “I wonder if we ought to be letting
him go.”

On the deck, after the second bell had brought them up from the saloon,
he drew David Linton aside.

“You’ll take care of him, if you get a chance, won’t you, sir? He’s only
a kid.”

“To the utmost of my ability,” said Mr. Linton, gravely. “He is like my
own son to me.”

Then came the final bell, and with it a sudden gust of good-byes.
Telegraph-boys came racing up the gangway with belated messages. Every
one was trying to say twenty farewells at once.

“Good-bye, you chaps,” said the soldier lads. “Expect you’ll be in
Flanders before we are—but we’ll meet you there. Keep Australia going!”

“Hope we’ll get a chance,” Jim said, “and not mess it up if we get it.
We’ll try, anyhow. Good voyage. Don’t be sea-sick!”

“Same to you. Write to us if you can.”

“You too. Say good-bye to all the chaps we knew at school.”

“Good-bye, Norah, dear,” from an aunt. “Remember you’re growing up—you
can’t be a Bush girl in England.”

“I’ll try,” said Norah meekly. “I expect every one will be too busy with
the war to notice me.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a credit to us,” cried the aunt, inflicting a damp
embrace. “If only you have a safe voyage!” She kissed Jim with fervour,
and showed such signs of beginning on Wally that that timid youth
retired precipitately into the crowd.

“All visitors ashore!” sang out a stentorian voice. People flocked down
the gangway.

“You’ll write, won’t you, Norah?” asked Jean Yorke, a little shakily.
Jean was a silent person, but Norah was very dear to her.

“Of course I will,” said Norah, hugging her. “And you—lots! Oh, won’t
we want letters when we’re right away over there!”

“It’s awful at school without you,” said Jean. “Oh, and everybody sent
you their love—even Miss Winter! And they say, ‘Come back soon.’ So do
I.”

“Just as soon as ever we can. Oh, I don’t want to go a bit!” said poor
Norah. “There can’t be any place as good as Australia.”

“Of course there isn’t. But you’ll come back.”

“Any more for the shore?”

“Oh, I must go!” cried Jean, and fled, after a final hug. Edward Meadows
wrung Wally’s hand hard, and went slowly down the gangway—in his mind a
helpless feeling that perhaps they had not done as much as they might
for the little brother who had known neither mother nor father. On the
last step he hesitated, turned, and went back.

“Remember you needn’t ever go short of money,” he said. It seemed such a
foolish thing; and yet it was all he could find to say.

“Thanks, ever so much, Edward. I’m sure I’ll have plenty.”

“And—come back safe,” said his brother. He gripped his hand again, and
went down. Already sailors were busy with the gangway ropes.

At the last moment, just as the cumbrous ladder began to be drawn up, a
figure came racing down the wharf, uttering shouts that were incoherent
through breathlessness. Behind him puffed a couple of porters,
staggering under a leather suit-case and a Gladstone bag. The sailors
above the gangway hesitated, and the newcomer sprang upon it.

“What are you up to, sir?” came the sharp voice of an officer. “Are you
a passenger?”

“Certainly I am,” responded the breathless one—a short, stout
individual by no means fitted for violent exercise. “Kindly send some
one for my baggage.”

A couple of sailors ran down the gangway and took the burdens from the
panting porters. The late arrival puffed up the steps.

“You cut it pretty fine,” was the comment of the officer.

“Who ever heard of a ship being punctual before?” was the reply.
“Extraordinary—almost ridiculous!”

The officer laughed in spite of himself.

“It’s never safe to bank on the _Perseus_ being unpunctual,” he
remarked. “Lucky you caught us. Haul away!”

The gangway came up slowly. Three piercing whistles shrilled from the
siren. Down on the wharf, the people who had seemed so many on the ship
now appeared dwindled to a little huddled crowd, with faces upturned; it
was hard to pick out individuals.

Norah leaned on the rail, looking down—suddenly realising that it was
indeed “good-bye.” The ship was drawing out slowly—foot by foot the
water appeared between her side and the pier—unpleasant, dirty water,
full of floating rubbish. A little way out it sparkled to meet them, a
dancing mass of foam-flecked blue. But Norah could not see that side
now—only the little widening strip of brown water, and the wharf with
its wistful faces. Her own, as she looked, was very wistful. Beyond, sea
and sky might be blue, calling to her—but on this side lay Australia.



[Illustration: “At each gangway stood a sentry.”]

           _From Billabong to London_]              [_Page 92_



                              CHAPTER VI.


                             SETTLING DOWN.

“NOW then, kiddie.”

Jim’s hand touched her arm, and Norah looked round. They had passed the
Gellibrand light and were heading towards the wider spaces of Port
Phillip Bay. Across the water the sunlight lay golden on the beaches and
the wooded shores. To the right a little steamer was coming lazily in
from Geelong.

“Do you want me, Jim?” Norah tried to make her voice steady.

“Well, I think you might as well come and get your cabin ship-shape,”
Jim said. “You’ve got two or three hours of daylight and smooth water;
and once you get outside the Heads there may be any sort of weather, and
you may be any sort of sailor. Not that I believe any of us will be
sea-sick—this huge old ship can’t toss about much, unless she meets a
hurricane.”

“Well, you never know,” said Norah, prudently. “And if I’m going to be
ill I won’t feel like getting ship-shape then, I suppose. All right,
Jimmy, I’ll go down. How do I get there?”

“Haven’t an idea,” said her brother, laughing. “We’ll ask a steward if
we get bushed—meanwhile, I know it’s down a flight of stairs, and not
up; and that’s something. Come along, and we’ll find our way, in time.”

They plunged down the nearest companion, and by dint of studying the
numbers of the cabins, finally arrived at Norah’s, which looked much
larger than it had appeared when full of people an hour earlier. Jim
surveyed the berths with a twinkle.

“Apparently every one who knows you has sent you small tokens of
regard,” he said. “Better get them unpacked while I unstrap your boxes.
Got your keys?”

Norah handed over her keys and began the work of investigation, suddenly
immensely cheered by the friendly packages. Flowers first, in boxes and
dainty green tissue-paper packages: boronia, sweet peas, carnations, and
early wattle. Their fragrance filled the cabin, and even Jim exclaimed
at their beauty.

“You can’t possibly keep them all here,” he said. “I’ll ring for the
steward and tell him to put some on our table in the saloon, don’t you
think? Vases not supplied in cabins—lucky for you this is a
three-berther and you’ve got three tooth-tumblers!”

The flowers disposed of, the work of unwrapping the other parcels went
on swiftly. Chocolate boxes of every shape and size; books; warm
slippers; three cushions; bags to hold everything, from shoes to
sponges; a work-board, fitted with pincushion, thread, scissors, and
other feminine necessities; an electric torch; and a fascinating
wall-pocket of green linen, embroidered in shamrocks, with compartments
for every toilet requisite.

“Now, that’s an uncommonly jolly thing,” said Jim, surveying it. “Keeps
things all handy-by, and saves ’em rolling about in rough weather.
Whoever sent you that had sense. Come, and we’ll fix it up.” He dashed
away to his cabin, returning with a pocket hammer and some brass tacks.
“Where will you have it?”

“Oh, here, I suppose!” said Norah, indicating a favourable site. “But
are you allowed to put in tacks, Jim?”

“Can’t tell till I’ve tried,” said Jim, hammering swiftly. “I’m not
going to ask, anyhow—they’re very decent tacks. There, that’s up, and
it looks topping. Now for shoe-bags.” He fixed them in a neat row on the
wall, while Norah arranged her other small belongings.

“Gorgeous clearance!” Jim remarked, surveying the cabin with pride. “How
about unpacking now? If I haul these trunks out for you, can you
manage?”

“Rather!” said Norah, gratefully. “You’ve been a brick, Jimmy, and I
feel much better. I’ll stow away my things in the wardrobe and drawers,
and then I won’t have to haul my trunks often from under the berths.”

“Don’t you do it at all,” commanded Jim, sternly. “Wal or I will always
be somewhere about, and anyhow, what’s a steward for? Well, I’ll leave
you to fix up your fripperies, and go and fix my own. Call me if you
want me.”

It was not altogether easy to remain cheerful over the boxes Brownie had
packed so lovingly. The memory of the parting at Billabong was still too
sore; in everything Norah touched she found reminders of the kind old
face, struggling against tears, on that last morning when she had said
good-bye to her. To say good-bye to Murty and the men—even to Black
Billy; to the horses and dogs; to Billabong itself, peaceful and dear in
its fringe of green trees; it had all been hard enough, and she ached
yet at the thought. But Brownie was somehow different, and loved her
better than any one on earth; and she was old, with no one to comfort
her. Norah’s heart was heavy for the dear old nurse as she took out one
neat layer of clothes after another, packed with sprigs of fragrant
lavender that brought the very breath of the Billabong garden.

Then came a tap at the door, and a neat stewardess looked in.

“Your father sent me to see if I could help you, miss.”

“I don’t think so, thank you,” Norah answered, sitting on the floor of
the cabin and looking up at her. “I’ve unpacked nearly everything.
However do people manage when there are three in a cabin this size?”

“Why, I’ve known four,” said the stewardess, laughing. “Four—and grown
up. Oh, they fit in somehow; the worst of it is if they all happen to be
sick. That is rather hard on them—and on me. You’re very lucky, miss,
to have so much room to yourself.”

“I suppose I am,” Norah assented, meekly. “It’s a little hard to
realise. Do you ever get sick yourself?”

“Stewardesses aren’t supposed to—and they haven’t time,” said the
other. “We wouldn’t be much good if we weren’t hardened sailors.
Dinner’s at half-past seven, miss, and the dressing-bugle goes half an
hour before. Shall I come in to fasten your frock?”

“Yes, please,” Norah answered. “I suppose we’ll be outside the Heads by
then?”

“Oh, a long way! We’ll be through the Heads at half-past five, and will
have dropped the pilot. The steward will come in at dusk, miss, to shut
your port-hole.”

Norah looked up in swift alarm.

“My port-hole? But need I have it shut? I always have my windows open at
night.”

The stewardess shook her head.

“You could always have it open, in ordinary circumstances, so long as
the weather wasn’t rough; but not now. It’s the war, you see, miss.
We’re under the strictest regulations not to show any lights at all; so
as soon as it is dusk every window on the ship has to be fastened and
shuttered. We don’t have any deck lights either—not even the port and
starboard lanterns and the mast-head. Coming out, there was a German
warship looking for us, and we got past her in the dark and gave her the
slip; she wasn’t more than ten miles away. She’d have had us, to a
certainty, if we had been lit up.”

“Good gracious!” said Norah, weakly.

“You see, miss, when the _Perseus_ has all her lights showing she’s like
an illumination display—any one could see her glow miles away. Our only
chance may lie in slipping by in the dark. And just now the Germans are
keeping a very close look-out on the Australian tracks, because they
hope to cut off the troopships. It makes the voyage very dull, but it
can’t be helped.”

Cheerful voices came along the alley-way as the stewardess, with a
friendly smile, disappeared.

“Well, are you fixed up?” Jim asked. “Can Wal come in? Here, we’ll put
these trunks out of your way.”

“I’m just finished,” Norah said. “How do you think it looks?”

“Jolly!” said Wally, emphatically, casting glances of approval round the
bright cabin, already homelike with photographs, cushions, flowers and
other dainty belongings. “Why, it might be a scrap of old Billabong,
Nor. Here’s Jimmy with the final touch.”

Jim had a grey, furry bundle in his arms.

“It’s only a little ’possum rug,” he said. “Your travelling rug may
often get damp with spray, and it’s rather jolly to have a spare one for
your bunk. Dad and I got it for you.” He spread it out on the berth.
“Will it do, kiddie?”

“Do!” said Norah, and put her cheek down into the grey softness. “It’s
just a beauty, Jim—you and Dad do think of the loveliest things!
They’re splendid skins; and I’m so glad you had the tails left on.
Doesn’t it make my bed look nice?”

“You mustn’t say a bed, on board ship,” Jim said, severely. “Beds are
shore luxuries, and this is merely a bunk.”

“It’s good enough for me,” said his sister happily. “It looks a jolly
place to sleep. I’m ready, Jim; can’t we go on deck? I want to see the
Heads.”

“We came to bring you,” Jim said, “though there’s half an hour yet. Has
the stewardess been saddening your young mind about your port-hole?”

“Yes—isn’t it awful! How on earth is one to sleep with one’s window
shut?”

“Well, it isn’t quite so bad as it seems—though it’s bad enough,” Jim
answered. “As long as there’s a light in your cabin the shutter must be
up; but as soon as you switch it off, it can be opened, only of course
you’re on your honour not to light up again. So I can come in after
you’re in bed and open it for you.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Norah said, fervently. “Will it bother you much,
Jim?”

“It will not. And if you want a light in the night, your little electric
torch won’t matter, if you pull the curtain across the port. We’ve been
asking the purser about it, and he says it will be all right; only they
have to make the regulations very strict, because so many people are
fools about it, and disobey rules altogether if they get half a chance.
A man always has to be on duty, keeping a watch over the side to make
sure that no window is showing an unlawful beam.”

“Funny, what idiots people can be!” Wally commented. “You wouldn’t think
any one would want to be caught by the Germans.”

“Oh, there are always people who think they know more than the
authorities,” Jim said, “and who like to show how brave they are. As the
purser says, the owners wouldn’t a bit mind their being exceedingly
courageous with themselves, but they object to their taking chances with
a ship worth a million and a half. Anyhow, there will be trouble for
transgressors on this voyage. Come up on deck.”

There was a fresh breeze blowing as they reached the head of the
companion; and Wally dived back again for Norah’s coat. The _Perseus_
was nearing the twin Heads, Point Lonsdale and Point Nepean, that form
the entrance to Port Phillip Bay. On the right lay the little town of
Queenscliff; on the left, barren heights, sparsely covered with scrub,
where, through the glasses, they could see soldiers moving about,
keeping a close watch. A detachment of the Light Horse could be descried
on a rocky point.

“A ship tried to slip out without her proper clearance papers the other
day,” Wally said.

“Did she get out?”

“Not much. The fort at Queenscliff fired a blank shot first, by way of
friendly warning; then, as she didn’t take any notice, they put a shell
just across her bows. Then she paused to ruminate, and came back. She
really wasn’t up to any mischief—it was only a disinclination on the
part of her captain to regard war restrictions. I hear they made him pay
the cost of his own bombardment.”

“Serve him right,” said Norah, laughing. “Wally, is that the Rip?”

Outside the Heads could be seen a flurry of broken water—great green
waves that came charging hither and thither, without any of the
regularity of breakers dashing upon a shore. Now and then one broke in a
wild “white horse” that was hastily engulfed in the mass of swirling
green. Sometimes the mass would pile itself up and up in broken hills of
water; then, as though sucked under by some mighty, unseen power, it
subsided, tumbling into fragments and dashing away furiously. A little
steamer was coming through it, rolling so terribly that momentarily it
seemed that she could not recover herself, but must go under. As they
watched, a great wave reared itself up and hit her squarely, burying her
in a cloud of foam.

“Yes, that’s the Rip,” Wally answered. “My aunt, isn’t that boat having
a lively time!”

The little steamer emerged—her bluff black bows coming out of the spray
much as a dogged mastiff might emerge from a ducking. She rolled, in the
same whole-hearted fashion, as the next wave slid from under
her—plunging down into a wild gulf of tumbling sea, to struggle up
again on the further side, white foam dashing from her bows. The dense
smoke from her funnels trailed behind her in a solid cloud of black.

“But she’ll sink!” Norah gasped.

“Not she!”

“But—why, she was nearly over then!”

“She’s used to it,” said Wally, laughing.

“I never saw such a thing,” ejaculated Norah. “Do you mean to tell me
we’ll be doing that in a few minutes?”

Some one behind them laughed cheerfully.

“We’re much too big to dance such jigs as that,” said a friendly
voice—and they turned to see a man in blue uniform smiling at them.
“Don’t you worry—we’ll go through the Rip as though it wasn’t there.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Norah, relieved.

“I’ve been talking to your father,” said the newcomer; “but as he isn’t
here, I’ll have to introduce myself. My name is Merriton, Miss Linton,
and I’m a highly formidable person, being the ship’s doctor. I’ve heard
all about you from my old friend, Dr. Anderson, in Cunjee; he has sent
me special instructions to look after you. I hope you’re not going to
give me any trouble!”

“Well, I’m never ill,” said Norah, smiling at the cheery face. “I’m sure
Dr. Anderson didn’t tell you I needed looking after in that way, because
he always says he has never had the satisfaction of giving me medicine!”

“That’s precisely the sort of person I like to look after,” said the
doctor. “Patients on land are all very well, but a patient in a cabin is
a sad and sorry thing. Thank goodness, the _Perseus_ doesn’t have many
of them; every one seems to come on board in rude health, and to leave,
when the voyage is over, rather ruder. No, I look after the passengers
on the principle of prevention rather than cure; keep ’em moving, keep
’em playing games, keep ’em doing anything that will have a salutary
effect upon their livers and prevent them developing anything resembling
a symptom!”

“Don’t you get disliked, sir?” Jim asked, laughing.

“Oh, intensely! But it’s all in the day’s work. They abuse me, and they
never know how much they owe to me. Now we’re nearly through the Heads,
Miss Linton—say good-bye to old Victoria!”

The ship was just passing the long pier that runs out from Point
Lonsdale, and seems to divide the open ocean from the Bay. They could
plainly distinguish the faces of people standing on the end, watching
them. Beyond lay brown rocks, and the yellow curve of the ocean beach,
with great waves beating upon it; to the left the jagged coast-line
where more than one good ship had met her doom. Straight ahead lay the
Rip. The little steamer had come through the roughest part and was
running towards them.

Norah looked back. The greater part of the Bay was hidden since the turn
by Queenscliff; she could only see the flat shore-line beyond the town.
A haze had sprung up, obscuring everything. Melbourne was long ago
blotted out. It was as though a veil had fallen between the old life and
the new.

“Now you’ll see how she takes it, Miss Linton,” said the doctor
cheerily.

They were through the Heads, and racing outwards; already the swell of
the Rip was under them, and the great steamer rose and fell to it—so
gently that Norah forgot to wonder if she were to be sea-sick or not.
On, swiftly until the broken water was foaming round them, the _Perseus_
rolling a little as she cut her way through. Then they were out in the
smoother water beyond, with the long ocean swell heaving. A little grey
steamer rocked just beyond.

“That’s the pilot-boat,” said Wally. “Watch him go.”

They leaned over the side and watched the grizzled pilot go quickly down
a swinging rope-ladder to a waiting dinghy that had put off from the
grey steamer. It was a kind of acrobatic feat, and Norah breathed more
freely when the old man had landed safely in the tossing little boat. He
took the tiller, and the oarsmen pulled swiftly across to the steamer,
from the deck of which some one shouted last messages to the _Perseus_.

“So that’s done with,” said the doctor; “and now it’s heigh for
home!—for us, that is. When you’re feeling blue, for want of Australia,
Miss Linton, you can remember that we poor seafaring folk are going to
have the luxury of getting home for Christmas—and that’s a thing that
doesn’t often come our way.”

“I’m glad you are,” said Norah, soberly. It was easy to feel friendly
with the doctor, even though she was a rather shy person. He was not
very young, but for all that his face was like a boy’s; he had a merry
voice, and his eyes were quick and kindly. When he smiled at her she
felt that she had known him for quite a long time.

Mr. Linton appeared round a corner of the deck-house.

“Oh! there you are—I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “People on a
ship of this size take plenty of hunting; I put a deck-steward on the
trail at last, and he’s probably hunting still. Feel all right, Norah?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Norah, in such evident amazement that every one
laughed.

“Well, you’ve been through the Rip—and that is an experience that leads
many to take prompt refuge in their cabins,” said the doctor. “Not that
there’s the least excuse for any one being ill on this ship—she’s as
steady as old Time.”

“Why, I never thought about it,” Norah said. “The girls told me I’d be
ill in the Rip, and I was feeling worried—I was thinking last night how
horrid it would be. But I forgot all about it when it came—it was so
interesting!”

“You’re not going to be ill at all—put it out of your head,” said the
doctor. Which Norah promptly did, and had no occasion ever to revive
unpleasant memories, since none of the party manifested signs of illness
at any period of the voyage.

On their way to dress for dinner some one called Mr. Linton back, while
the others waited for him on a wide landing. Close by was the purser’s
office, where a heated altercation was going on between the chief
assistant and the stout individual who had so narrowly caught the ship
at the last moment.

“Sorry, Mr. Smith,” the assistant was saying. “The purser is
engaged—he’s with the captain.”

“I have asked for him at least four times, and he has always been
engaged,” said Mr. Smith, angrily.

“Well, he generally is, on a sailing day. Can’t I do anything? Is your
cabin uncomfortable?”

“The cabin is well enough. It is about a telegram I must send.”

The assistant shook his head.

“No wireless to be used,” he said. “War regulation. You can telegraph
from Adelaide, of course.”

“That is ridiculous,” said the stout man angrily. “In Australian
waters——”

“Well, it isn’t my regulation,” the assistant said. “You’d better
complain to the military authorities. No, the purser can’t help you;
why, the captain couldn’t. It’s war precaution, I tell you.”

Mr. Linton then came up, and the rest of the conversation was lost. They
could hear the stout man’s angry voice as they went down the staircase.

“Seems in a bad temper,” Wally observed.

“He’s a hasty person altogether,” said Mr. Linton. “The captain tells me
that he decided only at the last moment to come on this voyage. He
certainly arrived at the last moment!”

“Hadn’t he a ticket?” asked Jim.

“Not a ticket—not that that matters, of course, with so empty a ship.
No trouble for them to fix him up. But he seems to expect a good deal,
for an eleventh-hour passenger.” Mr. Linton yawned. “The sea is making
me sleepy already,” he declared, disappearing into his cabin.

It made Norah sleepy very early that night. After the lengthy dinner was
over, they went on deck, where strolling was difficult because of the
absence of lights; and the rushing water overside was a mysterious mass,
dark and formless. All the best of Norah’s world was with her—and yet
she was homesick. Somewhere beyond the rail over which they leaned was
home; they were lonely at Billabong, and here it was lonely, too.

She gave herself a little mental shake. After all they were
together—and that was really all that mattered.

“I’m sleepy,” she declared.

“Then turn in,” Jim counselled. “I’ll come and open your port when I go
down. Can you find your way?”

“It’s time I learned, at any rate,” said Norah, sturdily.

She found it, after a few wrong turns, and made short work of preparing
for bed. The stewardess looked in to find out if she could be of any
use, and went off, with a brisk “good-night.” The cabin was cheery and
homelike—full of the scent of Bush flowers, and pleasant with
photographs, that seemed to smile to her. She was not nearly so lonely
when at last she slipped into bed, under the grey ’possum fur—and the
little bunk was comfortable and quaint, and made her feel that she was
really on board ship.

Jim looked in presently.

“Comfy, little chap? And how do you like it?”

“Yes, very comfy. Jim, I think it’s rather jolly.”

“Of course it is,” said Jim. “You look snug enough. Sure you’re warm?
And you know where the bell is, in case you want the stewardess?”

“Oh, I’m not going to want anything!” Norah answered. “I’m too sleepy.
She creaks a lot, doesn’t she, Jim?”

“Who—the stewardess?” said Jim, puzzled.

“No, stupid—the ship. If she didn’t creak, and I wasn’t in a bunk, she
would be just like a hotel.”

“Not much difference,” Jim answered. He switched off the light and
unscrewed the port-hole, going out with a last cheery word. And then
Norah found that there was another difference—through the open port
came the sound of the sea. It rushed and boiled past, splashing on the
side of the ship near her; somehow there was an impression of great
speed, far greater than in daylight. Norah liked the sound. She went to
sleep, with the sea talking to her.



                              CHAPTER VII.


                         OF FISHES AND THE SEA.

“BEING at sea,” said Wally, thoughtfully, “is very queer.”

“In what way?” demanded Norah.

“Well, you forget all about everything else. At least, I do. Don’t you?
It’s only a week since we saw land, but I feel as if I’d never been
anywhere but on this old ship. You wake up in the same creaky old cabin,
and you have the same tub, at the command of the same steward; and you
come up on deck and see the same old sea, and the same faces; nothing
else. Then you walk the same deck, and—oh, do the same old things all
day! Nothing different.”

“Yes—but it’s all rather jolly,” said Norah. “You like it, don’t you?”

“Oh, awfully! I don’t care how long it goes on. But I’ve got a queer
feeling that I’ve never done anything else, and never will again.”

“Well, that’s just stupid!” said Norah, practically. “And if you really
felt like it, I think you’d begin to be dull at once.”

“Well, there’s something in that,” said Wally. “Of course, one knows
it’s going to end, and that something altogether different is going to
happen. Only one can’t picture it. It’s like being told you’ll die some
day; you know it’s perfectly true, but you don’t believe it.”

“Wally!” ejaculated Norah, amazed. “What on earth is the matter? Are you
sick?”

“Sick?” said Wally, staring. “Not me. I was merely reflecting. Can’t a
fellow think?”

“It’s so unusual, in your case,” put in Jim, who had been silently
smoking. “You might give us a little warning when you go in for these
unaccustomed exercises. All the same, I know what you’re driving at; one
gets into a kind of rut on board ship, without being able to see the end
of it. If one could imagine how things will be in England, it would be
different—but it’s hard to imagine a place you’ve never seen, and under
extraordinary conditions!”

“So it is,” Norah said. “The end of this voyage is like a dark curtain
across everything. I wish we could see to the other side of it.”

“So do I,” agreed Wally. “But as we can’t, the best thing is not to
think of it. What are you going to do to-day, Norah?”

“Oh—just worry through another old day!” said Norah, laughing. “There
isn’t any special plan, I believe.”

It was a week since they had seen land. They had said a final good-bye
to Australia after a brief stay at Adelaide, spent in scampering round
the bright little city lying at the foot of the Mount Lofty Ranges, and
in a motor-car run through the hills themselves, seeing exquisite
panoramas of plain and sea far below. The almond-orchards were in
blossom; over the plains their wide expanse was like a mist of
shimmering opal. Above, on the foothills, golden wattle blazed for
miles. But South Australia was in the grip of the worst drought in its
history, and the hills were dry and bare, and scarred with the marks of
great bush-fires; it hurt to see the happy country so worn and tired.
They were not sorry when the time came to rejoin the ship, and to steam
down the Gulf and out to sea.

Somewhere ahead, rumour said, were the Australian transports; the first
contingent of troops had slipped away from Melbourne silently, under
cover of darkness, and no one seemed to know definitely the day of their
going. Rumour went further, saying that they were to coal at an
unfrequented southern port of West Australia; so that the _Perseus_
would probably draw ahead, without catching sight of the fleet—which
was disappointing. After that, rumour became speculative and varied. One
report stated that the troops were to go to South Africa, to help the
Government there, hard-pressed between rebellion and the enemy; another
gave India as their destination, and another, Egypt; while the majority
still held to the belief that they would be sent direct to France. And
as no one knew any more than any one else, and nothing definite was
known in any quarter, the _Perseus_ buzzed with conjectures and
arguments, the natural result of which was that no one got any
“forrarder.”

Australia was now far behind them. They had not touched any western
port, but had headed straight for the Indian Ocean, and now were
swinging across it towards South Africa, apparently the only ship afloat
upon its wide expanse. The outward and homeward routes vary, according
to ocean currents, so that ships going and coming rarely meet; and, in
addition, the _Perseus_ was running many miles off her course, in the
hope of eluding German cruisers, of which several were known to be
prowling about, any one of their number ready to pounce upon the
_Perseus_ like a hungry dingo upon a large and very fat lamb. It was,
however, unlikely that any would be so far south as their present
position, and the passengers had been quite unable to stir themselves to
any degree of nervousness. War precautions were observed in obedience to
Admiralty instructions rather than from inward convictions.

Meanwhile, the voyage was not exciting. To put thirty passengers on
board a ship capable of carrying three hundred and fifty is to produce
an effect similar to that of a few small peas in a large pod. And these
passengers on the _Perseus_ were mostly anxious and pre-occupied people:
full of anxieties connected with the war, and longing so keenly for the
voyage to be over, that the ship and its population held but little
interest for them. A sprinkling of South African settlers were hurrying
homewards; some to fight, and all concerned for the safety of their
properties. There were wives whose husbands were already fighting in
France; grave-faced women, who did not talk much, but counted each slow
day that must elapse before they could obtain news of their dear ones.
Half a dozen young men were on their way to England to enlist
there—ready for any job, so that it only meant business; hoping for a
commission, but quite willing to join as rankers if necessary. One had
his motor-car on board; another had left a vast property in New South
Wales; a third had been pearl-fishing off Port Darwin, and had made his
way right across the desert in the centre of Australia to join the
Expeditionary Force at Adelaide—and finding himself just too late for
the first contingent, had been too impatient to await the formation of
the second, and so had caught the _Perseus_ at the last moment. Two or
three retired British officers, recalled from Australia to the colours,
were on board—with stories, half-comical, half-tragic, of homes broken
up at a moment’s notice on receipt of a curt cable from the War Office.
The cloud that lay upon the whole world rested also on this one atom of
Empire, lonely in a wide sea; there was no topic but War.

“It’s maddening to be so long without news,” Jim said, leaning over the
rail to watch the white curl of foam breaking away from the bow. “It
seemed long enough to wait for one’s morning paper in Melbourne, even
after you’d seen every ‘special extra’ the day before; and then suddenly
to drop into silence!”

“You’ve only had a week of silence—and there are eleven days yet to
Durban,” Wally remarked. “No good in worrying yet. I wish they’d let us
use the wireless.”

“They won’t,” Jim said. “Orders are awfully strict; no wireless except
in case of absolute emergency. Oh, it wouldn’t be good enough; a German
could locate a ship by her wireless to within a few miles. You might as
well put a bell on your neck.”

“Inventions are going too far nowadays,” said Wally, with deep
disfavour. “Old Marconi had done very well without a further refinement
like that—it’s only lately that they have been able to harness
sound-waves so completely, and I don’t see any real use in it. It’s a
jolly nuisance, anyhow.”

“Did you ever see any one look so miserable as the sentry?” asked Norah,
laughing.

A young sailor was on duty at the door of the Marconi-room, standing
sentinel, with rifle and fixed bayonet. It was evident that he had not
been prepared for warlike uses, and his expression also was a fixed one,
full of woe. His mates, passing, grinned at him openly; small cabin-boys
and junior stewards peeped round corners and jeered at him, beseeching
him not to let his bayonet go off. Like Casabianca, he stood at his
post, but without enthusiasm.

“It would be interesting to see him if any one tried to get in to the
wireless,” said Jim. “I’m sure he wouldn’t run away, but he’d be much
more likely to damage himself than the intruder with that toothpick of
his; I don’t believe he ever handled one before.”

“Who would want to get in, anyhow?” Wally inquired, lazily.

“No one, that I know of,” Jim answered. “It would bore most people stiff
to be kept in the Marconi-room for ten minutes. Still, they can’t make
rules for one ship alone, and there may be Germans on board any ship,
able to use the instrument. I suppose if we were on a crowded boat, with
a few suspects with foreign accents scattered among the passengers, we’d
think all the precautions highly desirable; it’s only because we’re on
this peaceful old tub that they seem unnecessary.”

“I wouldn’t mind their having sentries all over the ship, if they wanted
to—but I’m beginning to feel I would chance any number of Germans for
the sake of fresh air!” said Norah, ruefully. “It’s bad enough to have
your cabin shut up from dusk until you’re in bed—but at least you don’t
stay in it. The rest of the ship just gets stifling.”

“You see,” said Wally, “if you shut up a ship, you shut so many assorted
smells into her—engine-rooms, cooks’ galley, saloon, cabins, and
people, with a sort of top-dressing of new paint, hot oil, and wash-up
water. Then the gentle aroma of tallow, from the holds, works up through
the lot. Then you don’t breathe any more.”

“You wish you didn’t, at any rate,” responded Norah, laughing.

“It beats me, how some of the passengers seem to thrive on it,” Jim
remarked. “Look how they sit in the lounge at night, half of ’em
smoking, and every chink shut up, and play bridge. I’ve come to the
conclusion that they’re made of sterner stuff than we are.”

“Well, we can’t help it—it’s because we live in the open all the year
round. A stuffy house is bad enough, but a stuffy ship—ugh!” Norah
grimaced, with expression, if not with elegance. “Let’s be thankful we
can live on deck most of the time; it’s always lovely there.”

“This is where you hail me as your benefactor, by the way,” Jim
observed. “The little cabin next yours is empty; I’ve arranged with your
steward for you to use it as a dressing-room in the evenings, and then
you needn’t have a light in your own cabin at all—and the port needn’t
be shut.”

“Jimmy, you are an angel!” said his sister, solemnly. “When did you
think of it?”

Jim had the grace to look sheepish.

“When it struck me this morning to manage the same thing for myself and
Wal!” he admitted. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of these empty
cabins before. At least it means that we’ll have fresh air to sleep in,
and that’s something.” He broke into a suppressed laugh, hiding it by
renewed attention to the waves.

“What is it?” asked Norah.

“That seafaring person,” said Jim, indicating an old quartermaster, who
had passed them with a slightly aloof air, “had an adventure with Wal
and me after you had gone below last night. We were stretched out on our
deck-chairs—the deck as dark as usual, of course, only you know how you
get used to the dim light after a while?”

Norah nodded.

“Well, he came suddenly out of the light of a doorway, shutting it
quickly after him, and approached us. We thought he saw us, so we never
thought of speaking; and we only realised that he couldn’t see us at all
when he fell violently on top of us. He hit Wal’s chair first, and
tripped; then he fell across us both and lay face downwards on us for a
moment, with a loud groan—and then he rolled off our knees, and sat up
on the deck, looking the biggest idiot you can imagine. And we hadn’t
any manners—we just howled!”

“How lovely!” said Norah, twinkling. “What happened?”

“He fled,” said Jim. “And we went on howling. It was a very cheerful
happening.”

“No wonder he went past you with his nose in the air,” Norah said. “Poor
old fellow!—it must have been a shock to him.”

“Not half such a shock as it was to us,” said Wally. “We never asked him
to fall on us—and he’s bonier than you’d think. Next time I would like
to choose a fat, soft quartermaster; this one is simply one of the
horrors of war, when he falls on you. He’s all bony outcrops. Look,
Norah, there’s a porpoise!”

“One!—why, there’s a school!” Jim said.

The big creatures were gambolling about a ship’s length away, having
mysteriously appeared from the west. More and more appeared, until the
sea seemed full of them—great, dark forms, shooting into the air in a
curve that was extraordinarily graceful, considering their bulk, and
piercing the waves again with hardly a splash. They came nearer and
nearer, evidently interested in the ship; looking down, Norah could see
them under water, dim shadows shooting through the green depths. For a
while they kept pace with the steamer; then they gradually drew off, as
if in obedience to some invisible signal from their leader, and headed
westward again, until at length the leaping, sleek forms were lost in
the distance.

“They must be immensely strong beasts,” Wally said. “I remember once
being in the bow of a big steamer going to Queensland, and three
porpoises had quite a game with us—they kept springing into the air and
shooting backwards and forwards in front of the bow—so close to it that
it looked as if they’d be cut in two as they sprang. But they must know
exactly how to judge distance; the bow seemed right on them every time,
but it never touched them. They played with that old ship like three
great puppies—and she was going along at a good rate, too. I must say
I’d like to see a porpoise in a real hurry—he’d be something like a
torpedo!”

“Nice people,” said Norah, watching the last dark speck in the west. “I
hope they’ll come often. Are we likely to see any whales?”

“It’s not the season, but you never can tell. Durban is a great place
for them, I believe,” Jim answered. “Mr. Smith saw a great many there
last time he came out.”

“Mr. Smith seems to be developing an affection for you, Jimmy,” Wally
said. “I saw him deep in soulful intercourse with you before breakfast.”

“I don’t know about either the soul or the affection,” said Jim—“but
he’s a lonely sort of beggar. No one seems to want him. And he’s really
rather interesting when he gets talking. I can’t quite make out who he
is, or where he comes from; he’s been in Australia for a good bit, and
he says he’s a Canadian, but he doesn’t look like one.”

“He’s such a bad-tempered animal,” Wally said. “He fell foul of the
purser on his first day on board, and seems to have been fairly uncivil
to the captain; and my steward says he’s a ‘holy terror’ in his cabin.
One of those people who are never satisfied. And he can’t play games or
do anything.”

“Oh, well, he doesn’t worry us much!” said Jim, easily. “He doesn’t
often want to talk, and when he does, one can’t be rude to him. He’s
very interested in the troopships—has a nephew in the New South Wales
contingent. That’s what we were talking about this morning; he heard me
say I knew a lot of fellows in the crowd, and he wanted to know if I
knew where they were going. His nephew can’t stand heat, he says, and he
doesn’t want him to be in Egypt. I guess he’ll get enough cold in
Flanders before the show is over.”

“Where’s Mr. Smith going?” inquired Wally.

“Oh, to London, I think! He isn’t communicative about himself, and I
don’t know what his business is; he has travelled a lot, and knows
Europe pretty well. Quite an interesting animal to talk to. But I
haven’t run across any one with so little interest in the war—he says
he’s lost heavily by it, and that seems to have soured him—he won’t
talk war, except for his beloved nephew. Must be a pretty decent sort of
uncle, I should think.”

“That sort of person might be all right as an uncle, but I don’t seem to
hanker after him as anything at all, myself,” said Wally. “But you
always used to find some decency in the most hopeless little beggars at
school, Jim.”

“Oh, well, most people are pretty decent when you come to know ’em a
bit!” said Jim, carelessly. “Anyhow, I believe in thinking they are;
life wouldn’t be worth living if one went round expecting to find the
other fellow a beast. And old Smith isn’t really half bad. Here’s Dad.”

“Where have you been hiding yourself, Dad?” Norah asked, turning to meet
her father. “We hunted everywhere for you a while ago.”

“I’ve been up in the captain’s quarters,” explained her father. “He has
very comfortable rooms; we have been smoking and talking. It’s an
anxious position to hold; I wouldn’t care to be captain of a big liner
in the present state of affairs, but it seems to sit lightly enough on
him. At any rate, he doesn’t wear his heart upon his sleeve, and if he’s
worried, his passengers are the last people likely to find it out.”

“The voyage out must have been exciting,” Wally remarked. “They had a
huge passenger-list, and German cruisers were very plentiful—one only
missed them by a few miles in the dark.”

“We’re to have boat-drill every week,” said Mr. Linton. “After the drill
for the crew, a double whistle is to summon the passengers; every one
has been allotted a boat-station, under the command of an officer, and
we’re supposed to tumble up pretty sharply and answer to our names. Not
much in it, but it will teach us where to go in case of emergency, and
to know under which officer we should be. Otherwise we should be like a
mob of sheep.”

The captain, cheery-faced and alert, bore down upon the little group.

“Has your father been telling you my plans for disturbing your leisure,
Miss Norah?” he asked. At home the captain had small girls of his own;
Norah and he were already great friends. “I hope you won’t find it a
bore; some passengers on the way out considered it beneath their dignity
to turn up to boat-drill, but on the whole they are very good about it.”

“I think it will be rather fun,” said Norah. “Whose boat are we in?”

“You’re in the second boat, under the doctor,” replied the captain. “I
shall look to you to aid him, as first mate—with full authority from me
to keep Wally in order, and put him in irons if necessary.”

“What have I done?” asked Wally plaintively.

“That’s very satisfactory,” said Norah, laughing, and not heeding the
victim. “Captain, if we had to take to the boats in earnest, what
luggage could we have with us?”

“H’m,” said the captain, reflectively. “Luggage is a wide term, and it
would entirely depend upon the Germans—they might let people take a
good deal or nothing at all. I wouldn’t have any say in the matter.
There is plenty of room, of course, with so few passengers. I should
recommend you to have a small suit-case with valuables and necessaries,
and as many rugs and coats as you could carry, separately.”

“Would it be wise to have a suit-case ready packed?”

The captain laughed.

“Well, I don’t suppose for a moment that the Germans are going to get
us, Miss Norah,” he said. “Don’t you worry your little head about them.
We take precautions, of course, because that’s common-sense, but they
need not make any one nervous. A lot of passengers on the way out kept
their valuables packed in readiness, and it may have acted as a kind of
insurance against trouble, for the enemy didn’t get us—and they were
near enough. Just please yourself, and don’t get anxious.”

“Why, I don’t suppose they would hurt the passengers, in any case,” said
Mr. Linton. “War isn’t piracy, captain.”

“No; not with decent people. And so far the Germans at sea have been
exceedingly decent,” the captain answered. “The _Emden_ has done plenty
of damage, but not to people; her captain must be a very good sort,
judging by the way he has acted towards British who fell into his hands.
No; there might be a certain amount of discomfort, of course, but no
danger. Do you like queer experiences, Miss Norah?”

“I do,” said Norah, promptly.

“Then I hope you won’t get this one!” said the captain, as promptly.
“Not on my ship, anyhow. And I don’t think you will, either—the route
will be well guarded, and we don’t run risks. You must look on
boat-drill as just one of the games the doctor advocates—designed to
keep you all from getting fat and lazy. And there’s a whale blowing over
there—can you see?”

Norah turned in excitement, and could just see the faint spout of water
on the horizon.

“Is that all?” she said, disgustedly. “Won’t he come any nearer?”

“I’m afraid that one won’t,” said the captain; “he’s a long way off, and
we’re going fast. But don’t say I didn’t provide you with diversions,
Miss Norah—porpoises and leviathans of the deep, and boat-drill!” He
laughed at the disappointed face. “A whale is really a dull, old thing,
until you get to close quarters, but you needn’t say I said so—they’re
one of our stock attractions. I must go”—and he went, swiftly, with
quick greetings for passengers on the way. The captain possessed in full
that valuable attribute of captains of liners—at the day’s end each
passenger used to feel that he or she had been the special object of
“the skipper’s” attention and interest. It is this quality which helps
to lead to the command of big ships.

Some one came up and carried off the boys and Norah to a game of
deck-tennis—which is played with a rope quoit across a net, and
provides as much strenuous exercise and as many bruised knuckles as the
most exacting could demand. Mr. Linton found his deck-chair and a book,
and the long, lazy morning went by imperceptibly, as do all mornings on
board ship. At luncheon, there were rumours of news—some one had heard
that the wireless operator was in communication with a ship, and there
ensued a buzz of speculation. The captain, entering, was appealed to by
a dozen voices.

“No news at all,” said he, sitting down. “The operator heard a British
warship speaking somewhere, a long way off; she speaks in code, but they
know the preliminary signals.”

Mr. Smith, looking slightly anxious, shot out a question.

“That does not mean danger to the troopships, I hope, captain?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said the captain. “There’s no reason that it
should; with a big convoy like that the warships will be spread out, and
they must exchange messages. It’s probably of the simplest nature—only
we don’t know anything about it, so I can’t enlighten any one.” He gave
a little laugh. “I suppose there is no use in my mentioning that the
best advice I can give you all is to forget that there is a war?”

Mr. Smith, returning to his soup, was heard to murmur something
unintelligibly about his nephew. He looked worried and pre-occupied; and
when his neighbour, who happened to be the pearl-fishing man from Port
Darwin, asked him a question, he hesitated, stammered, and finally gave
an answer so incoherent that the other stared.

“He’s a rum chap, that,” the Port Darwin man, John West, confided to
Jim, later. “You’d almost think he had something on his mind. Anybody
after him, do you think?”

“Well—he joined the ship in a hurry at the last moment,” Jim said.
“Naturally, he didn’t mention if any one were on his track.”

“If you come to that, I did the same thing myself,” said West, laughing.
“Going down to Port Adelaide, I was thinking I should have to chase the
old ship down the Gulf in a motor-boat! So I can’t very well afford to
talk about Smith. And I daresay he’s all right—he’s only worried about
his precious nephew. I told him at lunch that there were heaps of other
people’s nephews in the contingent, so his wouldn’t be lonesome; but it
did not seem to comfort him to any noticeable extent. There isn’t much
emotion left for a wife or mother when a mere uncle takes on like
Smith!”

“He’s a man of feeling—and there aren’t many among you hard-headed
young Australians!” said the doctor, laughing in his turn. “You can’t
understand a man showing any emotion at all. Smith, being fat and soft,
is different—that’s all. Look at him now.”

They were sitting in the deck-lounge, smoking. A few yards away Mr.
Smith came into view, an unlit cigar in his mouth. His broad face was
almost comically lined and perplexed, and he passed them without any
sign of observing them. Immediately behind him came Norah, encumbered
with a large, restless baby.

“Wherever did you get that thing, Norah?” Jim called to her.

“He isn’t a thing,” said Norah, indignantly. “He’s a very nice
person—only his mother is apt to get a bit tired.”

“I don’t wonder,” said the doctor, as the baby executed a leap that
would have been a somersault but for his bearer’s firm grip. “Is he
training for a porpoise, do you think? Come and sit down, Miss
Norah—he’s too heavy to be carried for long at a stretch.”

Norah sat down thankfully, and the baby graciously accepted the doctor’s
silver tobacco-box, and proceeded to concentrate all his energies on
opening it.

“What have you done with his mother?”

“Oh, she has gone to lie down—she has a headache, and the baby doesn’t
give her much peace,” Norah answered. “He’s really quite good if you
show him things. We’ve been looking for whales—but whales are so
uninteresting in the distance.”

“I wish I could show you some giant rays I saw once,” the doctor said.
“We were going up the coast from Bombay to Karachi in a British-India
turbine boat, and after breakfast one morning on a calm day there were a
lot of them jumping about two miles off. They’re worth seeing when they
jump. You know their shape—enormous flat things—and they came out of
the water with a sort of gradual upward rush, like a hydroplane lifting,
rise about ten feet from the water, and then come down flat—whop! It’s
like a billiard-table falling on the water.”

“Whew!” said Wally. “I’d like to see them. What size do they run to?”

“I could tell you of one that measured thirty feet from nose-tip to
tail-tip, and sixteen feet from side to side—only people don’t always
believe the yarn, and it discourages me,” said the doctor, with a
twinkle in his eye.

“Go on, doctor—we promise to believe anything!” Jim assured him.

“As a matter of fact, the story is sober truth—but it was a queer
coincidence,” the doctor said. “We were talking about these big rays to
the first officer of the ship, that morning, and he told us that about
two years before, a ship in which he was second mate had run into one of
them in those same latitudes. It got across the bow, simply wrapped
round it, and was drowned by being dragged through the water. They got a
rope on to it and lifted it aboard by a windlass. It was the one of
which I told you—measured thirty by sixteen.”

“What would he weigh?”

“Oh—tons. I caught a ray once in the Andaman Islands; it was a small
one, four feet from side to side, and ten feet long—six or seven feet
of that was tail. It weighed a hundred and forty pounds. So you can
calculate the big one, Miss Norah.”

“No, thank you,” said Norah, hastily. “We’ll call it tons.”

“Well, the first officer of our ship had photographs of that brute
hanging up in Karachi, where he said they had taken it, for exhibition.
Of course, it might have been any big ray, hanging anywhere; I’m afraid
most of us put it down as a sailor’s yarn, rather more circumstantial
than usual. But this is where the queer part of my story comes in.”

The baby drummed happily on the table with the tobacco-box, and gurgled.

“The kiddie likes it, anyhow,” said Jim, laughing. “Go on, doctor.”

“That was about ten o’clock in the morning. We watched the rays as long
as they remained in sight, and then forgot all about them. After lunch
the skipper noticed that our speed was wrong; he had been suspicious for
some time, and on testing it by the patent log he found we were doing
only eleven knots instead of fifteen. That sort of thing annoys a
skipper, especially when there is no reason for it. So he rang up the
engine-room and asked what revolutions she was making, and was told that
she was doing her fifteen knots. The captain argued the point with some
warmth; the chief engineer defended his engines with equal vigour, and
finally they came to the conclusion that something was wrong.”

“Not a leak?”

“Oh, no! I happened to stroll up to the bow about that time; it’s the
quietest place on the ship, and I like it—and looking over, I saw
something half in and half out of the sea, for all the world like a
thick white sheet wrapped round the cutwater. It beat me for a few
minutes—the foam from the waves partly concealed it—and then I saw
that it was one of these huge rays. The ship had run into it and broken
its back, just as the chief officer had described—and it had revenged
itself by reducing our speed by four knots!”

“Well!” said Norah. “Did you all go and apologise to the chief officer?”

“It might have pained him to know we’d even doubted him,” said the
doctor, laughing. “We made our apologies—mentally. The thing was
exactly as he had described. We wanted the skipper to stop and get it
aboard, but he was sufficiently disgusted with the delay it had already
caused; and it would have taken a good while to rig up a derrick. So he
had the engines reversed, and we backed slowly astern, and as soon as
the pressure of the water against it was released, Mr. Ray dropped off.
I think he was even bigger than the one the chief officer had measured.”

“Well, it would be a good deal of fish that you would need to wrap round
the stern, to bring down the speed of a big ship,” said Jim. “I wish
you’d got him on board, doctor.”

“So do I—there were batteries of cameras waiting for him; and the
skipper was unpopular for fully twelve hours,” said the doctor.
“Skippers, however, have to be stern men, and indifferent to questions
of popularity—where the coal bill is concerned. Owners and coal bills
remain long after passengers are a misty memory; and you can’t appease
owners—not even with a fish story!” He patted the baby’s head, rescued
his tobacco-box, and was gone.



                             CHAPTER VIII.


                            WHAT NORAH SAW.

“BOTHER!” said Norah, with vexation.

She sat up in bed in the dark. From the skylight over her door a very
faint light filtered in from the shaded lamp in the alley-way; but the
cabin was very gloomy.

“Toothache is bad enough in the day,” murmured Norah, indignantly. “But
when it wakes one up at night——!” She put her hand to her face, trying
to still the throbbing of the offending tooth; obtaining no relief, as
was natural, seeing that for half an hour she had been trying such
simple means, aided by the warmth of her pillow. The tooth had refused
to be soothed; it was evident that sterner measures were demanded.

“Now, if I could remember where I put that bottle of toothache
stuff——!” she pondered. “Brownie packed it, I know, and I’m sure I
unpacked it; but where did I put it? And I can’t switch on my light to
look. Bother the old Germans!”

She slipped out of bed. The breeze blew in sharply through the open
port-hole, and shivering a little, she groped for her dressing-gown and
slippers, and, having donned them, drew the curtain across the
port-hole. Then she found her little electric torch, and blinked as its
ray illuminated the cabin.

“That’s better,” she reflected. “Now for that horrid little bottle.”

It is not very easy to hunt for a small object in drawers and boxes when
one hand is occupied in pressing the button of an electric torch; and
the search was somewhat prolonged. Finally, the missing toothache cure
turned up in the retirement of a work-bag, and Norah thankfully applied
it to the troublesome tooth. By this time she was cold and tired—glad
to get back to the warm comfort of bed.

Peace, however, did not last long. In a very few minutes a heavy step
sounded in the alley-way, and an authoritative tap at her half-open
door.

“Who’s there?” said Norah, quaking.

“Quartermaster, ma’am,” said a deep voice. “Officer of the watch wants
to know if your port is uncovered. Light showing on this side.”

Norah explained briefly.

“My curtain was drawn,” she finished; “and my little torch doesn’t give
much light. The purser said I might use it.”

“The purser doesn’t have to stand watch at night,” said the
quartermaster, acidly. “That there torch of yours must give more light
than you think, ma’am. Orders are to close your port if found open and
light showing. Can I come in, ma’am?”

He came in; a sternly official figure in oilskins, bearing a shaded
lantern. At the sight of the dismayed little figure with the mass of
disordered curls, he relented somewhat.

“Oh, it’s you, miss! Now, didn’t you know you was disobeying orders?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Norah, sturdily. “I had leave. And that is all the
light my little torch gives.” She pressed the button.

“Well, it don’t look exactly powerful and that’s a fact,” remarked the
quartermaster. “Still, orders is orders—and you’d be surprised to see
how a light shines out through a winder, miss, when you’re lookin’ down
from the bridge.”

“Well, I won’t light it again—not at all—if only you’ll leave the port
open,” Norah pleaded. “The ship is stuffy enough without having one’s
cabin stuffy too.”

“Lor, you should put your nose into our quarters, miss!” remarked the
quartermaster. “No draughts up there, I promise you! We wouldn’t sleep
easy with all this cold air a-blowin’ in.” He looked at Norah’s
distressed face. “Well, if you give me your word there won’t be any more
light, miss, I might chance it.”

“Not if I have fifty teeth aching—I promise!” said Norah gratefully.
“Thank you ever so much, quartermaster.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the sailor, affably. “Good-night miss—or
rather good-morning! It ain’t far off dawn.” He tramped out, leaving the
cabin redolent of oilskins and hot lantern.

Jim, a few hours later, was indignant.

“I never heard such bosh,” he said, warmly. “Light—why, that little
torch couldn’t be seen a dozen yards away! I wonder who was the officer
of the watch. I’d like to speak to him.”

“Oh, don’t bother, Jimmy!” said Norah. “It must show more than we
thought, or they couldn’t have seen it, that’s clear. And for all we
know, I may never want to use it again. If I do, I’ll rig up a dark
serge skirt over the port-hole, and I’m sure no one could see a chink of
light then.

“Well, it’s rather a bore to have to do that in the dark, but I suppose
there’s no help for it,” said Jim. “And there is really nothing to be
gained by speaking to headquarters, I suppose; if the light shows, it
mustn’t be permitted, and that’s all about it. I’m glad the
quartermaster was decent over it, anyhow.”

“Oh, he was a dear! he might have shut the port-hole, and he didn’t. But
I’m sorry the officer should think I disobeyed orders,” added Norah.

“I’ll fix that up with him, if I get a chance,” said her brother. “And
don’t you go making a habit of getting toothache and lying awake at
night; it isn’t good for you.” He gave her hair a friendly tweak. “Come
up on deck; Wally will be looking for us.”

It occurred to Norah two nights later, that she was in a fair way to
disobeying at least part of Jim’s injunction. Toothache had not visited
her, certainly; but she had a most unusual fit of wakefulness. It was a
still night, mild and close; scarcely any breeze came through her
port-hole. Early in the night she had found the grey ’possum rug too hot
and had cast it off; then a blanket followed suit; and still she was hot
and restless, and the little bunk seemed suddenly narrow and
uncomfortable.

She got up at last, put on her dressing-gown and leaned out of the
port-hole. Without, the night was very dark; somewhere, a storm was
brewing, and all the stars had disappeared. A faint, occasional glow of
phosphorescence shone from the water racing past. There was refreshment
in the cool touch of the night air upon her hot face. Norah liked the
sea at night; even though now she could scarcely see it, it was there,
great, and quiet, and companionable, with something soothing in the
gentle touch of the water on the side of the ship. She liked it best
when it came in waves that dashed cheerily beneath her port, breaking in
a scatter of star-lit foam; but to-night it was dark and mysterious, and
if you were wakeful it was easy to weave stories about it, and to
picture tropic islands where just such seas lapped lazily on white coral
beaches. In the daytime, Norah was a very practical person, and rarely
thought of weaving stories. At night everything seemed different and
strange; and the sea took possession of her imagination and whispered to
her all sorts of queer things that she could never have told to any
one—not even to Dad and Jim. They would have been kind and sympathetic,
of course, and would never laugh at her; but they would probably have
questioned themselves as to whether she were quite well.

As she leaned out, watching, the little phosphorescent gleams on the
water came and went fitfully; sometimes barely a glimmer, and then a
stronger gleam that rested for a moment on the crest of a lazy swell. So
black was the night that every tiny fragment of light seemed twice its
real size—and when dark water rolled over the faint sparkles, the gloom
seemed a hundred-fold deeper. Presently, however, the little
intermittent flashes grew stronger, and the periods of complete darkness
less frequent.

“I do believe it’s getting into the air,” Norah murmured. “I never heard
of phosphorescence in the air, but that doesn’t say it may not be
there!” She leaned further. “There!—that flash wasn’t in the water, I’m
sure.”

It had not seemed so—still it was a little difficult to tell where the
water ended and the dark bulk of the ship began. She watched, keenly
interested; this was a new natural phenomenon—something to tell dad and
the boys in the morning. The little flashes in the air came again; and
at the same moment, far below, a curl of phosphorescence on a long wave.

“Why!” said Norah, in amazement—“why, it’s quite different. It’s not
the same light at all!”

It was not the same. The glimmer on the water was a pure white
radiance—almost the ghost of light; but this flash in the air was quite
another thing. It came more regularly now; and Norah, searching the side
of the ship with wide eyes of curiosity, saw that its origin seemed to
be in one place alone; she could not tell how it came.
Flash—flash—flash. Then comprehension swooped upon her, and she gasped
in amazed horror.

“Why!—it’s some one signalling!”

The flashes came and went, intermittently, yet with a certain
regularity. It was puzzling; she could not see their beginning, or what
caused them, and yet they were there—in the air, more than coming from
the ship; ghostly, mysterious rays. Still, the longer Norah watched, the
more certain she felt that this was something wrong—something coming
stealthily from the steamer—sending a hidden message over the water.

She slipped down, and stood inside her cabin, breathing quickly. Her
first impulse, to ring for the night-steward, she put aside; she must be
more certain first. The night-steward was an unintelligent person, and
might raise a wild alarm, or simply laugh at her; and neither
alternative seemed to meet the case. She must be quite certain before
taking any one into her confidence.

Her little electric torch came into her mind. She found it, and managed
to wriggle one small shoulder and arm as well as her head, through the
port-hole; then, twisting to obtain a clear view along the side of the
ship, she pressed the button. The little beam shot out and for an
instant she could see the dark hull and the long line of ports like
black eye-holes. The second from her own was obscured by what Norah
recognised as a wind-scoop—the long tin funnel, like a grocer’s mammoth
scoop, with which each cabin was fitted. They used them in the tropics,
her steward had told her, screwed into each port to project outwards and
catch more air and so suck it into the cabin. This wind-scoop was fitted
in the wrong way; its wide part uppermost, so that the port-hole was
completely screened from the deck above. It was only a second that Norah
looked, but that glance was enough. She released the button of the
torch, and wriggled back into the cabin.

“I think I’ll get Jim,” she said, shivering a little in her excitement.
“This job is too big for me!”

She found her dressing-gown and a pair of noiseless slippers, and
hurried down the dim alley, wondering how she should explain her
presence if she met a steward or any of the watch. But it was three
o’clock in the morning, when even night-stewards grow sleepy; there was
no one visible. Faint snores came from sundry cabins as she passed. She
came to Jim’s door; it was wide open, the curtain drawn across it. Norah
tapped on it gently.

“Jim! Jim!” she said, very softly.

“Who’s there?” came a voice, prompt, but sleepy.

“It’s me—Norah.”

“What’s wrong?—is Dad ill?” Jim was out of bed, wide awake in an
instant.

“No, he’s asleep. But there’s some one signalling, Jim!”

“Well, that’s the ship’s business,” said Jim, in natural bewilderment.
“There are plenty of people on deck to receive signals. What are you
worrying for, kiddie? Go back to bed.”

“Oh, it isn’t any one signalling to us!” Norah answered, impatiently. “I
wouldn’t have waked you for that, Jimmy. But there’s some one in a cabin
near mine sending out signals.”

“Are you certain?” Jim asked, incredulously.

“I’ve been watching for a long time. He’s got a wind-scoop fixed over
his port-hole, so as to screen it from the deck. It’s on this side; look
out of your own port, and you’ll see the flashes. Go on—I’ll wait.”

Jim sprang to his port-hole. A sleepy voice came from Wally’s berth,
demanding what was up?

“Look out here, Wal,” said Jim’s voice, from the darkness, in a quick
whisper. “Can’t you see flashes? There’s some queer game on. Norah saw
it first, and woke me.”

There was never any hesitation on the part of Wally between being
profoundly asleep and broad awake. He was at Jim’s side in a bound,
craning his neck through the narrow opening. Then the two boys faced
each other in the dark.

“This is a nice little find,” Jim ejaculated. “There are no officers’
quarters down here, are there?”

“No; nothing but passengers. Do you know who have cabins on this side?”

“There’s West,” Jim said, considering—“and Grantham, that New South
Wales fellow, and I think Mrs. Andrews. I don’t know who else.”

“I’m coming in—I’m lonely!” said Norah, from the door. She groped her
way in, suddenly relieved to find Jim’s hand on her shoulder.

“Poor little kiddie!” he said. “A jolly good thing you saw it. Is it
next cabin to yours?”

“No—the one after the next—that’s vacant,” Norah said. “It’s the
little one where I dress. The light comes from the one next to that. I
don’t know who sleeps in it—it opens on a different alley-way. You
don’t think we’re making a mistake, Jim? I was so afraid you’d think I
was a duffer to come to you.”

“Indeed I don’t,” Jim answered. “It’s no right thing, whatever it is.
We’ll go along to your cabin and look out—it’s closer to the enemy.”

They filed along the gloomy alleys, silently, with hurried steps.
Further inspection from Norah’s port-hole only confirmed the boys’
previous opinion. They held a council of war, whispering in the
darkness.

“Let’s make a dash for him, whoever he may be,” said Wally. “If we
spring in and surprise him he can’t get away, and the wind-scoop will be
evidence; no other cabin has one sticking out.”

Jim hesitated.

“That won’t do,” he said at length. “He isn’t such a fool as not to have
his door bolted—and a wind-scoop is evidence to a certain extent, but
it won’t convict a passenger of signalling. He might simply deny any
light, and say he had a passion for more air.”

“Much air he’d get with the scoop in that way!” objected Wally. “The
broad part has to be against the wind.”

“Yes, but lots of passengers don’t know how to fix them. I don’t see
that we can run this by ourselves, Wal—we’ll have to get an officer and
let him see the flashes. We don’t want to make fools of ourselves; and
there is a chance that it may be something we don’t understand, and
quite all right.”

“Oh, all serene!” Wally agreed. “If you’ll watch I’ll go and report it
on the bridge. I expect they’ll have to come in here, Norah—do you
mind?”

“Of course she doesn’t—and it wouldn’t matter to them if she did!” said
Jim in an impatient whisper, cutting across Norah’s quick disclaimer.
“Hurry, Wal—it would be awful if he knocked off and went to bed!”

Wally sped for the door, a dim vision of haste, lean and long in his
pyjamas. Disaster awaited him—his foot caught in the fur rug trailing
from Norah’s berth, unseen in the gloom, and he fell violently against
the half-open door. It crashed into a wardrobe behind it, with a clatter
of timber and falling bottles within. The noise echoed through the
silent ship.

“Oh, Lord!” said Jim, disgustedly, his head through the port-hole.
“That’s finished him, I guess.”

The flashes of light ceased abruptly. Silence fell again—and then Mr.
Linton’s voice.

“What’s that? Are you all right, Norah?”

“Yes, she’s all right,” answered Wally, ruefully—his bruises nothing in
comparison with his deep abasement. “Jim’s here, sir—come in. We’re
spy-hunting, and I’ve spoilt the show. Oh, I am a blithering ass!”

“But what on earth——?” began Mr. Linton, justifiably bewildered. Norah
whispered a hasty explanation.

“You couldn’t help it,” she finished, consolingly to Wally. “I ought to
have remembered about the rug.”

“I ought to have been careful where I was going,” said the disconsolate
Wally. “Trust me to mess up a good thing!—why ever did you wake me? He
might have been in irons now, but for me! I ought to be put in ’em
myself.” He sat down on the edge of the berth and groaned in a whisper.

“Cheer up,” said Jim, coming softly from the port-hole. “The show’s over
for to-night, I expect, but I really think he’s given himself away—the
flashes stopped the instant the noise came, and after a few minutes the
wind-scoop was very gently taken in. We’ll get him yet. Come on back to
bed.”

“Aren’t you going to report it?”

“What have we got to report? There is no evidence now—not even a
wind-scoop. Whoever is in that cabin has probably unbolted his door by
this time, and if any one came to investigate, he would be sleeping
peacefully. And it’s getting towards morning—he can’t do much more
to-night, in any case.”

“I think you’re right,” Mr. Linton said. “Go back to your cabin now,
boys, and let Norah get to bed. We’ll hold a council in the morning.”
The boys tip-toed away, and Norah crept into her berth, perfectly
certain that she was far too excited ever to sleep again.

Then she suddenly found that she was very tired; and in five minutes she
was sound asleep. The ship had not been disturbed by the sudden clamour
of a moment; it was perfectly silent, in the sleepy hush before the
dawn. Without, the second port-hole from her own loomed round and black.
No further flashes came from it to mingle with the phosphorescent
glimmer on the water below.



                              CHAPTER IX.


                            DETECTIVE WORK.

A deputation of three paused at the foot of the ladder leading to the
captain’s quarters.

“You can’t keep it to yourselves,” Mr. Linton had said. “If there’s
nothing in it, you might get yourselves into a good deal of trouble by
interfering; and if your suspicions are correct, you want authority
behind you. In either case the captain might resent your not reporting
the matter to him. No, I won’t come; it’s your own party. I didn’t get
out of my excellent bed in the small hours of the morning and wander
round the ship acting Sherlock Holmes!”

“Norah, The Human Sleuth!” murmured Wally, admiringly.

Norah reddened. In the commonplace light of day she felt a little shaken
about her discovery. It had seemed very certain in the night; now she
wondered if it were indeed quite so sure a thing. Uncomfortable visions
of bursting into the cabin of perhaps an innocent old lady, filled her
mind.

“Be quiet!” said Jim, patting his chum on the head with more vigour than
consideration. “Who upset himself?”

“That isn’t decent of you,” said Wally, rubbing his pate. “I’m still
bruised, in mind and body. It’s evident that there’s nothing of the
sleuth about this child. Well, you and Norah can go to the skipper.”

“Indeed, you’re coming too,” said Jim. “You saw the light as well as we
did.”

“And messed up the show, without any assistance,” Wally added, sadly.

“Don’t be an old stupid,” said Norah. “If this show is a show at all, it
isn’t a matter of one night only. We’ll get him, if he’s there to be
got.”

“Of course we shall,” Jim said. “Well, we might as well go and hunt up
the captain.”

“Wait until eleven o’clock,” counselled his father. “Most of the
passengers are pretty well taken up then, between beef-tea and games,
and you’re likely to find the boat-deck empty; it’s just as well not to
court observation when you attack him in force.” So the deputation
possessed its soul in what patience it might until the coast was fairly
clear, and then made a rapid ascent to the upper deck.

“Shall we send him a message?” Norah asked, stopping at the foot of the
ladder.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jim answered. “This is a private call, and we
don’t want attention drawn to it. Come on.” They plunged up the steep
steps and knocked discreetly.

“Come in,” said the captain’s voice; and they entered, to find not only
Captain Garth, but the chief officer, comfortably ensconced in easy
chairs; at sight of whom the deputation stopped, in some confusion.

“I beg your pardon,” Jim said; “we ought to have found out if you were
engaged.”

“By no means—it’s all right,” said the captain, cheerfully. “Mr. Dixon
and I were merely discussing affairs of state—the weight of brown
trout, I think it was, eh, Dixon? Sit down, Miss Norah. Is it very
private, or can Mr. Dixon stay?”

“It’s certainly private,” Jim said, laughing; “but I should think Mr.
Dixon had better stay, or you might have the trouble of getting him
back, captain.”

“It sounds alarming,” said the skipper. “May I smoke, Miss Norah?—thank
you. I’ll feel better able to bear it, with a pipe, whatever it is. Not
mutiny, I hope, Jim?”

“You may think it’s nothing at all,” Jim answered “But we thought we’d
better tell you.” He made his story as brief as possible, watching the
captain’s face—which darkened as he heard, while Mr. Dixon’s remained
frankly incredulous.

“If this is so, what’s the watch doing, Dixon?” was the captain’s first
question.

“The watch is generally pretty well on the look-out,” the chief officer
said. “Only a night or two before, Miss Norah, here, was telling me they
raided her cabin because a light was coming from it.” He stopped, for
Norah had given a hasty jump. A sudden flash of comprehension
illuminated a puzzle that had remained in a corner of her mind.

“I don’t believe it was my light they saw at all!” she exclaimed. “I
never could make out how it could be. Jim, don’t you think it must have
been the same flashes that we saw?”

“By Jove!” said Jim. “That explains it—I couldn’t understand why they
went for you and your little torch.”

“You might tell me what it means,” said the captain, patiently. “I’d
know more if you did!”

“My port was open—but the curtain was drawn across it,” Norah
explained. “I wanted some toothache stuff, so I was using my little
electric torch—it’s only a wee one, and I’m just certain it couldn’t
throw any light through the curtain and outside. But the quartermaster
came down and complained. I don’t believe it was my cabin at all that
they saw—it was the one we were watching last night.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Wally, “and, ten to one, whoever it was heard the
quartermaster raiding you, and profited by the warning. And then he
thought of fitting in his wind-scoop so that it would shut out his light
from the deck above.”

“That’s possible, of course,” Mr. Dixon said. “Those wind-scoops jut out
a good way; I don’t believe any one looking down would see a light
shielded by one. The watch is well kept—but all that the men think of
looking for is a decided ray of light from a cabin window.”

“H’m!” said the captain. “You didn’t find out who occupies the suspected
cabin?”

“No,” Jim answered. “We thought of doing so, but Dad reckoned it might
excite suspicion if we took any steps. So we haven’t done anything.”

“Quite right. The purser can tell me easily enough.” The captain paused,
and knitted his brow in thought.

“Well,” he said, at length, “it may be innocent enough—but it doesn’t
sound so. I’m giving you three credit for being fairly acute observers;
I don’t think you’d jump to wild conclusions.”

“We were awfully scared of making fools of ourselves!” Jim said,
laughing.

“Very wholesome feeling. Anyhow, I’ll speak to the purser, and make a
few inquiries. And as it’s your case, so to speak, perhaps you would all
come up here this afternoon and have tea with me, and I’ll tell you
anything I’ve found out. Bring your father.”

“Thanks, awfully,” said the deputation, greatly relieved at being taken
so seriously.

“I don’t think I need mention that ‘a still tongue makes a wise head,’
or any sage proverb of that description?” said the captain, with a
smile.

“I don’t think so,” Jim answered. “If you have a raid, Captain, may we
be in it?”

“I’ll see,” said the captain. “Too soon to make rash promises—and your
father might have a word to say in the matter. We’ll have a talk about
it this afternoon. You can tell any one that you’re going to hear my
gramophone.” He smiled at them encouragingly, and the deputation,
understanding that it was dismissed, withdrew. On the boat-deck, it
broke up into three, each unit rejoining the main body of the passengers
separately, with an elaborate air of unconcern.

“We were wondering what had become of you,” remarked John West, whom
they found, with two or three of the younger men, talking to Mr. Linton.
“Some one was hunting for you two fellows to play cricket.”

“Sorry,” Jim said. “Are they playing?”

“I don’t think so—it fell through. There are really not enough
passengers to get up games. Some of the more energetic are talking of a
sports committee—but I’m dead against it this side of Durban. We shall
probably pick up more people there.”

“You’re coming on to London?” Jim asked.

“Oh, yes—Grantham and Barry and I mean to stick together if we can, and
try to get into the same crowd; we don’t care what it is, but we’d
prefer a mounted one. You two had better come along with us. We’d be a
pretty useful lot.”

“Thanks,” said the boys, flattered at the invitation from older men. “It
would be jolly.”

“I’m a bit doubtful as to its being jolly at all,” said Grantham,
laughing. “From all I can read it’s going to be a particularly beastly
business, and I rather think a good deal of the ‘romance of war’ will
disappear over it. The only thing is that it would be less jolly to stay
out of it.”

“Yes; you’d feel a bit of a waster, to stand out, wouldn’t you?” West
said. “Everybody’s going to be in it before long, I’ll bet—it will be a
sort of International Donnybrook Fair.” He raised his voice to include
Mr. Smith, who was standing by the rail, looking out to sea. “Going to
join when you get home, Smith?”

“To join?” said the stout one, turning. “To join what?”

“Oh, just the little old Army! You’re not going to be out of the fun,
are you?”

Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m too old,” he said. “Men of my age aren’t wanted—it’s youngsters
like you and those boys. Very useful you’ll be, if you get there. But
for me—well, there is the Rifle Club of which I’m a member; and they
may make me a special constable. That requires heroism, if you like—to
march up and down a sloppy London street in the pouring rain for four
hours each night, knowing just how much use you would be if anything
went wrong.”

“But why wouldn’t you be of use?” Norah asked.

“Why?—because I am not young. Nobody is much use who is elderly—and
fat. One gets flabby and one’s muscles become soft and limp. Only one’s
head remains. Therefore, I cultivate my head.”

“For the sake of your country?” Grantham asked, laughing.

Mr. Smith nodded.

“Just so—for the sake of my country. We cannot all serve in the same
way. Somewhere or other there will be a job of work for me, and I shall
try to hold down my job, as the Americans say. No one can do more than
that.” He laughed good-humouredly. “So when you are marching by in
khaki, you can spare a thought for the poor, chilly special constable
who keeps the streets clear for you to pass, or performs some equally
dull and ordinary duty—and gets no fun out of it; not even a medal.”

“You under-rate your capabilities, Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Linton,
laughing. “No one who saw you racing down the pier at Melbourne could
regard you as either elderly or decrepit.”

“Well—perhaps not yet. But fat—yes!” Mr. Smith smiled deprecatingly,
casting a downward glance at his ample figure. “I fear I am no longer a
stayer; and in a trench I would certainly take up too much room. So I
curb my ambitions. But there will be a job for me somewhere, though it
may not be a showy one.” His smile widened, including all the little
group; then the chief engineer passed, and Mr. Smith fell into step with
him and strolled off along the deck.

“Jolly decent of the old chap,” said Grantham. “I like a man who doesn’t
talk much, but is ready to take his share; and somehow, you don’t expect
it from a lazy-looking, comfortable business man of his type.”

“No,” said Barry. “People like us go in as much for the fun of it—the
adventure—as anything; but he can’t anticipate experiences like that.
Just shows you can’t judge any one; I’d have put old Smith down as an
arm-chair patriot, if ever there was one, but he seems anxious to be
thoroughly uncomfortable, if necessary.”

“Oh, he’s not half a bad fellow!” Jim said. “He’s so interested about
things; it’s quite jolly to talk to him. And he’s keen about his nephew
and the boys on the transports. There are lots of people worse than old
Smith.” Thus dismissing the claims to respect of his fellow-passengers,
Jim demanded volunteers for deck-quoits, and the party, having
volunteered in a body, withdrew.

The captain’s gramophone was something of an institution on the ship. It
was an excellent machine, and the captain loved it. Occasionally he was
induced to bring it to the saloon at night, or, in the tropics, out on
the deck; but his more usual form of entertainment was to invite a
select few to his cabin for tea, an invitation understood to include
music. It was not therefore, regarded as anything unusual when the
Linton group declined the general tea-summons, and moved away in the
direction of the upper deck. In the comfortable rooms under the bridge,
tea was made the chief business of the gathering, and nothing was said
of any other matter until every one was served and the stewards had
withdrawn. Then the captain looked round the expectant faces.

“Well, I have not much to report,” he said. He produced a plan of the
ship, showing the outer view of the port-holes. “That is your cabin
window, Miss Norah. Now where did you see those flashes emerging?”

“From this one,” said Norah, unhesitatingly, indicating a port-hole.
“Wasn’t it, boys?” Jim and Wally, looking over her shoulder, nodded
confirmation.

“Ah, so I thought! Well, that cabin has no occupant—it’s a small vacant
one.”

Disappointment showed plainly written on the faces of his three younger
hearers.

“That, of course, proves nothing,” went on the captain; and the faces
cleared immediately. “Any one could get in to use it; it is not locked.
There are no signs of its having been occupied in any way, but then, no
one using it surreptitiously would leave signs. We have one piece of
evidence, however; the wind-scoop is a new one, but there are scratches
on it that show it has been applied, possibly by a person who did not
thoroughly understand how to insert it in the port-hole. Why, you
blood-thirsty young people!—you look pleased!”

The three detectives had beamed, quite involuntarily. They laughed, a
little shame-faced.

“We’re anxious not to have taken up your time for nothing, sir,”
explained Wally, suavely.

“H’m,” said Captain Garth, looking from one guest to another. “Mr.
Linton, you look as pleased as any of them!”

“The family reputation for common sense is at stake,” said Mr. Linton,
smiling. “I admit I don’t want to find they’ve led you on a wild-goose
chase, captain. Besides, they woke me up; I want some compensation for a
disturbed night.”

“A peaceful man, anxious to command a blameless ship, has a poor time
nowadays!” said the captain. “Well, that’s how the matter stands. The
cabins near the empty one are occupied by ladies, who, I think, are
guiltless of anything desperate; they’re all addicted to wool-work and
playing Patience. Further inquiry leads me to feel very doubtful about
two men; one is employed in the galley, the other is a foremast hand.
Both are Swedes.”

“But could they get into the cabin?”

“Oh, easily! Every one knows the plan of the ship, and there would be no
difficulty in dodging into an empty cabin. Frankly,” said the captain,
“it is a relief to me to find suspicion directed away from the
passengers; it’s a much easier matter to tackle a foremast hand with
alien tendencies. The sailor was seen last night under somewhat queer
circumstances; he was in a part of the ship where he had no business. He
gave a fairly lame excuse.”

“What time was that, Captain?” Jim asked.

“A little after three. It might mean nothing—but putting everything
together, the matter is suspicious. We’ll set a watch to-night, in two
places?”

“Can we be in it?” came from Jim and Wally, simultaneously.

The captain looked questioningly at Mr. Linton.

“Oh, I leave it to you, Captain!” said that gentleman; “I can’t keep
them in cotton-wool.”

“And after all, it’s their find—if it be a find,” said the captain. “At
least, it’s Miss Norah’s—but I can’t very well let you watch!” He
smiled at Norah.

“It’s awful to be a girl!” said she, lugubriously. “But I suppose it
can’t be helped. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you?”

“You shall know all!” said the captain, dramatically. “Well, one watch
must be kept in the empty cabin you are using for a dressing-room—cheer
up, Miss Norah, we’ll give you another. You boys can watch there, if you
like. Then I will have men posted further aft, also in an empty cabin;
and a special watch kept on deck.”

“And if we see the flashes?”

“Report to Mr. Dixon. Both watches will close up on the alley-way
leading to the cabin, and we’ll burst the door in. I’m having the hinges
specially fixed, so that the screws will give, if necessary. If any one
is there, he must be caught red-handed, or not at all. It’s a mercy that
the cabin is unoccupied and that no one has any right to be there—to
break violently in upon a feminine passenger doing nothing more deadly
than using a spirit-lamp to heat curling-tongs, would lead to
unpleasantness with the powers that be, at home!”

“I guess it was more than that,” Wally remarked.

“Oh, of course it was! Still, it may be capable of some very simple
explanation; don’t run away with the idea that we have really an alien
on board.” The captain smiled. “I know you want a scalp—but I don’t
know that I do. And, in any case, I want to keep the matter from the
other passengers. That sort of thing only leads to nervousness and
excitement and I’m especially pleased in the present state of affairs,
that my passengers show no signs of getting ‘jumpy’ over war risks.
Coming out, there was a lady who used to consult the officers several
times a day on the probability of being sunk, and she got on our
nerves.”

“She would,” said Jim. “We shan’t speak of it, Captain. But can you keep
it dark, if we make a capture?”

“Oh, I think so. Everything leads me to suspect one of the two Swedes;
and the temporary disappearance of a hand may be easily explained to the
rest of the crew, while the passengers need never hear about it. Lots of
things occur on a voyage about which it isn’t necessary to inform the
passengers,” said the captain, with a twinkle. “They’re all very good,
of course—but they have such a way of asking questions!”

“There’s so little else to do,” said Norah, laughing—“and such heaps of
questions to ask!”

“Quite so,” agreed the captain. “Well, lest you should ask me any more
just now, let’s have the music-box.” He opened the gramophone, and gave
himself to melody.

Later, on their way to dress for dinner, they passed a tall, fair-haired
sailor, busily cleaning paint. He looked up at the merry group, with a
surly face.

“That’s a Swede, I know,” Wally said, when they were safely out of
hearing. “I wonder if he’s one of the suspects.”

“If he is, he’ll be an awkward man to tackle,” Mr. Linton said. “You
will have to be careful, boys; don’t run unnecessary risks in the way of
going for him single-handed. That fellow is as strong as a bull.”

Jim and Wally passed over this sage advice in the airy way of boyhood.

“It really looks very likely,” said the former. “He’s probably
pro-German; and it’s quite a reasonable thing to suppose that he may be
in the pay of Germans in Australia, and has simply joined the ship in
the hope of signalling our whereabouts to an enemy cruiser.”

“Yes—wouldn’t he get a nice bonus for us!” Wally added. “And a free
trip for himself to Germany—to say nothing of the fact that he may be
carrying information about the transports. Scissors!—don’t I hope we’ll
get him!”

But the watch that night proved fruitless. Jim and his chum spent long
comfortless hours in the little cabin near Norah’s, taking turns at the
port-hole; further up, Mr. Dixon, very bored and cold, shared a similar
vigil with an elderly quartermaster. But no queer flashes of light came
from the port-hole between them; nor had the watch on deck anything to
report. It was a disconsolate trio that met on deck next morning.

“Never mind,” Norah said, comforting. “He may have been too sleepy.
He’ll be there to-night.”

He was not there, however. Again the weary night brought no
satisfaction. Jim and Wally, heavy-eyed and yawning, gave up the watch
towards daybreak, and sought their bunks thankfully, unable to keep
awake any longer.

Mr. Dixon was sarcastic at the expense of the amateur detectives.

“Too much reading of penny-dreadfuls, and visiting picture-shows,” said
he, acidly. “I’ve heard that it makes people think in melodrama, and it
also appears to make them see weird flashes that aren’t there!”

“They were there!” said Wally, hotly. “We all three saw them.”

“I’m sure you thought you did,” said the chief officer, with a soothing
note that was more irritating than acidity. “Now you must keep a good
look-out for the sea-serpent; that’s a daylight affair, and doesn’t
necessitate extra night-watches.” He yawned cavernously. “No more
sitting up for me, thank goodness!—the old man reckons this business is
a frost.”

The captain bore out this statement, in terms less calculated to hurt.

“We have to consider the possibility of a mistake,” he told them. “And I
can’t keep men out of bed indefinitely. The officer of the watch will
have special instructions for vigilance! I think that some underhand
business was going on, but that the interruption on the first night
scared the offender permanently.” Whereat Wally groaned with extreme
bitterness.

“Cheer up!” Jim said, smiting him on the back in the privacy of their
cabin. “I’m not going to give in; if he’s there, we’ll get him yet.” But
though they watched as much as youth and sleepiness would let them, the
nights went by, and there was no further appearance of the mysterious
signals.



                               CHAPTER X.


                            THE EMPTY CABIN.

“JIM! Wake up, you old sinner!”

Jim, in his sleep, was riding after a bullock on the Billabong plains.
The bullock was speedy, and he and Garryowen were doing their utmost to
catch and turn him. They drew near—he swung up his arm with the
stockwhip, and met a soft obstacle that surprised him effectually from
his dream.

“By Jove, you can hit, old man!” said Wally, in a sepulchral whisper,
rubbing his side. “Call yourself a pal? Wake up?”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said, struggling to consciousness. “Did I hit you?
What’s the matter, Wal?”

“Be quiet, fathead, can’t you?” whispered Wally, impatiently. “I’ve been
trying to wake you silently, and you’ll raise the ship. Get up—the
signaller’s at work!”

Jim was out of his berth in a moment, and at the port-hole. Far down the
side of the ship they could see fitful gleams of light.

“By Jove!” he said, bringing in his head. “We’ll get him this time, Wal.
Awfully sorry I was so hard to wake.”

“Well, you’ve had about six hours’ sleep in the last three nights, so
it’s much wonder,” Wally answered. “Generally you wake if a fly looks at
you.” They were struggling into coats and slippers in the dark. “Come
along!”

They hurried noiselessly down the passage, and turned into the narrow
alley-way leading to the little empty cabin near Norah’s. The port-hole
had been left open, and they peered out in turn.

“There’s no doubt this time,” said Jim, excitedly; “he’s signalling for
all he’s worth. No lady with curling-tongs and a spirit-lamp about that
chap! he means business.”

“What’s the plan of action?”

Jim considered.

“I don’t believe the captain would like us to tackle him alone,” he
said. “I don’t think he’d get away from us—but he might, if he’s that
big, powerful Swede. We want witnesses and authority, anyhow. I’ll mount
guard at the entrance to that alley-way, Wal, and you go and rouse Mr.
Dixon.”

“H’m,” said Wally. “And if the beast rushes you?”

“Well, he must rush,” said Jim, philosophically. “We can’t both stay,
and I’d better be the one, being the stronger. Clear out, old man—look
sharp! I wouldn’t let old Dixon miss seeing those flashes for a fiver!”

The entrance to the alley-way leading to the suspected cabin was dark
and silent, and no faintest glimmer of light came from the skylight over
the shut door. Jim took his stand in the narrow passage, bracing his
muscles in case of a rush in the dark. No one could get past him, in so
small a space; but a strong and determined man would, he knew, make
short work of him in a wild dash for safety. Jim was grimly certain that
the Swede might go over him, but not without a struggle. He clenched his
fists, watching the door—imagining each instant that he heard a
stealthy movement, or the slow creaking as the handle turned.

Mr. Dixon, roused from health-giving slumber, was incredulous and
wrathful.

“You kids are a first-class nuisance!” he said, sleepily, getting into
his coat. “If this is another false alarm, Wally, I’ll have you
keel-hauled!”

Wally possessed his soul in patience while his body shivered—the wind
on the officer’s deck blew keen and shrill, and Mr. Dixon was far too
annoyed to offer him the shelter of the cabin. The boy’s teeth were
chattering when the chief officer emerged and ran up the steps to the
bridge. He returned in a moment, followed by two of the watch.

“Now, where’s this precious spy-hole of yours?” demanded he.

They hurried below; past the empty drawing-room and along silent
corridors, where the stillness was broken only by an occasional snore.
Wally turned down Norah’s alley-way and led the way to the empty cabin,
running ahead to glance out first through the port-hole, in sudden fear
lest the flashes should have ceased. He made way for Mr. Dixon with a
relieved little sigh.

“You can see for yourself,” he said, shortly.

The chief officer’s face was invisible, after he had peered out—but the
change in his voice was laughable.

“Well, I back down,” he whispered, “I guess you kids knew more about it
than I did. There’s certainly some little game going on there.” He
leaned out for another long look. “I believe it’s Morse code,” he said,
finally; “it’s hard to tell at this angle. But it’s signalling, safe
enough.”

“Well, hurry!” Wally said. “Jim is mounting guard alone, and if it’s
that big sailor, he’ll simply wipe him out.”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Dixon agreed. “Larsen is a holy terror when he gets
going.” He gave hasty directions as they tip-toed up the alley-way.

“All right, Jim?” Wally whispered.

“All serene,” Jim answered. “Haven’t heard a thing, and there’s no light
coming from over the door.”

“Oh, he’d be quite cute enough to block up the skylight!” Mr. Dixon
agreed. “Well, you boys had better keep back and guard the mouth of the
alley-way, and leave this thing to the men and me.”

“Us!” said Wally and Jim together, in a sepulchral duet of woe. “Not
much—it’s our game! We’ve got to see it out, sir!”

“Well, duck if he begins shooting,” said the chief officer, resignedly.
“Stay where you are, Hayward—you follow up, Bob.” He went noiselessly
as a cat down the narrow alley-way to the cabin door.

“I don’t think I’ll try it,” he mused under his breath. “Better to go in
unannounced.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Wally, you get the
light switched on as soon as you’re in the cabin.”

In his day Mr. Dixon had played Rugby football; in later years he had
been mate of a sailing ship, and had learned in that rough school how to
use his weight effectively. He drew back a pace or two now, and then
flung his shoulder against the door. The carefully-weakened hinges gave,
and the attacking party crashed into the cabin.

They had a momentary vision of a flash of light; a guttural exclamation
came from the port-hole. Then there was black darkness and the sound of
men struggling. Jim was close at Mr. Dixon’s shoulder; Wally, groping
round the ruined door, was endeavouring to find the electric-light
button. Then came another flash of light, and a report that sounded
deafening, in the tiny cabin.

“You brute, you’ve got me!” said Mr. Dixon, between his teeth.

Light flashed out as Wally found the button. The cabin was dim with
smoke, and acrid with the smell of gunpowder. Jim saw a levelled
revolver-barrel gleam in the blue haze; then he sprang past the chief
officer, and hit wildly at a face above it. The revolver clattered to
the floor. There was a thud, as the man who held it went down in a
corner.

“Hold him, Wally!”

The boys were both on the struggling form; the sailor, behind them,
gripping the man’s legs. The unequal fight was only momentary.

“I give in,” said the man. He was suddenly limp and powerless in their
hands, panting heavily. His face was turned from them as he huddled in
the corner.

“Got any more revolvers?” Jim asked.

“Nein—no. You can search me.”

Jim kept his grip on his wrists, as he glanced up at the chief officer.

“Are you much hurt, Mr. Dixon?”

“I don’t think so,” said Dixon, a little doubtfully. “Only grazed my
arm—it’s bleeding a bit—and deafened me. Oh, Lord, there’s the old
lady in the next cabin—I knew we’d have the ship about our ears!” He
went out into the alley-way, and they heard his voice patiently. “No,
it’s all right, madam—nothing to be alarmed about. No, it’s not a
German warship. You’re quite safe. Go to sleep.”

He came back.

“Shut the door, Bob. Prop it with your shoulder. Now we’ll have a look
at this gentleman. Stand up there, will you?”

The huddled figure twisted round and struggled to his feet, facing them
defiantly.

“Great Scott!” said Dixon weakly. “Why, I thought it was a decent
Swede!”

The boys gaped in silence. The short figure, dusty and bedraggled, was
Mr. Smith. He stood looking at them, pale, with a black streak across
his face; in spite of it—in spite of his stout, panting, dishevelled
form—there was something not ignoble about him. He was not at all
afraid.

“On the whole, it was foolish of me to fire,” he said. “I am glad you
are not hurt.”

Dixon broke into a laugh.

“Awfully decent of you!” he said. “Why do you carry a revolver if you
think it foolish to use it?”

“I do not think it foolish to use it,” Mr. Smith answered deliberately.
“But I had meant it for myself—if I failed. Then, in my excitement, I
fought with it. That was foolish. One cannot always think quickly
enough.”

“I’m glad you aimed too quickly!” said Dixon grimly. “It might have been
awkward for some of us if you hadn’t——” He broke off, with a shout.
“Watch him!”

Mr. Smith had sprung towards the port-hole, a dark object in his hand.
Jim was just too quick for him. He caught the up-raised arm. The little
man fought fiercely and silently for a moment; then he gave in, yielding
what he held with a little sigh.

“Pocket-book,” said Jim, examining it.

“I’ll take it, for the captain’s perusal,” said Dixon, holding out his
hand. He had twisted a towel round his arm, and his face, streaked with
blood, looked sufficiently grotesque. “Before we go any further, I think
we’ll search you, Mr. Smith.”

Beyond the bulky pocket-book which had so narrowly escaped a watery
grave, there was little of an incriminating nature to be found on the
prisoner. Dixon took charge of any papers in his pockets, and of his
keys; and in a corner of the cabin Wally picked up an electric torch—a
powerful one, of new and elaborate design.

“Signalling apparatus,” said Dixon, glancing at it. His anger suddenly
blazed out.

“What do you mean by it, you cowardly hound? Who paid you to sell your
own people to the enemy?”

“The enemy?” said Mr. Smith. “My own people?” He glanced round with
sudden pride. “My people are your enemies, and I am one of them. I am a
German!”

“Oh, are you?” said Dixon, weakly.

“But you don’t talk like one,” Jim blurted.

“No—why should I, when I do not wish? I have lived much in England;
English is as familiar to me as German. But I have but one country, and
that is the Fatherland.”

“Then it’s a pity you didn’t keep off a decent British ship,” said
Dixon, wrathfully. “It makes me sick to think of you on board, making
friends with every one—and doing your best to get us sunk. Women and
kids, too.”

“Our ships do not send people down with the ships they sink,” said the
German, proudly. “For the rest—it is war. If you were on a German ship
you would be glad of a chance to do as I have tried to do. War cannot be
made with kid gloves. If I sink you—then I have done a service to
Germany. There is not any more to be said.”

“Glad you think so,” Dixon answered; “but I fancy you’ll find there’s
rather more. However, it’s the captain’s business now.” He called the
sailors. “There’s an empty cabin in the next alley-way; put this man in
there and watch him. He’s not to go out under any pretext whatever.”

Mr. Smith disappeared, marching proudly between his captors, his head
held high. Dixon looked after him.

“Rum little beggar,” he said. “Wonderful what a lot they think of their
precious Fatherland. I travelled through it once, and I certainly didn’t
want to stay—their beastly language gives a man toothache! Well, that’s
a good job done, and thanks be to Morpheus, the ship is quiet. A single
revolver shot doesn’t make much noise, and we weren’t noisy, except for
that.”

In answer to this cheering reflection, two heads appeared in the
doorway.

“We’re bursting with curiosity,” said Grantham and West. “Can’t we be
told anything?”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned the chief officer. “Any more of you?”

“No, I think not,” West said. “I happened to be awake, and heard your
sounds of revelry; so, apparently, did Grantham. We thought of butting
in, but when we heard your voice in explaining to the old lady, we came
to the conclusion that we weren’t exactly wanted. But there is a limit
to one’s forbearance. Can’t we be told?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Dixon answered. “Only keep it quiet. Also, these
boys can tell you, for I’m off to the captain.”

“I guess you’d better let us see to that arm of yours first,” Jim put
in. “I’m a first-aid man; let me tie it up, unless you’d rather go
straight to the doctor.”

“Well, we’ll have a look at it,” said Dixon. “Come along to my
cabin—there’s room there and we can speak out—I’m sick of whispering!”

The arm was found to be bruised and grazed only, and the patient
declined to disturb the doctor’s slumbers. Jim tied it up in his best
style, while West and Grantham, sitting on the victim’s bunk, heard with
unconcealed envy the story of the night.

“Some chaps have all the luck,” West said, sadly. “Why shouldn’t we be
in it?—and we sleeping next door! And who’d have thought it of meek
little Smith!”

“I expect his name’s Schmidt if every one had his due,” said the chief
officer, rising. “Thanks, Jim. Now I guess you youngsters had better
turn in—there’s nothing more for you to do. I’ve got to see that that
battered cabin door is fixed before curious passengers get asking
questions in the morning.”

Mr. Smith was officially reported as ill next day, and his absence
caused no comment; a hint that his ailment might be infectious kept any
benevolent people from offering to visit him. The nervous old lady was
inclined to be garrulous about the midnight disturbance, but as she was
known to be a person of hysterical tendencies, curiosity was not
excited. Mr. Dixon, appealed to, spoke vaguely of a wave dashing in at
the port-hole and making “no end of a row.”

“But I heard voices!” protested the old lady.

“Yes, ma’am—you would, if the stewards were cleaning up a wave. It
makes ’em fluent!” said the chief officer.

To the Linton tribe, assembled in his cabin, the captain was more
communicative.

“Schmidt is his name—Hans Schmidt. There’s any amount of evidence
against him in the papers; the pocket-book he tried to throw out of the
port contains much full and true information about our transports, a
complete cipher code of signals, and translations of various other
codes. It’s evident that the police were on his heels in
Melbourne—that’s why he joined so hurriedly. He covered his tracks
well, too; made them think he had gone to Brisbane. Otherwise, they
would have caught him on the _Perseus_ at Adelaide.”

“What did he hope to do?” Mr. Linton asked.

“Well, there was always a chance of his attracting a German cruiser. I
don’t think it was a strong one—but of course you can’t tell. It would
have simplified matters for him greatly; put him safely among his own
people, and he would have done his beloved Fatherland a mighty big
service in betraying a prize like this ship into its hands. He says he
knew he was taking big risks for small chances, but apparently that
didn’t trouble him. I don’t consider he’s to be blamed from his point of
view, except in using his revolver; and that seems to distress him more
than anything else. He asked for Dixon this morning, and apologised!”

“If he could have used it sufficiently, I don’t suppose it would have
troubled him,” observed Mr. Linton.

“Oh, if he could have taken the ship, of course it wouldn’t!” the
captain said, laughing. “Patriotism would have risen beyond any claims
of mercy then. No—it’s because it was so futile to use it, and he
risked damaging Dixon and the others for nothing. That consideration is
really weighing on his mind. He’s one of those careful beggars who can’t
bear making an error of judgment, I fancy.”

“I think I’m a little sorry for him,” Norah said. “After all, it was his
own country he was battling for.”

“That’s so,” said the captain. “Put one of our fellows to play a lone
game on a big German liner, and I fancy we’d be quite proud of him if he
managed to signal a British cruiser. The shooting’s inexcusable, of
course. Well, I’ve got to take him to England—I can’t have the ship
delayed at Durban over a trial. And as the mouthpiece of the owners, I
say, ‘Thank you very much!’ to Miss Norah and you two boys.”

The three thus marked for fame looked down their noses and felt
uncomfortable.

“Glad we got him,” Jim said, awkwardly. “I wonder what about his nephew
in our contingent, by the way?”

The captain laughed.

“I rather fancy you wouldn’t find that nephew,” he said. “If he
exists—well, he’s probably in a trench, fighting in France, with a name
like Johann and an unpleasant propensity for beer!”



                              CHAPTER XI.


                                DURBAN.

THE _Perseus_ was coming gently in to Durban Harbour, past a long
breakwater and a high green bluff that towered sheer from the water.
Some one had just told Norah that it swarmed with monkeys, and she was
straining curious eyes upwards, trying vainly to pierce the dense growth
that covered it.

“Well, it may,” she said aloud, in accents of disappointment. “But I
can’t see a sign.”

“A sign of what?” asked Wally’s cheerful voice.

“Monkeys. Mr. West says they are there, and I did want to see them. To
see them . . .

                   “‘Walk together.
                   Holding each other’s tails,’”

quoted Wally, dreamily. “It would be lovely; only they’re not supposed
to do it in the middle of the day. Personally, I don’t like monkeys.”

“Well, neither do I,” Norah said. “But it’s all so wonderful—to think
I’m actually coming to a place where there can be such things walking
about, and not in a zoo. Wally, doesn’t it make you feel queer?”

“Yes, rather,” admitted Wally. “I’ve been pinching myself, to try and
realise that I was really coming to Africa. Africa has always seemed so
awfully far off—a sort of confused dream of Scipio, and Moors, and
dervishes, and lions, and King Solomon’s Mines, and the Mountains of the
Moon. The Boer War brought it nearer, of course, but even so, it was
still pretty mysterious. You know, I was in Tasmania last year, and
Edward’s car broke down near a saw-mill on the Huon. I was poking about
while they fixed her up, and I sat down on a pile of sleepers.”

“Yes?” said Norah, as he paused. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“No reason—only I got talking to one of the men, and he told me those
sleepers were being cut for the Cape to Cairo railway. That made me feel
awfully queer—to think I’d been sitting on a sleeper that was going to
lie out in the middle of Africa, and have fiery, untamed lions and
giraffes and elephants strolling across it.”

“For all you know it never got further than a Cape Town suburb,” said
Jim, unfeelingly.

“Oh, get out!” Wally uttered, in disgust. “If I like to think of the zoo
walking over it, why shouldn’t I?”

“Why not, indeed—when it began with a donkey sitting on it?” grinned
Jim. “Anyhow, here’s old Africa; and I don’t see that this part of it is
unlike any other old wharf I’ve seen.”

They were slowly coming in towards the pier. On the left lay a grey
warship, workmanlike and trim, with smoke coming lazily from her four
funnels; they could catch glimpses of white-clad sailors on her deck.
There were many ships lying at the long wharves. Ashore, the streets
were bare and brown and dusty. It was Saturday afternoon, and there were
few people about.

“It doesn’t look exciting,” Wally admitted. “Not much of King Solomon’s
Mines about this outlook, anyhow. But you can’t judge any place by its
wharves. These seem much like the Melbourne ones, only dirtier. You
would think Melbourne was awful enough if you judged it by its ports.”

“It looks lovely back there,” Norah said, indicating a long semicircle
of green hills that rose behind the dusty town.

“That’s the Berea, where all the lucky people of Durban live,” said the
doctor, coming up. “You must take a trip round there. Going to stay
ashore, Miss Norah?”

“Yes—Dad says so,” Norah answered. “The captain advised him—he says
that it would be horrid to be on the ship here for two days.”

“And she coaling!” said the doctor, feelingly. “It’s horrible—dirty,
noisy, and hot, and your cabin has to be always locked, because the
Kaffir boys are everywhere, and they’d steal the clothes off your back
or the pipe out of your mouth.”

“That’s what the captain said. So we’re going to a hotel.” Norah gave
vent suddenly to a little jig of delight, principally executed on one
foot.

“Why, what’s the matter?” the doctor asked.

“Look!” said Norah. “They’re Kaffirs, aren’t they? I haven’t seen any
before.” She pointed to a group of men coming across the wharf
yard—muscular, brown fellows, bare-footed, many of them stripped to the
waist, and all chattering and laughing among themselves.

The doctor stared.

“Yes, they’re Kaffirs,” he admitted, without any enthusiasm. “And a low
set of animals they are, too.”

“They don’t look exactly lovely,” Norah said. “Only you see, it’s so
queer to me to be in a country where there are coloured people
everywhere. I can’t help feeling excited.”

“And it’s within my memory,” said the doctor, “that an Australian boy
came to my school—and we English boys were all quite indignant because
he could speak our language, and because he wasn’t black! We had a kind
of idea that every one in Australia was black!”

“But how queer!” said Norah, laughing.

“That’s what we said when we discovered that he was white. But you have
seen your aborigines, haven’t you, Miss Norah?”

“Oh, I’ve seen them, of course!” Norah answered, “some of them, that is.
There are not so very many left now, you know, especially in Victoria;
they are dying out fast, and the remaining ones are principally kept in
their special settlements. And I never remember enough of them to make
it seem that they were really the people of the country.”

“Poor wretches!” said the doctor. “It makes one feel a bit sorry for
them.”

“It wouldn’t if you knew them,” Jim put in. “They’re a most unpleasant
crowd—the lowest, I believe, in the scale of civilisation. Useless,
shifty, lazy, thieving—you can’t trust many of them. They will steal,
and they won’t work.”

“But I’ve heard you speak of one that you employ,” said the doctor.

“Oh, Billy! But I always tell Dad that Billy is the only decent black
fellow left. And he, like the curate’s egg, is only good in patches.
He’s very fond of us, and rather afraid of us, and so he works well—on
a horse. But if you take him off a horse he’s a most hopeless person.
Now those fellows”—Jim indicated the gang of chattering Kaffirs—“may
not be perfection, but at least they can be made to work.”

“Oh, they’ll work well enough!” admitted the doctor. “But they’re rather
like animals. Watch them, now.”

He took out a penny, holding it aloft for a moment. The ship was nearly
alongside the wharf, and his action was instantly noticed by the noisy
black throng below, who broke into imploring shouts. The penny, flung
among them, fell on the wharf, burying itself in coal-dust; but almost
before it had fallen the Kaffirs had hurled themselves upon it,
shouting, fighting, scrambling, packed somewhat like a football “scrum,”
with bare, brown backs heaving and struggling. Those unable to get into
the mêlée hovered on the outskirts, relieving their feelings by beating
the backs of their friends wildly. For a few moments complete
pandemonium reigned. Then a big fellow heaved himself out of the press
and sprang aside, brandishing the penny aloft, and grinning from ear to
ear. The others took his victory in perfect good part, grinning as
widely themselves, and making no attempt to interfere with the victor as
he tucked away his booty in some obscure corner of his ragged and scanty
clothing.

“Losh!” ejaculated Jim. “Never did I see such exertion over one small
penny!”

“It would be just the same over a halfpenny,” the doctor said. He threw
one—and the scene was reenacted, with equal vigour. The successful
combatant was a mere boy, who executed a dance of triumph as he
concealed the spoils of war.

The other passengers on the _Perseus_ had taken up the game by this, and
coppers fell freely on the wharf; some caught in the air, others made
the centres of more wild struggles.

“Big animals—that’s all they are,” the doctor said, looking at the
heaving mass of brown backs. “It’s all very well when they scramble for
coppers; but they will fight in precisely the same way for the most
disgusting-looking refuse from the cook’s galley, flung into the
coal-dust as those pence are flung. The winners gather up their prizes
and proceed to eat them, coal-dust and all. It isn’t an edifying sight.
You wouldn’t think it pretty if they were pariah dogs—but considered as
human beings, well——!” The doctor left his sentence eloquently
unfinished.

Along the deck came Mr. Linton, hurriedly, his face full of joy.

“Dad’s got news,” Jim said, quickly.

“News!—I should think so!” said his father. “We’ve got the _Emden_!”

“No!”

“Yes—and it’s the Australian ship that finished her—the _Sydney_.
Caught her off Cocos Island.”

“Our ship!” came in a delighted chorus. “Oh, that’s too good to be
true!”

“It is true, all the same—and more power to our baby Navy!” said the
squatter, beaming. “Of course, there was no real fight in it; the
_Emden_ was hopelessly outclassed. Still, the _Sydney_ was all there
when she was wanted. It’s worth being without news for so long, to get
anything as good as this.”

“Rather!” said Jim. “Thank goodness that blessed little wasp is out of
the way of the transports!”

“She was near enough to be dangerous,” said his father. “And she ran up
a big enough butcher’s bill for us before we got her.” His face
darkened; the exploits of the predatory German cruiser had not made
pleasant British reading. “She has a mighty big bundle of scalps to her
credit.”

“Well, she played the game,” Jim said. “As far as I can see, she’ll go
down to history as almost the only chivalrous fighter the Germans had. I
reckon her captain must be an uncommonly decent sort—he had to be a
pirate, but he was such a good fellow with it. You can’t help respecting
him.”

“No—nor being glad he’s out of business,” Wally said. “I’m not keen on
being sunk by any pirate, no matter how gentlemanly. But, of course,
though the _Emden_’s captain did treat people awfully well, not even a
German would sink ships regardless of human life”—wherein Wally spoke
without foreknowledge of later German tactics. “Any other news, Mr.
Linton?”

“I haven’t seen any papers yet, but I believe there is nothing
special—a sort of deadlock everywhere,” the squatter answered. His eyes
widened suddenly. “There’s an ornamental person! What do you think of
him, Norah?”

Norah turned, following the direction of his gaze. A man drawing a
rickshaw had just trotted gently to the wharf, and, putting down his
shafts, stood erect. Without doubt, he was an ornamental person. He was
a Zulu, considerably over six feet in height, and of powerful build,
with well-cut features, and a bearing proud enough to be something more
than a mere human horse. His dress was striking. A close-fitting tunic
of scarlet and white stripes, over short scarlet knickerbockers, only
served to outline his mighty frame. Across his back and chest were
criss-crossed strips of bright-coloured embroidery. There were bangles
on his arms, from wrist to shoulder, and bangles above his knees. He was
bare-footed—but his legs were painted in white from the knees downwards
in an elaborate design to represent boots and gaiters.

But his glory was in his head-dress. A tight-fitting skull-cap was
crowned with the most amazing erection that ever bewildered a newcomer.
Above his brow curved away two enormous bullock-horns, dyed scarlet.
Between them, a straight aigrette of porcupine quills quivered with
every movement; and behind, a long plume of pampas grass, of vivid
yellow, streamed downwards, until it touched a monkey-skin, which,
fastened to his shoulders, trailed down his back. From different angles
long scarlet feathers stuck out; and above each ear was fastened a
native snuff-box—a gourd the size of a tennis-ball, profusely
ornamented with brass. He was a heartsome sight.

“Good gracious!” Norah gasped. “Are there many like him?”

As if in answer a second rickshaw came round the corner of a wharf
building. The Zulu who drew it might have been the twin brother of the
first man in size and features; but his dress was blue and white, and
one of his bullock-horns curved up, and the other down, which gave him a
curiously rakish appearance. They were dyed scarlet and black, and his
feathers were of every colour of the rainbow. The first man broke into a
rapid torrent of guttural, clicking speech, and for a moment they
chattered like monkeys. Then they looked up, catching sight of the
watching passengers on the _Perseus_, and each broad, black face widened
into a smile from ear to ear, while they beckoned invitingly towards
their waiting chariots.

“Many!” said the doctor, laughing. “Oh, any number, Miss Norah—that is
the cab of Durban!”

“Daddy!—do we go in them?”

“Would you like to?” said her father, regarding the peculiar equipage
with some distrust.

“Rather!” said Norah, breathlessly.

“I don’t think I’d look well in one,” said Mr. Linton, doubtfully.
“Surely they’re meant for the young and frivolous, doctor?”

“Not a bit,” said the doctor, laughing. “Every one uses them—they’re
awfully handy things. You can’t possibly keep out of them!”

“That settles it!” said Norah, thankfully. “We’ll go, Daddy. Can we go
soon?”

“That red and white chap has put the evil eye on Norah,” said Wally,
laughing. “She’s bewitched, and small blame to her—did you ever see
such an insinuating smile? Don’t let us keep her waiting, Mr. Linton, or
she’ll turn into a black cat and disappear for ever—in a phantom
rickshaw!”

“We may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. The gangway was down;
already a swarm of Kaffir boys were coming on deck, unsavoury enough at
close quarters to cure even Norah of undue hankerings after this
particular brand of noble savage. Their bare feet left tracks of
coal-dust on the spotless decks, at which the doctor shrugged
disgustedly.

“Poor old ship—she’ll be coal from end to end soon,” he observed. “Are
all your cabins locked, by the way?”

“Yes—we handed them over to the steward’s care,” Mr. Linton answered.
“Suit-cases all on deck, boys?”

Everything was ready, and in a few moments was delivered to the hotel
agent, a busy half-caste who came on board suffused with his own
importance. Then, with no heavier impedimenta than cameras, the
Billabong party went ashore—to be received with a delighted air of
welcome by the rickshaw “boys.” Mr. Linton and Norah boarded one
rickshaw, Jim and Wally the other; the steeds gripped the shafts, said
authoritatively, “Sit ba-a-a-ck!” and started on the long jog to the
city, the little brass bells on their wrists jingling at each stride.

The rickshaw of Durban is an enticing vehicle. It holds two people
comfortably: it is well-cushioned, with an adjustable hood, and has
rubber tyres; and both it and its “boy” are as clean as polishing can
make them. The “boy’s” bare feet are almost soundless on the well-paved
roads; the rickshaw runs smoothly, with no apparent effort on the part
of the big Zulu. He is a cheerful soul, with a keen eye to the main
chance; his smile is always ready, and he passes other “boys” with a
quick volley of chaff that appears to give equal delight to both. Very
certainly he will demand double or treble fare if he thinks there is the
slightest chance of obtaining more than his due. He loves to appear
quite ignorant of English, once he has caught his passenger, and will
jog on serenely into space, oblivious of any command to stop, knowing
that he is piling up the sum to be paid him eventually. For these
reasons, it is as well to learn from the steward a few elementary native
words of command, which are apt to imbue the “boy” with a painful regard
for his fare’s might and learning. Failing this, a stick or umbrella
long enough to prod him is of much value.

With all these small drawbacks, the rickshaw “boy” is a delightful
person, combining the heart of a child with the business instincts of a
financier. Even when there is strong reason to suspect that he has
grossly overcharged you, it is quite impossible to be angry with him,
his smile is so friendly and his manner so insinuating. The effect might
be less marked if he were not so extremely ornamental. But a
chocolate-coloured, highly-polished Hercules, clad in shining raiment,
jingling with brazen ornaments, and crowned by a head-dress calculated
to excite envy in the Queen of Sheba, claims affection in a fashion
denied to lesser mortals.

Norah found her red and white-clad steed wholly delightful. She gave to
his great back, with its flowing monkey-skin, more attention than to the
dusty streets through which they were passing, though they, too, were
not without their special interests—groups of natives, Kaffir women
with their brown babies tucked into the corner of their bright shawls,
little native boys with the splendid uprightness that comes from many
generations who have carried loads on their heads, Indians in gaudy,
flowing draperies, and slouching half-castes, with evil, crafty faces.
Other rickshaws passed them, taking passengers back to ships at the
Point, or jogging down, empty, in the hope of picking up a fare. There
were long teams of mules, in Government ammunition carts; and in a
railway yard they caught sight of a train painted with the Red Cross,
and suddenly remembered that South Africa, too, was at war. Women were
sitting in the dust by the roadside, with great baskets of fruit—the
travellers from the land of fruit sniffed disdainfully at its quality;
and there were hawkers of cool drinks and ice-cream, which appeared to
be of a peculiarly poisonous nature. Then the unsavoury streets widened
to a fine road on the sea-front—and they ran past imposing hotels and
clubs, which looked out on a fleet of small yachts, lying at anchor or
lazily sailing before the light breeze; and then came a sharp turn into
a broad street, past a square where statues were surrounded by beds of
flowers that blazed in the afternoon sun, and a great building, the
beautiful Town Hall, shone on the further side; and the “boys” dropped
the shafts in front of the Post Office and grinned by way of explaining
that this was the heart of Durban town.

“I’d give half my kingdom,” said Wally, as they met on the footpath, “if
I could import that turn-out to Melbourne and drive down Collins Street
on a Saturday morning. Just fancy that gorgeous black chap—and the look
on the Melbourne policeman’s face as he caught sight of him!”

“Just fancy the horses!” said Jim, laughing. “Wouldn’t there be an
interesting stampede!”

“Look at them now!” said Norah delightedly. A long row of rickshaws
stood on the other side of the street, waiting to be hired, their “boys”
chattering in little groups or brushing their miniature carriages with
feather dusters. A man approached them, bearing the unmistakable tourist
stamp, and immediately every “boy” sprang to attention—patting the
rickshaw seat, whistling softly, yet urgently, waving their bright
dusters, while some, between the shafts, pranced wildly, apparently
overcome by the sheer joy of being alive. There was a storm of guttural
pleading. “Take me, sar!” “No, me—he no good!” “Me is fast boy, sar!”
“Me is faster!” The great bronze faces were vivid with excited
impatience; white teeth flashed, and rainbow plumes nodded.

“And it’s all for a sixpenny fare—and they’re cab-horses!” ejaculated
Mr. Linton. “By Jove, just fancy an impi of those fellows under Cetewayo
going out to battle—with broad spears instead of feather dusters!”

Jim whistled under his breath, watching the row of child-like giants.
Then he burst into a laugh. On the far side of the row was a Zulu who
had been unable to get round in time to join in the general effort to
attract the tourist. He was contenting himself by stooping and peering
between the wheel-spokes, grinning from ear to ear as he beat upon them
in the hope of catching the passenger’s eye. The effect was
indescribably ludicrous.

“Isn’t he lovely!” laughed Norah. “Oh, Jimmy, can you imagine a stolid
Melbourne cabby playing ‘Bo-peep’ behind his wheels like that!”

“I’d give a lot to see it,” Jim said, “especially if I could dress him
in that kit first. I wonder what’s the duty on one rickshaw complete
with Zulu—it would be rather a lark to import one to Australia after
the war!”

“You couldn’t do it—the cabmen would rise up and slay you,” Wally said.
“Well, I want to go inland, and see those chaps on their native heath.
Great Scott, what fighting-men they’d make!”

“Once,” said Mr. Linton. “Not now—since they learned the ways of
civilisation. But what they must have been! Did you ever hear of the
impi that failed in battle, under Chaka? He mustered them afterwards and
told them their punishment. There was a cliff half a mile away, with a
sheer drop of hundreds of feet into a rocky gorge; at a signal their
officers gave them the word to march, and took them straight forward,
over the edge!”

“And they went over?” Norah was wide-eyed with horror.

“Every man. The king stood near the edge to watch; and as they passed
him they tossed their shields aloft and gave him the royal
salute—‘Bayété!’ Then they went down, like warriors. They knew it was
the only thing left to them; it was not possible to fail the king and to
continue to live.”

“He gave one impi a chance, though,” Wally said. “They were a very
famous fighting regiment, and in some way or other they disobeyed him.
Chaka didn’t want to kill them—possibly he was short of recruits, like
Great Britain! But he paraded them and told them that because of their
previous good record he would spare their lives, under one
condition—that they left their assegais in the kraal, went out into the
bush, and brought him a living lion, full-grown, with teeth and claws
perfect!”

“What—with their bare hands?” Jim asked, incredulously.

“There wasn’t a weapon among the whole crowd; all they were allowed was
rope to bind him. They did it, too; marched out into the bush and caught
their lion and brought him in to the king. It must have been something
of a job. Forty were killed, and over two hundred clawed. You’d call
those chaps warriors, wouldn’t you?”

“And now they haul one round in rickshaws! Doesn’t it make one feel
small!” Jim ejaculated. “Well, Chaka was a cruel brute, but he must have
been a good deal of a man himself to be able to handle such men as those
fellows, and send them marching to death, saluting him. Leaders like
that don’t seem to get born nowadays.”

“Let me commend to your notice, Norah, that method of doing your hair!”
said Mr. Linton, indicating two Kaffir girls who were passing. Their
hair was drawn tightly back from their faces and dressed in a kind of
hard club, about a foot long, that stuck out stiffly from the backs of
their heads, slanting upwards.

“Good gracious!” said Norah, weakly.

“Do you suppose they take that erection down every night?” Jim asked.

“No, indeed—it looks calculated to last for years,” Norah answered. “I
wonder how on earth they build it, and why.”

“It’s a handle,” Wally said, solemnly. “Their husbands pick them up by
it when they’re tired. Also it might be used as a flag-staff, or a
hat-peg: you could find ever so many uses about a house for it. And then
it saves them for ever from buying hats. They might possibly make a
forage-cap sitting on one eyebrow work in with that hair, but no other
kind of head-dress would fit on. Think of the economy!”

“Think of trying to sleep in it!” said Norah, gazing sympathetically
after the retreating brown ladies. “It could only be comfortable if they
lay on their noses.”

“Well, their noses would rather give you the impression that they did,”
Jim said. “Most of them are as flat as a pancake. I say, do we stand on
the steps of this post office all day? Because I saw a shop with a
touching legend about strawberries across the street; and I haven’t seen
a strawberry for nearly a year. Let’s explore.”

They explored, and found the Durban strawberries so good that the
exploration was indefinitely prolonged; then they sought curio-shops,
and rummaged among assegais and knob-kerries, rhinoceros-hide shields,
Zulu trinkets, Kaffir wire-work, ostrich feathers, and queer carved
figures; and Norah found herself the delighted possessor of a little
silver box with top and bottom of beautiful dark-blue agate, veined with
white. It was very hot, and the city streets, crowded and dusty, were
not inviting; so they hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly
along a wide road that led away from the town and towards the ocean
beach. There was a steep pull up a long hill, which made the passengers
strongly inclined to get out and walk, except that no one else in
rickshaws seemed to think of doing so. The “boys” went up it at a good
pace, though panting audibly. At the top they came in sight of the sea;
a long strip of beach, on which big rollers pounded incessantly. On the
left the steep slope down to it was terraced in lawn and garden, with
seats here and there, summer-houses overgrown with gay creepers, and
fountains, throwing aloft sparkling jets of water. The clean salt air
blew strongly towards them.

“Sit ba-a-a-ck!” said the “boys” suddenly.

The Australians obeyed, not too soon. The rickshaws tilted back
alarmingly as they shot down the hill. The Zulus rested their elbows on
the shafts and balanced themselves in the air, their legs taking strides
that were apparently gigantic, but never touching the ground with their
feet. It was a spectacular performance—by no means comfortable, and
distinctly nerve-shaking. Faster and faster went the rickshaws, and
further and further back they tilted.

“If I get out of this alive,” said Jim, “I guess I’m born to be hanged!”

They came to the foot of the hill, and swung round a corner so abruptly
that to find themselves still intact seemed almost a miracle. The Zulu
came down to earth and the rickshaw to a horizontal position; the
occupants righted themselves with sighs of relief. Still under the
impetus of that wild descent, the “boys” raced along a level strip of
roadway, and drew up at a big hotel that fronted the beach. They let
down the shafts gently, and turned to their passengers, each chocolate
countenance bearing a grin from ear to ear.

“My is a nice boy!” said Norah’s steed, modestly.

“You are,” said Mr. Linton, getting out. “You’re also closely related to
an assassin, I think. How many people do you kill in the year?”

The Zulu grinned yet more widely, apparently under the impression that
his acrobatic efforts were receiving the praise they merited.

“Two shillin’,” said he, blandly, and accepted the coin with an air of
condescension, while his companion did the same. They trotted off
smartly, lest their passengers should discover that they had paid double
fare and take steps of vengeance.

The hotel was cool and spacious, with big rooms and wide verandahs.
Norah’s window looked out upon the sea, stretching to the misty horizon
over which they had come. Beneath her, the life of the beach surged.
War, people said, had made Durban quiet; few of the up-country settlers
had followed their usual custom of coming down for the bathing, since
most of the men were fighting, and every one else was busy guarding
property. But Norah thought she had never seen such a busy beach.
Motors, carriages, and rickshaws passed and repassed on the wide road
beneath her, with clanging, noisy electric trams; further down, the
terraces were thronged with people, and the cafes showed a stream of
customers going in and out. Children were paddling and digging in the
sand; in a rotunda a military band was playing softly.

In the sea itself, a semicircular pier curved right out into the water,
surrounding a stretch of surf. Men were fishing from the far side of the
pier; Norah could see immensely long rods, and once a gleam in the air
as a big fish was landed over the rail. But her interest centred on the
enclosed water, where hundreds of people were bathing in the breakers
that came rolling in from the sea. Durban bathing was famous, the doctor
had told her, since it combined the excitement and delight of surfing
with perfect safety. Norah watched them, fascinated. Some would wait,
waist-deep, for the breaker to come in behind them and carry them on its
crest ashore; others would face it, and as it came, dive right through
it, to swim in the more tranquil heave of water behind the crest. There
were old and young men and women; boys and girls, and tiny children,
most of them daring the deepest water, while a few paddled cheerfully
near the edge, sat down and shrieked when a wave came tumbling in, and,
if they did not swim, at any rate became extremely wet and happy.

“Why do women always yell when they bathe?” asked Jim, coming in. “I
knocked three times, by the way, but you didn’t hear me.”

“They don’t,” Norah said indignantly, ignoring his apology. “At least
sensible ones don’t.”

“Then it’s the insensible ones that bathe,” Jim said, sticking to his
point. “At least nine-tenths of the women there scream when a wave hits
them—and it’s the same in any place you go to. I often
wonder”—reflectively—“how they break themselves of the habit
sufficiently to avoid screaming in the bathroom at home!”

“Jimmy, you are an ass,” said his sister, politely. She looked up at him
with pleading. “It’s hot, and the sea looks lovely; I won’t yell, if
you’ll take me to bathe.”

“That’s what I came for,” Jim answered. “Dad is deep in the last three
weeks’ papers, and Wally and I are pining for a swim. Come on!” They
plunged downstairs, found Wally awaiting them on the verandah, and
hurried down the terrace to the sea; and in five minutes Norah was
having her first taste of surfing, getting knocked flat by waves and
buried temporarily beneath what seemed thousands of tons of water,
coming up to the surface, breathless, but happy, and swimming wildly
until another breaker came over her; and learning in a very short time
to meet them and make use of them, diving through their green curves and
coming gloriously ashore upon their hollow backs. They stayed until the
sun left the sky, and the water grew chilly; then, damp and hilarious,
and exceedingly hungry, climbed up to the hotel.

Mr. Linton was standing on the verandah, looking out.

“I’m glad to see you,” he said; “you were so long that I’ve been
mentally recalling the treatment of the apparently drowned. Had a good
bathe?”

“Oh, glorious!” said the bathers. “Is it time for dinner?”

Ten minutes later they were enjoying it in a big dining-room that was
open on one side to the verandah, and to the darkening sea. Lights began
to flash out all round the semicircle of the pier, and along the
terraces—though the waiter, a bare-footed Indian in white clothes, told
them regretfully that since the war the fountains no longer were red and
green at night, but were turned off when dusk fell!

“It seems a rum tribute to war,” Wally said. “But I suppose it’s all
right.”

“Yes, sar—certainly, sar,” said the waiter.

The hum of traffic did not cease, and the shouts of the bathers came up
plainly from the surf. The Billabong party strolled along the beach in
the hot dusk, and watched the heads bobbing in and out of the breakers,
mysteriously seen in the streaks of light cast by the lamps on the
encircling pier. Gradually the heat lessened and a pale moon climbed
into the sky. They turned homeward when Norah was discovered yawning.

“Well, the sea is lovely, and all that,” Jim said, stretching his long
frame as he rose. “But I think it’s loveliest when you’re off it. It’s
good to feel tired again—I’m getting flabby with doing nothing on that
old ship. Three weeks of solid sea certainly makes you enjoy land!”



[Illustration: “They hailed rickshaws, and soon were running smoothly
along a wide road.”]

           _From Billabong to London_]             [_Page_ 194



                              CHAPTER XII.


                               EXPLORING.

WALLY awoke in the early dawn, under the stimulus of a damp sponge
pressed firmly against his face.

“Beast!” he said sleepily, and hit out in a wild fashion which had, very
naturally, no effect. He opened his eyes, to see Jim, in his pyjamas,
grinning at him over the end of the bed.

“Of all the restless animals!” said the injured Mr. Meadows. “Why ever
can’t you stay peaceably in bed on the rare occasion that you’ve got one
to stay in—instead of a creaking shelf? There can’t be anything wrong,
or you wouldn’t have a grin like a Cheshire cat!”

“There is not,” said his chum, affably. “Only I couldn’t sleep, and it
seemed such a pity for you to be slumbering. Let’s get up.”

“Get up! Whatever for?”

“Oh, just to be up! It’s too hot to be in bed—and everything out of
doors looks so jolly. I’ve been out on the balcony for ever so long.”

“Go to Jericho!” said Mr. Meadows, with finality, and turned over to
slumber anew. This laudable desire was frustrated by the gradual
withdrawal of all bedclothes; then, as the victim seemed resigned to
sleeping on the bare mattress, Jim rolled him up in it and deposited him
head-first on the floor. At this point slumber left the scene finally,
and the outraged Wally gave himself up to vengeance.

Calmness was restored a little later, and the dishevelled combatants
regarded each other.

“You hit like the kick of a pony,” said Jim, with respect, rubbing his
shoulder. “Isn’t it ripping to have space to move again? People of our
size aren’t meant for ship’s cabins.”

“I was meant for bed,” said Wally, bestowing an affectionate glance on
that once placid retreat. “And you are meant for the gallows—and some
day you’ll get there! Now, what do you want to do? I’m awake.”

“I’d noticed it,” said Jim, still handling his shoulder carefully.
“Wonderful how well you wake up when you make up your mind to it! Oh, I
don’t quite know what to do! But come out, anyhow.”

“Well, we haven’t got very much shore time, so we may as well make the
best of it,” Wally assented, searching among the débris of the room for
his socks. “Land certainly does feel good under one’s feet once more. Do
we go for a walk along the beach, or what?”

“No, I don’t want any more sea-views for a bit,” Jim answered. “We’ll
have plenty for the next month. I vote we go into the town and explore a
bit. There may be nothing to see, but it’s full of such queer people
that you never know what you may run into if you go off the beaten
track—and of course we can’t do that when Norah is with us.”

“No. It sounds as if it might be interesting,” Wally said. “Jim, you
great camel, one of my socks is in the basin!—I hope to goodness I
packed up another pair.” He dived for his suit-case, and sighed with
relief on finding a further supply. “That saves your skin, old man. By
the way, what about the native market?”

“I was wondering,” said Jim. “Of course, it’s Sunday—but one doesn’t
know how our Sunday affects these brown and black gentry. The doctor
said it began at some unearthly hour, and I think he said it was always
open, so it might be available on a Sunday.”

“We might try,” Wally said. “Markets are generally best if you catch ’em
in the very early morning. Do you know where it is?”

“Only that it’s the other side of the town from here,” Jim answered. “We
may pick up a stray rickshaw; or if not, we’ll find some one to ask.
Anyhow, it will be an exploration.”

“Right-oh!” Wally agreed. “Durban seems to me much like any other place
if you omit the people—those queer coloured mixtures are the most
interesting part, by a long way. I’d like to find that market.”

“Same here. It will be a walk, anyhow—and then we’ll get back in time
for a swim before breakfast. No need to leave a note on the pincushion,
like the eloping young ladies in novels, I suppose?”

“Oh, we’ll be back before they’re awake!” Wally said. “Anyhow, your
father would understand that we had gone off on a voyage of discovery.”

They dressed hurriedly and went downstairs through the quiet house. A
sleepy Indian boy let them out. The streets were empty save for a few
native sweepers; already there was promise of a hot day, but the morning
was cool and fresh. The sea a sheet of rippling blue that creamed at the
edge in long, slow rollers. The boys turned off the main thoroughfares,
and struck downwards to the city.

Everything seemed asleep. There was no movement in any of the houses
they passed, and no traffic in the streets. Occasionally a sleepy dog
barked from a verandah, but without energy. There were many sleepers on
these verandahs; often they caught glimpses of stretcher-beds behind
bamboo blinds, where open-air enthusiasts had slumbered in outdoor
freshness through the hot night. “Quite like Australia,” said Wally,
approvingly. “This place isn’t so much unlike Brisbane, in many ways.”

“So I was thinking,” Jim observed. “Brisbane is a bit grubbier, and has
more smells, and not such a mixture of races; but the Kanakas you see
there are not unlike the Kaffirs here, and the place itself has a good
many points of resemblance. It’s a kind of half-way house to the Old
World Cities, I suppose.” He took out his pipe, and looked half
regretfully at his friend. “I wish you smoked.”

“Not me!” said Wally, sturdily. “You waited until you were nineteen, and
I’m jolly well going to. Don’t you bother.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to start!” Jim said. “I think it’s a fool game to
begin too young. But I just wish you could, that’s all—it would be
sociable, and I feel rather a pig; you must be hungry. It was feeling
hungry that made me want a pipe.”

“I daresay we’ll pick up some grub somewhere,” Wally said, cheerfully.
“I’m not hungry enough to worry about.” He looked at Jim keenly. “I
believe there are ever so many times that you don’t smoke just because
I’m there, and you don’t think it is sociable. Go on, you old donkey.”

“Donkey yourself,” returned Jim, somewhat shamefacedly, but fishing in
his pocket for his tobacco-pouch. “I never did anything so stupid.” He
changed the subject with thankfulness, having in common with his chum a
great horror of any conversation that approached what they called
“softness.” “Look at that jolly little kid!”

A small, brown person sat on a doorstep and looked at them with grave
eyes. He might possibly have been two years old, but his gaze had the
solemnity of extreme old age. He was clad in a very brief pink
nightgown, and his mop of curly hair was standing erect, just as he had
tousled it in sleep.

“Good morning,” said Wally, stopping and addressing the baby with a
gravity equal to its own. “I hope you’re well. Will you shake hands?”

The baby contemplated the outstretched hand for a moment, and glanced
again at the boyish face. Then he put his hand into Wally’s and
permitted himself the ghost of a grave smile.

“I’ve seldom seen a better-mannered gentleman,” said Wally, stepping
back. “See if he’ll be as civil to you, Jim.”

He was, and the smile broadened, though apparently he had no speech—as
Wally said, his grin made him independent of words. Jim produced a penny
and put it into the tiny paw that matched it in colour. Then the door
behind opened suddenly, and a Kaffir lady, evidently the baby’s mother,
and clad in a nightgown strongly resembling his, appeared in search of
her family—and at sight of the two boys, uttered a refined shriek and
disappeared as quickly as she had come. The baby, regarding this
performance as a circus, laughed very heartily; and Jim and Wally fled.

In the business part of Durban itself there was even less sign of life
than among the cottages they had left. The shop-fronts were closely
shuttered, and everywhere there was silence. Once, down a side-street,
they caught sight of a native policeman, trim and smart in his dark
blue, close-fitting uniform, his shapely brown legs bare from his
knickerbockers, and a jaunty blue cap on one side of his close-cropped
curly head; but he did not see them, and they went on. Jim paused for a
moment.

“We might ask that fellow where the market is,” he said. “What do you
think?”

“Oh, he’s rather out of our way, isn’t he?” Wally answered, easily. “And
policemen have such a knack of moving off when you go after them; and
you have to chase them for blocks. We’re sure to come across somebody
soon.” To which Jim acquiesced; and thereby lost a chance of saving a
good deal of trouble.

It was not an interesting city. The streets were dusty and untidy, and
in the gutters was a litter of rubbish that spoke eloquently of Saturday
night shopping. As they drew further and further away from the business
centre there were signs of more foreign occupation—queer inscriptions
in divers languages over the doorways of shuttered shops, and occasional
glimpses of Oriental wares in dingy windows belonging to shops that did
not rise to the dignity of shutters. Sometimes they had a brief vision
of curious eyes regarding them from behind half-drawn curtains. They met
an old Kaffir slinking along the gutter in search of some unsavoury
booty, and questioned him about the market; but either he knew no
English, or did not wish to understand them, for he only blinked and
uttered guttural and unintelligible words, holding out a knotted old
hand for money. The boys gave him some coppers and strolled on.

“Well, Durban takes some beating, for laziness, if not for religious
fervour,” Jim said, at length. “I never saw a place more painfully
quiet—there may be a mixture of races, but they all observe the Sabbath
so far as sleeping goes. We’ll have to give it up and turn back, pretty
soon, since apparently we shall have to walk all the way home; trams and
rickshaws are as sound asleep as the inhabitants.”

“There’s a chap who may know something,” said Wally, quickly.

They had turned into a narrow street, and a rickshaw was coming slowly
along towards them, drawn by a big Zulu. It was a shabby rickshaw, and
the Zulu himself bore none of the adornments of his brethren in more
fashionable regions; he wore ordinary knickerbockers and a blue jumper,
and a single black feather was stuck through his tight curls.

“What a dingy-looking beggar!” Jim said. “He looks as if he’s been up
all night.”

“Probably he has, and he’s tired,” Wally answered. “Anyhow, he’s safe to
know about the market.”

They hailed the Zulu, who did not, at first, seem inclined to stop. He
regarded them with sleepy, unfriendly eyes, but without
curiosity—though the tall, fresh-faced boys, in their light flannels
and Panama hats, were sufficiently unfamiliar figures in that mean
street in the early morning, before folk were awake. They repeated their
question—in answer he grunted ill-temperedly and resumed his slow walk.

“Oh, bother!” said Jim. “I’d better give him something, and loosen his
tongue.”

He drew out a loose handful of change and selected a small silver coin,
holding it out to the Zulu. The man’s eyes lit up, and he stopped and
backed to the footpath.

“We may as well take him, if he wants a fare,” Wally said. “It isn’t a
luxurious-looking chariot, but it will do.”

“Market?” queried Jim. “You know the market?”

The Zulu looked vacantly at them for a moment.

“Gen’lemen want go to market?”

“Yes—native market; not white man’s,” Jim explained. “You know it?”

The man still hesitated.

“Yes,” he said at length. “You been there?”

“No,” said Jim, impatiently. “We want to go. Is it open on Sundays?”

“Yes,” said the Zulu, after a pause. “Take you?” He looked at them
keenly.

“Yes—go ahead,” Jim said. They climbed into the rickshaw, and the Zulu
jogged off.

He seemed to know his way readily enough. Up one poor street after
another he trotted, his slow strides covering a great deal of ground.
The locality grew more and more depressing: mean houses gave place to
ramshackle cottages, many of them mere huts, separated by tumble-down
fences, occasionally interspersed with grimy shops that were little more
than stalls. Depressed-looking fowls scratched in the gutters, and mangy
curs lay about every doorstep.

“Well, this is about as unpromising an approach to a market as one could
imagine,” Jim remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t try to bring Norah—that kid
hates smells.”

“Probably he’s taking us by short cuts,” Wally said; “he’s evidently
tired, and this unsavoury rabbit-warren may lead out into the
market-place. It can’t possibly be the usual approach; it’s too narrow,
and there is no sign of much traffic.”

“I expect you’re right,” Jim answered. “Or else his happy home is in the
locality, and he doesn’t mean to go past it. I’ll have a word to say to
him, if he leaves us here.”

“You may, but it’s doubtful if he’ll understand you,” Wally grinned.
“The conversation of these gentlemen is limited—though I fancy they
understand a good deal more than one would think. Now, what’s his game?”

The rickshaw had swung round a corner, and into a yard, through an open
gate. A closed house gave no sign of life; across the yard was a stable,
and over the half-door a mule poked out a sleepy head. The Zulu put down
the shafts and turned to the boys, saying something that was only half
intelligible.

“Not can do?” Jim said angrily, catching his drift. “What do you bring
us here for, then?” He got out, followed by Wally.

“Short cut,” said the man, apologetically. “Can show market—through
there.” He pointed to a door in the high board fence. “Me bad feet—gone
too many trips.”

“He looks footsore enough,” Wally said, scanning the slouching form. “No
good bothering about him, Jim—let’s pay him and clear out.”

Another Zulu had come out of the stable, in which he appeared to have
slept with the mule. The first man shot a short, clicking sentence at
him, pointing to his feet.

“Well, I don’t know what he expects, but that’s all he’s going to get,”
Jim said, handing the sullen Zulu some money. “Now, where’s your
market?” he added, sharply. “Hurry up!”

“Market close through here, sir,” the man answered, more respectfully
than he had yet spoken. He led the way to the door in the fence, the
boys at his heels, and stood aside for them to pass through.

“Why, it’s another yard——” Jim began, turning.

He had no time for more. The Zulu’s fist shot out and took him between
the eyes, and he staggered through the doorway. At the same instant a
violent blow on the back of the head sent Wally headlong on top of his
friend. They went down in a heap together, unable to defend themselves.
A shower of blows with heavy sticks beat them back as they struggled to
rise. Jim tried to shout, but his voice died away helplessly; he flung
out his hand, finding only Wally’s face, strangely wet. Then he lost
consciousness.



                             CHAPTER XIII.


                        WHAT CAME OF EXPLORING.

“GOOD morning, Dad.” Norah came out upon the wide portico of the hotel;
a cool, fresh vision in a white linen frock.

“Good morning, my girl,” said her father. There was a line between his
brows. “Have you seen the boys?”

“No—aren’t they down yet?”

“I don’t know where they are,” David Linton said. “They don’t seem to be
in the hotel.”

“Oh, they’re bathing!” said Norah, with comfortable certainty. “It’s
such a hot morning—I wanted ever so much to go myself, only I woke so
disgracefully late.”

“No, they’re not bathing. I’ve been down, and there was no sign of them.
I suppose they have gone out somewhere. They might at least get back in
time for breakfast.”

“They won’t be long, you may be sure,” Norah answered. “I never saw such
hungry boys! Let’s go in, Daddy; it’s late, and you ought to have your
breakfast. The boys will turn up before we are half done.”

“Oh, I suppose they’re all right!” her father said, leading the way to
their table. “They are quite big enough to look after themselves at any
rate; if they miss breakfast it’s their own look-out.”

“Jim won’t miss breakfast,” said Jim’s sister. “What he has may be
queer, but he’ll have something. I expect they’ve gone for a tram ride
or a rickshaw trip, Daddy, and it has taken longer than they expected;
if they find themselves too far from home when they get hungry, they’ll
buy something.”

“I suppose so.” Mr. Linton beckoned to a waiter. “Tell the young
gentlemen, if you see them, that we’re at breakfast.”

“Yes, sar,” said the waiter, a tall and immaculate Indian, in white
clothes and a scarlet sash. He departed, to return presently.

“Young gen’lemen gone out, sar. Very early—before light. Not yet
returned.”

“It’s very annoying,” Mr. Linton said, as the waiter withdrew. He
laughed a little. “Jim has spoiled me, I suppose; he so rarely does
anything eccentric that when he does, I feel injured.”

Norah answered his smile.

“Jim’s awfully dependable,” she said, with the quaint gravity which was
wont to make Wally declare that she mistook herself for Jim’s aunt.
“He’ll stroll in presently, Daddy, looking nice and calm, just as usual.
They must have gone out exploring; the time here is so short, and it’s
their first foreign land, so they want to see all they can.”

“Well, we don’t waste much time,” said Mr. Linton, still unappeased.

“No. But I expect they want to run free a bit. You know boys can’t want
a girl with them all the time,” said Norah, sagely.

“I have not observed,” said her father, “that having you with them has
made much difference to Jim and Wally’s fun in the past.”

“They’re awfully good about it,” Norah answered. “But I know other
girls’ brothers object; most of them say they can’t be bothered with
girls. Of course, Jim and I grew up mates, and that makes all the
difference; I don’t really think he minds. But in a strange place they
may want to go exploring, and a girl might be in the way.”

“Oh, possibly! All the same, I don’t know that I’m very keen on their
getting too far off the beaten track, in a place like this—full of all
sorts of natives. However, worrying does no good, and I suppose they’ll
stroll in presently.” Mr. Linton applied himself to his breakfast. “This
South African fish has a queer name, but it’s good, Norah; I’ll have
some more.”

They looked up eagerly as each newcomer entered the dining-room.
Breakfast was going on in the lazy, haphazard manner common to all
hotels on Sunday. People strolled in at long intervals; mostly
brown-faced people from up country, in summer raiment—linen and silk
suits, and muslin frocks. Even in November Durban was very hot. But,
though they spun out the meal to the greatest possible length, breakfast
ended without any sign of the absentees. Mr. Linton went out on the
verandah at last, and lit his pipe, while Norah cast fruitless glances
up and down the white road, and across the terraces to the beach.

“Well, you say I mustn’t worry, but I should like to have your
permission to be annoyed!” Mr. Linton said, when the pipe was
satisfactorily working. “I want to go out, not to hang round the hotel.
And what are we to do about those young rascals?”

“I don’t know,” Norah answered, doubtfully. “It is funny, isn’t it, Dad?
I’m perfectly certain they are all right—but it’s so unlike Jim.” She
hesitated. “We can’t go and find them—that’s certain; and Jim would be
wild if we waited for him, and missed anything. I think we’d better go
by ourselves.”

“So do I,” returned her father. “We’ll leave word that we’ll be in to
luncheon, and if they come while we’re out they can amuse themselves;
they are sure to want a bathe. Run and get your hat, lassie.” They went
off presently, a rather forlorn looking pair.

It was about that time that Jim, in the darkness of the shed where he
had been flung, stirred, and opened his eyes. His head throbbed
furiously, and when he tried to sit up he found himself suddenly glad to
lie back again. For a little while he remained still, trying to remember
what had happened to him—with vague recollections that seemed to wander
between a savage black face and an earthquake. He was not very sure
about either.

A rustle in the straw close by startled him—and in a flash he
remembered Wally, and forgot his aching bones. An instinct of prudence
kept him from speaking. Slowly he raised himself on one arm, and felt in
the darkness until he found a face, half-buried in straw. Wally stirred
again.

“That you, old man?” he whispered weakly.

“Ss-h,” Jim cautioned. “Are you hurt?”

“I—don’t know,” Wally said, feebly. “I ache a heap—and my head’s
queer.”

Jim set his teeth and managed to sit up. His head swam violently, and
for a moment he wrestled with nausea; then he managed to steady himself,
and began to feel Wally gently.

“Wish I dared strike a match,” he muttered, “but my hand is too
shaky—and in this straw. Wal, you’ve no bones broken, old man, I
think.”

“I don’t think so,” Wally answered. “Let’s wriggle.” He did so, and it
evidently hurt him, for Jim heard the swift intake of his breath. “No,
I’m all right,” he said. “How about you?”

“Oh—battered a bit!” said Jim, to whom memory was returning slowly.
“Can I help you up, do you think? Great Cæsar, how this place smells!”

He worked an arm under Wally, and helped him to a sitting position—an
effort which nearly lost consciousness for them both. They found the
wall near, and leaned back against it thankfully, until giddiness
subsided. Jim made further discoveries.

“My watch has gone,” he announced. “Nice people! Likewise my
money—likewise my coat. How about you?”

“A clean sweep, I think,” Wally said, faintly. “I don’t seem to have
anything but my shirt and trousers.”

“That was their game, I expect,” Jim said. “Steady, old man, you’re
slipping—slip this way, and lean against my shoulder. They’ve taken all
they could get, and I expect they’ve cleared out.”

“You don’t think they’ll have ideas about ransom?” Wally hazarded.

“Not vermin like those—and in a city. No, I’ll bet they’re making for
Zululand or wherever they belong, by this time. Eh, but I was a fool!”
said Jim, bitterly. “And I thought I knew how to look after myself!”

Wally groaned in sympathy.

“Well, they fell on us like a cyclone,” he said. “I don’t seem to
remember anything beyond an appalling bang on my head and falling on top
of you. The beggars got me from behind.”

“Mine began in front—but it was so sudden,” Jim said. “He looked such a
sleepy, tired lout—one never dreamed of suspecting danger. Well, it
will teach us a bit of sense. The question is, what are we going to do?”

“Do you think we’re locked in?”

“Very probably, but before I see, I’m going to get my muscles in
something like working order,” Jim said. “Try moving a bit and rubbing
your arms and legs—don’t stand up yet, or your head will swim.”

“It’s got a lump on it the size of a golf-ball,” said Wally, feeling his
pate respectfully. “By Jove, I am stiff!”

“My face is as stiff as the rest of me,” Jim answered. “Feels like much
dried gore. Well, thank goodness they didn’t break any bones.”

The boys rubbed energetically for a while, a process involving severe
pain, since they encountered bruises at every touch. It did them good,
however, and after a little time Jim was able to stagger to his feet,
and to help Wally up.

“I don’t suppose we could put up much of a fight,” he said. “But we may
not have to fight at all—they can’t get any more from us. Let’s see if
we’re locked in.”

They felt carefully round the walls of the malodorous building,
stumbling in the filthy straw which covered the floor. Jim’s fingers,
groping in the darkness, at length discovered a latch; but the door
refused to yield. They experimented noiselessly at first and then, made
bold by indignation, shook it violently—without result.

“It’s a stable, evidently,” Jim said. “This door’s in two halves, and
the top one is the one that is jammed—the lower half is pretty rickety.
Well, if any one is about, we’ll get visited—and if we don’t get the
door open we’ll certainly smother. Let’s try kicking it together, Wal.”

They kicked, with what strength was left them; and at the third
onslaught a panel of the shaky door started outwards, letting in a gush
of fresh air and light:

“Hurrah!” said Jim. “We’ll probably have the neighbourhood here in a
minute, so we may as well go on kicking. Can you manage it?”

“Rather!” Wally panted. They attacked the next panel with fury. It fell
out in a moment, leaving a hole wide enough to crawl through.

“No one in sight,” said Jim, putting out his head. “My word, the air is
good. Come on, old man, I’m going to chance it.”

“Take care you don’t get another bang on the head,” Wally warned,
watching his chum squeeze through the narrow space, and realising how
helpless he would be in case of an attack. It was with immense relief
that he saw Jim safely through, and, stooping, watched him scramble to
his feet.

“No one in sight,” Jim said. “Everything silent. Can you get through,
Wal?”

“Oh, yes!” said Wally, trying to steady his swimming head. He crawled
through the hole, finding Jim’s arm waiting to aid him to his feet. For
a moment they blinked at each other in the strong sunlight. Then, weak
and aching as they were, they burst out laughing.

“Great Scott, Jimmy, you do look lovely!” Wally gasped. “Am I like
that?”

“I don’t know how I look, but I’m ready to swear that you’re worse!” Jim
answered. “They were certainly thorough, those Zulu gentlemen!”

They had been thorough. The immaculate lads who had strolled out of the
hotel in the morning were tattered scarecrows, clad in shirt and
trousers only—and those garments torn, and filthy from the straw on
which they had been thrown. Nothing whatever of personal property
remained to them. They were ghastly pale, their faces streaked with
blood which had flowed freely from cuts and wounds, and had mingled with
dirt into a remarkable colour scheme. Jim, in addition, possessed a pair
of black eyes that could scarcely have been surpassed in richness of
hue; while any German duelling student would have envied the cut which
seamed Wally’s cheek.

“Even a native policeman would arrest us at sight as rogues and
vagabonds,” Wally said. “Can’t we clean up a bit?”

“Don’t know,” Jim answered. “Let’s see.”

There was no sign of any occupant in the dingy hovel across the yard.
The boys peeped fruitlessly through a shuttered window, tried the door,
and found it locked, and could find no trace of either the rickshaw
which had brought them there or the mule they had seen in the first
stable. It was evident that the Zulus, after securing their booty, had
hastily decamped. Further search, however, revealed a tap, dripping in a
corner. They drank from it thirstily, and bathed their heads and faces
for some time, with the aid of fragments torn from their tattered silk
shirts.

“You look as if you had once been respectable,” Wally remarked. “At
least you would, but for your black eyes. I know I’m hopeless, so you
needn’t bother to say anything!” He dabbed at his cheek, which washing
had induced to bleed again.

“You’ve improved tremendously,” Jim said. “Cold water is certainly not
much good for dirt of this degree of grubbiness, but we don’t look quite
such banditti as we did. How do you feel?”

“Better—only top-heavy and stiff. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m much the same—with a champion head ache; about the first I
ever had, I think!” Jim answered. “Do you feel up to walking?”

“I wouldn’t choose it for pleasure,” said Wally, his old smile sitting
oddly on his white face. “But I can manage it all right. What shall we
do?”

“I think the only thing is to get back to the hotel,” Jim answered. “I
thought of going to the ship for fresh clothes, but all our keys are at
the hotel. No policeman would listen to us for a moment, looking like
this; we’ll be lucky if we don’t get run in by the first we meet. It’s
an abominably long way for you, old man—sure you can manage it?”

“Rather!” Wally said, cheerily. “We’ll prop each other up. Come along.”

They went out into the street. A few brown children were playing in the
dust, and looked at them curiously, and some loutish Kaffir boys of
fifteen or sixteen jeered at them from a verandah; but the houses were
all shut, to keep out the heat, and they encountered very few
passers-by—all natives, who showed little curiosity. The sun blazed
fiercely on their bare heads; there was no shade in the street, and
already they were again painfully thirsty. Wally staggered frequently
from weakness, and was glad of Jim’s arm—though he put so little weight
upon it that Jim abused him roundly. They made their painful way back
towards the city.

“I’d be almost glad to meet a policeman,” Jim said, at last. “We’ll
never walk all that way; you’re done now, old chap.”

“Not me!” Wally gasped. “Come on.”

They turned into a wider thoroughfare. It was nearing noon; Durban was
waking up. Along the street, on his way to the principal square of the
city, came trotting a very smart rickshaw boy—a vision of scarlet and
white, and nodding plumes and towering bullock-horns. Jim looked at him
hungrily.

“There’s the very fellow we had yesterday,” he said. “I suppose he’d
howl if we tried to stop him.”

He gave an involuntary hail, and the Zulu, amazed at the crisp tone of
command, stopped dead, looking at them doubtfully.

“What you want?” he said.

“Your rickshaw,” Jim answered. “Hotel King George.” He dragged Wally
forward.

The Zulu grinned widely.

“Not much!” he said. “Got money?”

“At the hotel—not here.”

Something was puzzling the rickshaw “boy.” He looked questioningly from
one to another of the white-faced lads. They were scarecrows—but he
knew enough of the tourists he dragged round Durban to be certain that
these belonged to the race that employed him. Jim’s disfigured face was
full of authority. Wally, beyond any mere speech, leaned against the
rickshaw, gripping the rail.

“You been hurt?” the “boy” ventured.

Jim explained curtly. There had been a fight, they had been robbed. They
must get to the Hotel King George for clothes and money; moreover, this
rickshaw must take them. “We had you yesterday,” Jim finished. “From the
Point.”

Light suddenly flashed into the Zulu’s eyes.

“Blue Funnel ship?” he exclaimed.

Jim nodded. “Four of us. Will you take us? We’ll give you five
shillings.”

The Zulu nodded so alarmingly that it seemed certain that his head-dress
would fall off.

“Me take you,” he said. “Get in.” He came to help to get Wally into the
seat. Jim climbed in thankfully.

“Go by back streets,” he commanded.

So it was that Norah, standing disconsolately on the hotel verandah, saw
a strange rickshaw-load approaching—and after a hurried glance, fled to
meet it.

“Jim—are you much hurt?”

“I’m all right—Wally’s about done,” Jim said. “Pay this chap, Norah;
we’re going in by the back way. You’d better come too, to lend an air of
respectability.”

Norah ran beside the rickshaw, choking back further questions. In the
back yard of the hotel she encountered the manager, and a brief word of
explanation brought help from half a dozen quarters.

“That chap has done us a mighty good turn,” Jim said, indicating the
Zulu. “Give him ten shillings—I promised him five. You tell dad—we’ve
been in a scrimmage, but there’s no need to worry—none whatever.” A
sudden giddiness came over him, and two waiters caught him swiftly and
bore him off in Wally’s wake. Norah, half-sobbing, heard him feebly
informing them that he was never better able to walk.

An hour later the boys held a reception in their room. Hot baths and
strong soap had done wonders for them, and the doctor Mr. Linton had
insisted on summoning had declared that they had sustained no serious
damage. A few strips of sticking-plaster adorned them, and Jim’s
blackened eyes lent him a curiously sinister aspect.

“I never thought bed could feel so good,” Wally declared.

“Bed is good,” said Jim, from across the room—“but bath was better.
What did that Zulu who brought us home say to you, Norah?”

“He was too overcome by his half-sovereign to say much at all,” Norah
answered. “And as it was mainly Zulu-talk, I didn’t gather a great deal
of what he did say.” She twinkled. “I think he meant to assure me that
you were a great chief—no matter how grubby you looked. And as he has
done nothing ever since but parade up and down the road in front of the
hotel, I believe he means to attach himself to us permanently.”

“Tell him, if you see him, that we’ll have him again to-morrow,” Jim
said. “He’s a good chap.”

“I don’t think you will do much rickshaw driving to-morrow,” Mr. Linton
said.

“Won’t we!” said the patients, in chorus; and Jim laughed.

“I’m awfully sorry we made such asses of ourselves, and worried you,
Dad,” he said. “But it’s bad enough to waste one shore day; we’ll be fit
as fiddles to-morrow, and ready for anything—if you don’t mind going
about with two battle-scarred objects.”

David Linton smiled a little grimly.

“There’s only one thing I should really mind,” he said—“and that would
be to let you out again alone!”



[Illustration: “Jim set his teeth and managed to sit up.”]

           _From Billabong to London_]             [_Page_ 214



                              CHAPTER XIV.


                          GOOD-BYE TO DURBAN.

NORAH and her father left their patients sound asleep, after luncheon,
and went out to Umgeni on the top of an electric tram—seeing Kaffirs
innumerable, in gala Sunday dress, and, at the end of the long run, the
shallow, winding river that seems to be always cutting for itself new
channels among its mud-flats. A long bridge crosses it; they stood
there, watching the bare-footed native boys who strolled through the
river rather than trouble to climb up to the bridge.

“So much more sensible!” said Norah, envying them openly.

They found a hotel with a big garden sloping down to the river, and
little tables with basket-chairs scattered about it. Two were in the
shade of a big clump of bamboo; and there they had tea, and watched the
queer, cosmopolitan crowd that filled the place—travellers, passengers
from all the ships lying at the Point, soldiers and sailors, and the
youth and beauty of Durban itself, out for the afternoon. The Indian
waiters flitted about, busy and noiseless. There were long-legged birds
in the garden, walking with ridiculous solemnity near the river-bank;
and a big wire-netted house that held innumerable pigeons—exquisitely
marked birds, whose cooing filled the air. Plants and flowers grew there
which they had never seen; and there was a tree with tiny red-and-black
seeds like jewels.

They strolled further up the winding road, and came to Umgeni village
itself, where almost every coloured race seemed to nourish together. The
deep bush grew on both sides of it, right up to the straggling street.
All the people were out in front of their houses.

“Aren’t they the nicest children!” Norah uttered.

They were everywhere—cheery babies just able to crawl; mites of two or
three in bright scraps of clothing; and bigger children who played their
own solemn games without paying much attention to the strangers. One
ridiculous person of perhaps four years came strutting down the middle
of the street after his mother, his small form framed in a gigantic
yellow umbrella, which he held open behind him. The best of all, they
found in a patch of grass under a tree—half a dozen mothers with tiny
babies, who tumbled about in every direction.

“Could I photograph them, do you think?” Norah asked.

“I don’t suppose they would mind,” her father replied. “We’ll ask them.”

To ask was one thing, but to get an answer, another. The Kaffir ladies
were rather alarmed, and plainly regarded the small black box Norah held
as a very bad kind of magic. They caught up their babies, and jabbered
together, while Norah stood, half-laughing, making no attempt to
photograph them without their permission. Help came in the person of a
brisk rickshaw “boy,” who took in the situation at a glance, and
explained to the anxious mothers that the white young lady merely wished
to pay them and their children a high compliment in making a picture of
them—whereupon the mothers subsided immediately, and held up the fat,
brown scraps of humanity, who struggled wildly, like babies all the
world over before a camera, while their anxious parents addressed to
them the Kaffir equivalent of “Look pleasant, please.” The rickshaw
“boy” stood by, beaming like a full moon, and uttering words of
encouragement. Afterwards the travellers engaged him and his rickshaw—a
contingency which he had probably foreseen; and they jogged lazily back
to Durban, arriving at the hotel towards evening. Two tall figures,
rather sheepish and pale-faced, rose from verandah lounges and came to
meet them.

“You bad boys!” Norah exclaimed.

“Do you think you two should be out of bed?” Mr. Linton asked.

“Rather!” Jim answered firmly. “We stayed there until they brought us
tea—but they didn’t bring half enough food, so we got up and went to
find more. We’re all right.”

“It sounds as though you were!” Norah said, laughing. “How are the
bruises?”

“Oh—a bit stiff. Exercise is the best thing for them.” The subject was
evidently sorer than the bruises, and Jim changed it, demanding an
account of their day.

“I’ve a letter from the captain,” Mr. Linton announced, when they all
met at breakfast next morning. “The ship is leaving earlier than we
thought—we have to be on board at noon.”

“Bother!” said his hearers, as one man.

“It’s a bore, but there are compensations. The warship we saw at the
Point is going ahead of us to Cape Town—and that means no war
precautions for a few days.”

“Open port-holes!” said Norah, blissfully. “Deck lights—no more stuffy
saloon! Lights in one’s cabin——!”

“Which you’re sure not to need, since you can have it,” Wally
interpolated.

“I’ll have it, anyhow,” said Norah, laughing. “It would be almost worth
toothache!”

“I thought you would be pleased,” her father said. “There is also a
letter from the police department, Jim, stating that their inquiries
about your friends of yesterday have been fruitless. They have hunted up
the house, but, as you suspected, the birds had flown.”

“Oh, they’re up-country by this time!” Jim said.

“So the police think. They say they may be able to track them by means
of the list of stolen property we gave them, but it’s hardly likely.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Jim answered. “I shouldn’t be here to
identify anything, and unless I could get my hands on the man who hit me
I don’t know that I’m thirsting to hear of his being caught.”

“Only gore would satisfy us!” murmured Wally.

“Just so; failing gore, there’s not much satisfaction in hearing that
they’ve put the poor brute in prison—except to teach him to let
unsuspecting white people alone in future. I suppose that ought to be
done,” Jim said, reflectively.

“Decidedly it ought—but the police don’t see much chance,” said Mr.
Linton, folding up the letter. “Has any one any wishes as to occupying
the morning?”

“I don’t know if you’ll think us a little insane,” Jim said—“but Wally
and I consider that our honour, or what’s left of it, is, to a certain
extent, at stake. We want to find that native market!”

“My dear boy, haven’t you had enough of that particular hunt?” asked his
father, looking at his bruised face.

“It’s really harmless,” Jim explained. “We’ve been asking the manager;
he says the place is quite near the city, and any rickshaw fellow knows
it—we can choose one sufficiently ornamental to be respectable this
time. And it’s an interesting place—he says Norah ought to see it.”

“Oh—can I go? Joyful!” said Norah, delightedly.

“Well, if it’s really all right, we’ll tackle it,” said Mr. Linton. “The
doctor said it was a place to visit, I remember. We’ll send off our
luggage to the ship at once, and then we’ll have a free hand.”

A spectacular figure awaited them in the road when they came out a
little later, ready for exploration.

“I told you that gentleman had attached himself to the family,” said
Norah, laughing. “Look—he’s just beaming at you, Jim!”

The Zulu “boy” who had befriended them the day before stood at
attention, his broad, black face lit from ear to ear by a smile of
welcome. His scarlet and white adornments were spic-and-span, and his
headgear even more glorious than before.

“Gen’lemen allright?” he queried, as the boys approached. He cast a keen
eye on their still visible signs of battle.

Jim nodded.

“Thanks to you for bringing us home, my friend, we are,” he said. “You
know the native market?”

The Zulu grinned. “Oh, yes, sar!”

Jim hailed another rickshaw, and the four travellers boarded them and
trotted off. Never was there to be seen anything so proud as the boys’
Zulu. He had evidently made up his mind that he belonged to them, and
had betrayed some anxiety until certain that they were to be his
passengers; but when this point was satisfactorily decided, he gave vent
to the pride that was in him, and pranced off like a high-stepping
circus horse—throwing out his feet, resplendent in a new coat of white
paint, with his head well back, his feathers streaming, and his whole
bearing full of vainglory.

“He looks as if he wanted to say ‘Bayété!’—whatever that means. And he
certainly thinks he owns the road,” Wally said, watching the magnificent
figure.

“I wish he’d moderate his transports,” Jim said, laughing. “He’s making
every one look at us—and I prefer not to attract undue attention with a
pair of black eyes like these—to say nothing of much sticking-plaster.
However, I suppose it’s no good talking to him in English, and I don’t
want to hurt the poor chap’s feelings—but this sort of thing makes one
feel like a circus procession. One only needs a band and an elephant, to
be complete!”

The “boy,” however, calmed down presently, and merely showed the depth
of his emotion by going at such a pace that the other rickshaw steed
fell far in the rear, and was justly indignant at his compatriot’s
unreasonable energy. They raced through the town, and for a time
followed the streets through which the boys had strolled the day before;
but instead of turning into the poorer quarter, a turn brought them to a
wide road where many mule-carts and shabby rickshaws blocked the way.
Before a big building was a collection of smarter rickshaws—but their
Zulu attendants were nowhere to be seen.

“That the market?” Jim called to his “boy.”

The Zulu paused.

“No sar—that eating-house. Gen’lemen like to see it? Market next door.”

“We might as well,” Jim said. “Wait for us.” Mr. Linton and Norah
appeared, and they dismounted.

Within the big building Kaffirs squatted on the ground, working with
wire at the native bangles that every South African traveller knows.
Some were plaiting the wire into sjambok handles, in intricate patterns,
laying the bands of wire among strands of raw-hide, or capping the
finished handle with an elaborate “Turk’s head“; others had piles of
bangles on the ground beside them, in all sizes, from those fitted for
babies’ wrists to the big circlets worn above the knee. The work was
wonderfully fine.

“I’m really glad to see those fellows,” Mr. Linton observed. “So much
‘native’ work is really made in Birmingham or Germany nowadays that one
never knows what is genuine.”

“No,” said Wally. “One of my girl cousins was out with a camping-party
in the wilds when she was staying in British East Africa, and they came
across a few natives who offered curios for sale—rough carvings, bits
of ivory, and things like that. Enid was awfully keen on genuine things,
and jumped at the chance—as she said, you don’t often find the really
untutored savage in these times. One of the things she bought was a big
ivory bangle. I think she got it from a woman who was wearing it. Enid
was very proud of it. She said it was so real.”

“It certainly should be, bought in those circumstances,” said Mr.
Linton.

“It should. She was very annoyed on the voyage home when one of the
officers rather doubted it. So they had a bet—he was to put a match to
it, and pay up if nothing occurred. But when he applied the match poor
Enid’s ‘ivory’ sputtered and went up in flame—and behold, there was no
more bangle!”

“Celluloid!” Jim grinned.

Wally nodded. “Made in Birmingham or some such place, and shipped out by
the gross to the untutored savage. Hollow world, isn’t it?”

Norah had bought bangles—fresh from the maker’s hand—and they turned
away. A long table ran down the centre of the building, with rough
benches drawn up to it; and here sat numbers of Kaffirs and Zulus,
breakfasting. Many were of the rough coolie type, dressed in ordinary
clothes; but here and there a blaze of colour marked the smart rickshaw
steed—and in one corner where half a dozen were eating together their
rainbow head-dresses were like a flower-bed, the brighter because of the
dinginess all round them. On a separate table were immense bowls, heaped
with steaming masses of curry and rice and weird-appearing stews. A man
would come in and sit down, calling impatiently; and in an instant a
native waitress would bring him a gigantic helping, supply him with an
iron spoon, take his payment—a small copper coin—and rush off to a
newcomer.

“You’d live cheaply here,” Wally remarked, watching a native boy attack
a heap of curry like a miniature mountain.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t live long,” Norah answered. “Did you ever see
such poisonous-looking food? I don’t think I want to watch this—it’s
rather like the zoo at meal times. Let’s find the market.”

A stream of people going in and out guided them to the bazaar. It was
almost entirely Indian, so far as the stalls were concerned, though the
people who thronged it were of many nationalities. There was an
impression of light and colour and cheerfulness. Indian women in bright
draperies went up and down, many carrying tiny wise-eyed babies. There
were stalls for the sale of native jewellery—gaudy, tinselled stuff
that looked appalling as it hung to tempt the passer-by, but somehow
became exactly the right thing when worn by the dark-eyed coloured
women. It was mingled, however, with cheap jewellery of the kind that
England and Germany turn out by the ton—and this did not fit in
anywhere, but stood out among the native wares, blatantly vulgar. Then
there were stalls for post-cards, and for strange religious
pictures—gaudy representations of temples and gods and sacred animals;
others covered with weird cooked foods, in bowls and dishes, and with
cakes and high-coloured sweetmeats—all appearing, to Australian eyes,
extremely unpleasant and indigestible, but apparently devoured with
amazing appetite by the children who thronged the bazaar. Almost more
interesting were the vegetable stalls, since here were piled such
growths as the Australians had never heard of; curious green, twisted
things like French beans run mad, masses of salad materials, equally
novel, and oddly-shaped gourds of different colours.

Nobody took much notice of the Billabong party. Tourists were nothing
new, and every one was too busy to trouble over them. Chattering, buying
and selling, gossiping and eating, went on incessantly, with no time to
spare from the business of the moment; it was evident that the market
was the great occasion of the day to most of these cheery, chattering
people. It was too crowded to keep together. Wally and Norah strolled on
ahead, while Jim and his father paused to look at a stall devoted to the
sale of different kinds of dried grain, not one of which they had ever
seen before.

“Steady, old lad,” said Wally, stooping to pick up a fat black baby
whose mother had placed it by the side of the path, giving it a
horrible-looking cake to keep it occupied. A stray dog had annexed the
cake, and the baby, staggering after it in helpless wrath, had fallen in
the midst of the path, and lay there among the hurrying feet, uttering
shrill cries.

“I’ll get it another,” said Norah, swiftly departing. She came back,
gingerly carrying the delicacy, which the baby accepted gravely. The
mother bore down on them, evidently anxious, but relieved by her
offspring’s contented face.

“He’s all right,” Norah told her, smiling—the mother understanding the
smile more than the words. Norah put a penny into the little hand not
occupied by cake, and they strolled on, turning out of the crowded part
towards a less frequented corner where they could see Mr. Linton and
Jim.

“What rum beasts babies are!” said Wally, meaning no disrespect. “Some
of ’em—the brand one knows—have to be brought up in prams by nurses,
all sterilised and disinfected and germ-proof; and others tumble round
in the dust among dogs, like that jolly little black imp, and grow up
just as strong. I don’t understand it; I suppose I’m not meant to.”

“It is queer,” Norah admitted. “I suppose it’s what they’re used to.”

“But a baby can’t be awfully used to anything—except howling!”
dissented Wally. “And these kids——”

“Block that man! Block him, Wally!”

Jim’s voice rang out over the din of the market as Wally had heard it
many a time on the football field at school—and he swung to answer it
just as he had learned to obey it there. A big Zulu was charging down
the path; he saw Wally’s tense face, realised how thick was the crowd
beyond him, and turned up a side alley. Jim put his hand on a long table
and vaulted across to cut him off. He braced himself as he landed; then
his left hand shot out and took the Zulu neatly on the point of the jaw.
The big black crumpled up into a heap, and in a moment Jim and Wally
were on top of him.

The market boiled as an ant-heap boils, stirred up by a careless kick.
People came running and shouting, blocking every passage; many with
threatening faces, looking angrily at the white lads and the struggling
Zulu. Then two soldiers in khaki forced a way through the crowd.

“Guess this is where we lend a hand,” said one, securing the wrists of
the prisoner in a workmanlike grip. “That was just about as neat a hit
as ever I seen. I’d like to know who taught you, young feller. Lie still
now, will you?” and the Zulu subsided, muttering unpleasant things.

“Get hold of a policeman, will you?” said Jim. “Wally, you go.”

“Oh, he’s wanted, is he?” said the second soldier, sitting comfortably
on the Zulu’s legs. “I thought you seemed to know him.”

“I ought to,” Jim answered. “He gave me this pair of black eyes
yesterday.”

The soldier whistled.

“No wonder you was anxious for him,” he said. “Well, I guess you’ve paid
him back—he won’t eat comfortable for a week.” Then Wally and two
native policemen came back through the chattering throng, and Jim handed
the prisoner over to the care of the law.

They made a procession to the police-station, the Zulu maintaining a
sullen silence, while a crowd gathered and followed them. Jim’s rickshaw
“boy,” who had evidently learned the whole story from the hotel, was a
centre of attraction—he dragged his empty chariot behind Jim, loudly
explaining the matter to those about him, and proclaiming his undoubted
belief in Jim’s chieftainship. The hero of the moment nursed
badly-bruised knuckles and looked as unhappy as his prisoner.

At the station matters were swiftly dealt with—law in Durban did not
believe in detaining a party of white tourists over a native case. A
white-haired old Scotchman, authoritative and kindly, put swift
questions.

“Ye canna identify any of y’re property, I suppose?”

Jim grinned.

“If you take off his tie you’ll find ‘Jones & Dawson, Melbourne,’
branded on it,” he said.

“Eh, but it’s so,” said the inspector, examining the adornment in
question, which the native policemen had swiftly removed from the
prisoner’s collarless neck. “Wull ye be wantin’ it back?”

“I will not,” said Jim, hastily. “Give it to him, with my blessing when
he comes out—and I hope you won’t be hard on him, sir.”

“H’m. Ye’re a fulish young man,” said the inspector, severely. “Just
because ye’ve got in a bonny wee hit on the jaw, ye’re satisfied—but
there’s law an’ order to be kept, an’ me to see it’s done. D’ye think I
want the next pair of eejiotic young Australians laid out in a stable?”
Whereat Jim and Wally blushed, and interceded for the prisoner no more.

They signed various legal documents, and at length escaped.

“I don’t want him punished, poor wretch,” said Jim; “that smite on the
jaw made me feel like a Christian lamb. But I suppose it’s got to be
done.”

“Well, I didn’t get in at all, so I don’t feel half so godly,” returned
Wally. “I think he’s well out of the way, and I only wish we’d caught
his mate—the gentleman who attended to my head in the rear.”

“My sentiments, entirely,” Mr. Linton remarked. “And now we’ll get back
to the ship. I trust every port isn’t going to supply us with as many
sensations as Durban!”



                              CHAPTER XV.


                          MIST AND MOONLIGHT.

“AS you know, Miss Norah,” the captain said gravely, “I discourage early
rising. It’s a bad thing—leads to chronic attacks of superfluous
energy, and embroils passengers with the deck-hands.”

“Especially the last!” said Norah, laughing.

“Well—possibly. Deck hands are busy people and passengers are not;
therefore passengers should remain peaceably in bed until they won’t be
in the way. Which remarks are not intended to apply to you, Miss Norah.”

“How would they?” Jim laughed. “There’s nothing of the Spartan early
riser about Norah.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” the captain said. “All the same, I’m about
to advise you to turn out early to-morrow. We’ll be in Cape Town about
six in the morning, and you mustn’t miss the sunrise over the mountain.
It’s one of the finest things in the world.”

“Oh, I’m glad you told me, captain,” Norah said. “I’ll tell my steward
to call me.”

“Yes—don’t forget. The harbour is an interesting one altogether; but
the mountains are grand, and coming in, the view changes each moment. We
shall probably be going out in the dusk, so you must be sure of seeing
the entrance.”

They had had a quick and uneventful run round the Cape of Good Hope from
Durban, missing altogether the dreaded “Agulhas roll” which is the
bugbear of the sea-sick. Every one had revelled in the luxury of lit
decks and open port-holes, in the security lent by the knowledge that a
British cruiser was just ahead of the _Perseus_. To-morrow night the old
restrictions would be in full force again—but first there would be Cape
Town, and twelve hours ashore. Norah had always had vague longings to
see Cape Town; no port on the homeward route interested her half so much
as the city nestling at the foot of Table Mountain. She went to bed
early, leaving everything in readiness for the morning start—determined
to waste nothing of that precious twelve hours.

It was still dark when she awoke, with a start, from a confused dream,
in which she had been chased by an apparently infuriated motor,
shrieking defiance at her. As she tried to collect her scattered
faculties the sound she had heard in her dream came again—a long,
hoarse shriek.

“What on earth——?” she queried, sitting up. She switched on her
light—it was two o’clock. Voices were heard along the corridor, to be
drowned by another evil howl.

“Something’s wrong,” Norah decided. “It can’t be boat-drill for us,
’cause that’s two short, sharp whistles. Everything’s funny and dim—I
believe something has gone wrong with the electric light supply.” She
jumped, as the long scream came again.

Then she heard her father’s voice, quiet and steadying.

“Awake, Norah? Not scared, are you?”

“N-no, I don’t think so, Daddy,” Norah answered, not quite certain if
she were speaking the truth. “Is it the Germans?”

“It’s fog, I think,” Mr. Linton said, coming in. “My cabin is full of
it—and so is yours.”

Voices were breaking out everywhere, drowned at regular intervals by the
long howl.

“What’s the matter?”

“Is it the Germans?”

“We’re wrecked, I suppose.” This was an elderly lady’s voice, in
lugubrious certainty.

“It’s boat-drill—hurry up!”

“We’re signalling for help!”

“Henry—where are my slippers?” And Henry’s voice—“I haven’t got ’em
on, my dear!”

Jim was in Norah’s cabin, suddenly.

“Thought you might be scared, kiddie,” he said. “But it’s only fog, I
think. Great Scott! doesn’t that siren make a row!”

Then came the voice of the third officer, very bored and patient; and a
dozen voices assailing him.

“No—fog only, I assure you. No danger at all. No—there isn’t a German
within a hundred miles. Merely fog-horn, madam. Yes, it’s quite thick.
Certainly you can come on deck, if you really like fog; you won’t see
anything. No, we don’t expect to run on any rocks. I should advise you
to get back to bed. The fog-horn blows every half-minute.”

“But it’s waked the baby!” came on a high note of grievance.

“Sorry,” said the third officer’s bored voice, still polite. “I should
recommend the baby to get used to it.” They heard his quick footsteps
retreating up the corridor.

“Well, there’s nothing to stay up for—and isn’t it cold!” Jim
ejaculated. “I hope to goodness this will have gone before morning; it
will be a nuisance if it spoilt the entrance to the harbour, so far as
view is concerned.”

“Don’t speak of such a horrid thing!” said Norah, sleepily, snuggling
down among the pillows. “Go back to bed, Daddy dear—you’ll get so cold.
Thank you both for coming.” For a while she stayed awake, while the
clamour in the ship died down gradually, and only the slow hooting of
the siren was heard. It was not exactly a soothing lullaby, but
nevertheless Norah fell asleep.

Her steward’s face peered at her some hours later. He had switched on
the light, but the cabin was eerie and dim.

“I didn’t like not to call you, miss, as you said,” he remarked. “But as
far as gettin’ up to see the view’s concerned, there ain’t none. There’s
nothin’ but fog anywhere.”

Norah uttered a disgusted exclamation.

“Oh, I did want to see the entrance!”

“Well, there ain’t no entrance neither, miss. Captain, he won’t risk
tryin’ to get in—why, you can’t see your ’and in front of you. We’ve
just got to lie about until the fog lifts—an’ goodness knows when
that’ll be. If I was you, miss, I’d just go to sleep again till the
ushul time to get up—an’ if the fog clears before, I’ll come an’ tell
you at once.”

“Well, if there’s nothing to see, I suppose I had better do that,” said
Norah, yawning.

“There’s much worse than nothin’, miss,” the steward said, his voice as
gloomy as the cabin. He went away, after turning out the light.

“It’s absolutely disgusting!” Wally declared when breakfast was over. It
had been a queer meal, eaten in a kind of dim half-light; and now they
were on deck, wrapped in heavy coats, yet shivering a little. All about
them was a dense white wall of mist. It was impossible to see more than
a few yards in any direction; people who passed them loomed dimly first,
then came out of the wall more clearly, until quite visible, and in a
moment were swallowed up again as their footsteps died away. The fog
swung in wreaths between them as they talked, whenever a breath of light
wind came; but for the most part there was no wind at all, and a heavy
stillness seemed to weigh upon everything. At half-minute intervals the
hoarse scream of the fog-horn roared out above their heads, in a
hideous, discordant howl; and from all around them came similar shrieks,
some far off, some so near that at any moment it seemed that the fog
might part and show a ship drifting down upon them.

The _Perseus_ herself was drifting. Part of the uncanny stillness was
due to the absence of the familiar throb of the screw. Inch by inch she
slid through the oily water, of which no trace could be seen even by
peering over the side. There was nothing but mist. The wet decks were
slippery with it; there was no dry corner anywhere. Through it the
gigantic blue shape of the funnel loomed dimly, but its top was quite
lost; they could not even see the bridge, where a double watch was being
kept. The captain had not left it since the first fog-cloud had rolled
up out of the sea.

“It isn’t safe to speak to an officer,” Jim declared. “Poor beggars,
they’re all on duty; it must be cheery to have responsibility in this
sort of weather. I found MacTavish right up in the bow, straining his
eyes into the fog, and put a timid question to him—I wouldn’t have
wondered if he had snapped my head off, but he was pretty civil. He says
there’s not the slightest prospect yet of its lifting, unless a wind
gets up—and there’s no sign of a wind!”

“Well, that is pretty cheery,” uttered Wally. “However, it’s all
experience.”

“Confirmed optimists like you ought to be sat on three times a day!” Jim
said. “A little of this sort of experience goes a long way—and doesn’t
make up for missing the sunrise on Table Mountain.”

“Never mind—it will give you something to talk of for ever so long,”
Wally answered. “You can’t possibly talk about sunrises to a girl you’re
dancing with, but you can make awfully good yarns out of a fog like
this. Cheer up, Jimmy; you’ll be ever so much more interesting in the
future!”

“I’m not proposing to do much dancing, or talking either,” said Jim,
laughing. “So the prospect doesn’t console me. At the moment, it would
console me more to batter someone—preferably you. Norah, you’re cold!”

“I know I am,” said Norah, shivering. “This old fog gets into one’s very
bones. Doesn’t it make you homesick now to think of old Billabong, and
the sunlight out on the Far Plain!”

“And a bogged bullock, with a note like that fog-horn!” retorted Wally.
“It’s too cold to stand still, I think—let’s walk.”

They walked, arm in arm, with Norah between them, finding it necessary
to talk loudly to avoid collisions in the fog, as their rubber-soled
shoes made no sound on the deck. In the fore part of the ship a few
bedraggled sea-birds had floundered into the rigging, and now sat there,
crouched and miserable, afraid to set off again into the white horror
all round them. A magpie, brought from Australia, which ordinarily lived
in the bow and made cheerful remarks to the whole ship, was crouched in
a corner of its cage, dismally squawking, while its deadly enemy, a
sulphur-crested cockatoo with which it was on most disrespectful terms,
had no spirit left to insult it, but drooped on its perch. The ship
seemed dead; none of the usual cheery bustle was going on, since all
possible tasks were discontinued to leave the crew free to watch. Weary
watching it was, straining overside in dread of seeing a dark hull loom
out of the fog, knowing that it would then, in all probability, be too
late to avert disaster.

A monotonous voice led them to the side of the ship. A sailor was
standing on a tiny platform over the rail, secured by a leather band
round his body. He leaned well out, heaving the lead with a practised
hand, his voice chanting the depth tonelessly—“By the deep—by the
mark!” Seen in the mist that clung in beads to his blue guernsey and
tarry trousers he seemed unnaturally large—and the dreary call was more
depressing than the ceaseless hoot of the fog-horn.

They gave up the deck at last, and went below, where the passengers were
gathered in the lounges and smoking-rooms, trying to make the best of
the weary day. The fog was everywhere; it crept through every open
doorway and port-hole, and filled cabins and alleyways, so that jocund
humourists went along hooting, for fear of being run down. Every
electric light was on, as though it were midnight; they gleamed through
the hanging mist, globes of dingy yellow. Babies howled dismally—sleepy
and heavy, but kept awake by the incessant fog-horn; their mothers, pale
and anxious, tried vainly to soothe them. Norah secured her own especial
baby, bore him off to her cabin, and tucked him under her grey ’possum
rug; and then, to her own immense surprise, fell asleep beside him, and
slumbered peacefully until the luncheon gong came into competition with
the siren, and the baby woke and demanded nourishment.

There was no sign of the fog lifting. They lunched in silence;
conversation was impossible, and the stewards, flitting about in the
misty gloom, spoke in sepulchral whispers. No officers were visible; the
empty chairs at each table bore mute witness to the urgency of their
watch. The doctor made a valiant effort to maintain cheerfulness, and
succeeded in dispelling a fraction of the depression in his particular
corner. But even the doctor was incapable of spreading himself over an
entire saloon, and his efforts to be, as he pathetically said, a
sunbeam, were local and not general. Nobody seemed happy, and the meal
was finished in half the usual time.

Afterwards, the doctor bore down upon the Billabong party, his face full
of determination.

“This won’t do,” he said. “I shall have all the ladies on board
developing nerves. You youngsters must come and help me—get Grantham
and West and that long New South Wales fellow, and we’ll start some sort
of a game in the lounge. The fog is thicker than ever, and the only
thing we can do is to make people forget it.”

“Right-oh, doctor!” Wally answered. “It would be easier to forget it, if
we weren’t eating it all the time—but we’ll do our best.” So they
organised an uproarious game that gathered in every one, even to the
mothers and the babies; and by working the piano to its utmost,
succeeded in supplanting for a time the incessant shriek of fog-horns.
Tea found a ship’s company considerably cheered, and with more appetite.

“It’s wearing, but it pays,” said the doctor, cheerfully. “You’ve all
helped me nobly, and next time I have to organise a band of sunbeams,
may you all be shining lights in it! There’s a vein of pure idiocy in
Wally that I appreciate most highly.”

“I’m overcome,” said Wally, bowing.

“Don’t mention it,” said the doctor, affably. “True merit ought always
to be acknowledged. No, I think you’re all dismissed from duty now; the
mothers will be thinking of bathing the babies, and most of the others
are exhausted—and small wonder. I’m thinking of going to sleep myself;
the noise kept me awake last night.”

“Let’s go up on deck,” Norah said. “I’m tired of being shut up,
below—and it’s almost as foggy here as anywhere. The ship is full of
fog.”

On deck the white curtain seemed more impenetrable than ever. Everything
was dripping wet, with an unclean clamminess far worse than honest rain.
All round them came the wailing of fog-horns from invisible ships;
sometimes the sound came from far off, approached gradually, and then
went by them in the mist—unseen. Most of the ships were drifting, no
faster than the _Perseus_; but evidently some captains had kept the
engines going, in the hope of steaming slowly out of the fog.

“Beastly dangerous,” John West said. “It would be the easiest thing in
the world to pile up a ship on this coast—apart from the chance of
collision. It is far too near the shore to take chances. We are not five
miles out.”

A siren sounded directly ahead: a long, half-heard note at first, and
then a quickly-increasing sound; and suddenly the fog-horn of the
_Perseus_ broke out in a wild, continual clamour, incessant and urgent.
Passengers rushed up on deck. The other ship was drawing nearer and
nearer; so far as sound could testify, she was directly in a line with
the _Perseus_. They heard quick voices on the bridge. From the bow came
long shouts of warning.

Norah gripped the rail, feeling her father’s arm come round her in the
gloom. Jim came up on the other side, watching keenly, his face lined
and anxious. Ordinary danger was one thing; this creeping horror, coming
relentlessly out of the unseen, was another matter.

Then the white wall of mist wavered and parted slowly, a dark shape
loomed high, and almost upon them they saw a great ship. She was so near
that they could see the strained faces on her decks. Her fog-horn was
answering the _Perseus_ in a very frenzy of alarm—and suddenly the
_Perseus_ was silent, as if realising the uselessness of warning now. On
she came, slowly, slowly; it seemed that by no possibility could she
avoid crashing into the huge, helpless liner. They were almost touching;
people on both ships held their breath, waiting dumbly for the end.

Then the great black bow edged off as if by magic, and the ship slid
past them, only a few yards away. Slowly as she had come, her passing
was slower yet; it seemed hours that she was beside them, almost
touching, with the risk of her stern swinging to crash into the
_Perseus_. But no crash came. The fog took her and swallowed her up as
mysteriously as she had come.

“Phew-w!” whistled Grantham. “I don’t want anything nearer than that!”

Norah was shaking a little. A lady passenger further up the deck was
indulging in mild hysterics, to the indignation of the doctor and her
husband’s deep shame. The fog-horn broke out again in the long
monotonous wail, at half-minute intervals, that had gone on all day.

They sat on deck, wrapped in rugs, watching. No one wanted to go
down—bad enough in the open, it was better to be there, and to see as
much as could be seen. Now and then a little breeze came, and the wall
of mist parted ever so little, blowing away in trails like white
chiffon; and once, in one of these moments, they caught a glimpse of a
sailing ship, drifting by, with bare, gaunt masts. The fog closed round
her again, blotting her out utterly.

Then, towards evening, there came a quick succession of sharp hoots,
unlike anything they had heard; and a motor-launch came into view and
darted alongside, under the bridge. A man in blue uniform shouted swift
questions.

“I’ll bring you a tug!” he cried, at last.

They disappeared again, and the delay that followed seemed intolerably
long. Then the launch hooted its way back, followed by a bluff shape
that resolved itself into a steam-tug. She hung about just ahead. The
_Perseus_ came slowly to life; the screw throbbed slowly. They began to
crawl through the water after the tug. Once she disappeared, running on
a little too quickly—and the great liner began to hoot anxiously, like
a frightened child crying for its nurse, until the tug came back. So
they crawled together through the clinging mist-curtain until dun lights
showed ahead, and voices from the shore came to their ears.

“That’s the wharf at Cape Town,” said the doctor. “You have to take it
on trust. Why, the fog is thicker here than out at sea!”

They crept in slowly. Passing a ship already docked, they had a weird
impression of her, apparently hanging in the air—a grotesque ghost of a
ship, the surrounding mist like the vague halo that sometimes shows
round the moon. She was only a dim wraith, her powerful electric lights
glimmering like smoky lamps, although they were within biscuit-throw of
her. Even when alongside the wharf they could not see the people waiting
ashore; voices came up to them clearly, but it was impossible to see to
whom they belonged. So, like an exceedingly helpless invalid, the
_Perseus_ came into port.

“Eight o’clock,” said Mr. Linton, consulting his watch. “H’m; we’ve sat
in that old fog for eighteen solid hours.”

“Isn’t it a relief not to hear the fog-horns?” Norah said. “Daddy, are
we going ashore?”

“I don’t know,” hesitated her father. “It hardly seems worth while
to-night.”

Jim, who had been away, returned quickly.

“I’ve seen the second officer,” he said. “It’s awfully unsatisfactory.
Orders are to leave here at daylight, or as near it as can be managed,
and they’re going to work cargo all night. Poor beggars! they’ve all
been on duty for eighteen hours at least—and the captain has never been
off the bridge during the time.”

“Poor fellows!” Norah said. “I think, too, it’s poor us! Then we won’t
see Cape Town at all?”

“MacTavish advises us to go ashore,” Jim answered. “He says that the fog
may not be so bad in the city itself—it’s some distance away—and that
if we take the mountain tram ride we’ll probably get right above it. In
any case, the ship will be unbearably noisy, as they have to handle
cargo.”

“Then we may as well go,” declared Mr. Linton; and Norah fled
delightedly to get ready.

They stumbled through the fog across confused yards and round dim
buildings, and presently found a train waiting in a casual fashion by a
platform which appeared to be part of the street. They climbed in, and
the train woke up hastily and decided to go, as if encouraged by their
arrival. Its progress, however, was less hasty than its departure. The
fog impeded it, and it crept towards the city with a shrieking of the
engine, a grinding of brakes, and a rattling of the carriages, which
made the _Perseus_ seem luxuriously peaceful by comparison.

“We’ll drive back,” said Mr. Linton tersely.

The fog was much lighter in the town itself. Passers-by in the street
were heard grumbling at it—but to the mist-sodden seafarers who had
wallowed in its heart for eighteen hours, it seemed only an echo of a
fog. The streets were bright, well-lit, and crowded. Natives were not so
frequent as in Durban, and there was a general air of prosperity. Wally
exhibited signs of alarm at the spectacle of more than one top-hat.

“I suppose we’ll have to get used to them in England,” he said,
dismally. “I feel in my bones, Jim, that I’ll see you in one yet!”

“Me!” said Jim. “I’ll have to turn undertaker first!”

A friendly policeman directed them to their tram, and soon they were
rattling along quiet suburban streets, where the fog was thicker than in
the city—or where there were fewer electric lights to dispel its gloom.
The suburbs, however, did not last long; they emerged from brick and
mortar regions into open bush country, and began to climb into what
seemed the heart of the mountains.

They climbed from mist into light. As the tram wormed its way higher and
higher, they left the fog below them—looking back, they could see it
lying in a dense bank, blotting out the city. But the travellers came
out above it, and into the pure radiance of a perfect moon, that sailed
in a clear sky of deep blue, dotted with innumerable stars. The moon was
full, and her light, in the clear mountain air, was almost dazzling. It
showed them the sinuous tramway track, curving away into the heart of
the bush, which stretched on either side, dark and fragrant; it lit up
deep glens and clefts, and high peaks that towered overhead—the “Twelve
Apostles,” Signal Hill, the Lion’s Head—all black and rugged against
the perfect blue of the sky.

Sometimes a wind blew up strongly as they climbed, bringing with it
masses of fog from below, which surged lovingly round the tall peaks,
rested upon them, and often drew a soft veil over them, hiding them
altogether; and then it surged again, and was tossed up in masses like
breaking waves, until it fled altogether, dropping back into the
valleys, and leaving the peaks clear. The bush on either side grew more
and more dense, and mingled with the rugged crags into a scene of
extraordinary wildness. It was impossible to imagine that they were near
a great city—not in the heart of the Africa that held “King Solomon’s
Mines.” Were not these, indeed, the “Mountains of the Moon”?

Nobody spoke much, for, indeed, the wonder of the journey took away
speech, even from the boys. But just as they were turning back towards
civilisation a thick veil of mist hovered over the edge of Table
Mountain, standing clear-cut against the blue and silver sky—and then
settled upon it and draped it, hanging in uneven folds of purest white.

“There!” said David Linton. “You’ve seen the famous ‘Table-cloth’ come
down on Table Mountain!”

Norah leaned against him, putting her hand in his.

They ran down to the city—found a restaurant where coffee was still
obtainable, and then a motor that hurried them smoothly back to the
ship. The fog was still heavy at the wharf. The _Perseus_ was noisy with
the clamour of cargo-machinery and shouting men, and the decks hummed
with hawkers, chaffering over ostrich feathers and native karosses and
curios. There was little sleep for anyone on board.

Very early next morning they were off. The fog hung densely over the
city. The tug took them out through the dim harbour, and beyond to the
open sea—and about twenty miles out they suddenly ran out of the
fog-belt into sunlight, and blue sea and sky, all sparkling to greet
them.

The captain, heavy-eyed after his long vigil, paused beside Norah’s
deck-chair.

“Well, Miss Norah—you evidently weren’t meant to see the beauties of
Cape Town!”

“I don’t know,” said Norah, soberly. “I think I had the best view of
all. And it was worth the fog!”



                              CHAPTER XVI.


                                  WAR!

THE passengers of the good ship _Perseus_ were holding what they bravely
called a gymkhana. Their numbers had been slightly reinforced in South
Africa; some people had left the ship, but those who had joined had
brought the total to nearly forty. The newcomers included two or three
cheerful girls, and some energetic young Englishmen, who declared
frankly that they found the ship far too quiet, and entered with vigour
in the process of waking things up. They organised dances in the
moonlight, to the strains of the captain’s gramophone; concerts, at
which most people performed extremely badly, amidst the enthusiastic
plaudits of the audience; and finally a sports committee, which drew up
an ambitious programme of deck-game competitions, to culminate in a
“special-event” day. No one was allowed to stand out. The quiet ones
grumbled and fled to the sanctity of the boat-deck—where no games were
permitted—in the intervals of making themselves look more or less
foolish at deck billiards or bull-board. The younger members grew
enthusiastic by force of example, and things went merrily enough until
the day of the final display.

The officers—especially the captain and the doctor—looked with
approval on the new activity. At all times the journey up the West Coast
of Africa is dull and long. No ports are touched at between Cape Town
and Las Palmas; and it was quite possible that even the latter would be
forbidden the _Perseus_ by wireless orders by the time she arrived at
the Canary Islands, since German ships were known to be active in the
neighbourhood. The long and dreary stretch included the crossing of the
Equator, and a spell of tropical heat which, if not so bad as the Red
Sea, was apt to be sufficiently trying under ordinary circumstances, but
ten times more so when complicated by the lack of fresh air entailed by
war precautions. Therefore the Captain, keeping a silent watch on his
passengers’ nerves, and the doctor, directing his guardianship more
particularly to their livers, smiled on the games, and incited them to
antics yet more enlivening.

War seemed very far away. The first few days out from Cape Town had been
hard to bear in their complete isolation from news—especially as Cape
Town had provided an assortment of rumours, principally unconfirmed,
which gave unlimited food for tantalising speculation. But gradually war
talk slackened for lack of any food, and people agreed that it was
really more practical to be as busy as possible, and wait as patiently
as might be for definite news at Las Palmas. What risk there was, was
accepted as part of the general routine; to speculate on it was useless,
to worry about it as practical as worrying over a possible earthquake or
cyclone. Any smoke on the horizon might be a German man-of-war; it might
also be a peaceful British tramp steamer, jogging down to Australia. But
they were far off their course, and scarcely a sign of a ship had been
seen since leaving Africa—two or three dark smoke smudges many miles
off, a timber ship which went close by them, and once a collier, with a
couple of lighters in tow: useful black slaves, the captain said,
waiting to coal British cruisers. All the coast was well patrolled by
the Allies’ ships; they kept out of sight, but sometimes the wireless
operator, listening at his own silent instrument, heard their code
signals, comfortably close at hand.

The gymkhana was more remarkable for energy than for any special skill.
It drew a crowded house, most of the audience being required from time
to time as performers—a circumstance that is apt to restrain criticism,
since critics can be really untrammelled only when pleasantly certain of
not having to face the limelight themselves. There had been potato-races
and obstacle-races; they had chalked the pig’s eye—a competition won
gloriously by Mr. Linton, who had at least succeeded in placing the eye
in the porker’s snout, whereas no other blindfolded competitor had gone
nearer than his hind leg. Gentlemen in sacks had run, and tripped, and
fallen, and writhed helplessly, amid unfeeling laughter; ladies had
driven blindfolded gentlemen between zig-zag rows of bottles, with the
customary results to the bottles; other gentlemen, greatly daring, had
raced for parcels of feminine attire, and, donning it in a manner highly
unscientific and interesting, had held it about them miserably, and fled
for home. There had been races in pairs, wherein ladies had to tie their
partners’ neckties and light their cigarettes; blindfolded fighting;
egg-and-spoon scurries—in short, all the paraphernalia of what the
natives of India call a “pagal” gymkhana—pronouncing the adjective
“poggle” and signifying by it a revel of much buffoonery.

It was nearing tea-time when the competitors took their places for the
last event, which the doctor, much overheated by his exertions as
umpire, called a concession to the fine arts. Music was its basis, and
it was run in pairs—the lady sitting meekly on a camp-stool while her
partner raced to her, and whistled in her ear a tune which it was her
part to recognise. This done, she wrote down the name and handed the
document to the whistler, who turned and raced back with it. It was a
competition in which musical ability was less likely to score than an
ample supply of breath and fleetness of foot.

Norah and Wally were paired together, their most dangerous opponents
being Mr. Grantham and a cheery Cape Town damsel whose acquaintance with
rag-time airs was little short of the black art. Jim and his partner had
survived one heat, but had gone down in the second—owing to the lady’s
insisting that “Pop Goes the Weasel” was “God Save the King.” Jim had
liked his partner, and his faith in human nature was shaken. He exhorted
Norah to “show more sense,” and took his place by the rail to cheer her
and Wally on to great deeds.

There were three couples, their male halves being somewhat equally
matched in speed. Norah braced herself to her task as they tore down the
deck to the waiting ladies on the camp-stools—feeling in her heart that
she would much rather race than wait. There was too much responsibility
about the feminine part of the business—since no man would ever admit
that he had failed to whistle correctly. The flying figures arrived,
pell-mell—she lent an anxious ear to Wally’s musical efforts,
thankfully recognised “Tit Willow,” and saw him turn to race away, at
the same moment that Grantham received his document and started home.

“What tune did you hear?” she asked Edith Agnew, the Cape Town girl.

“Oh, an easy one—‘Tipperary.’ But isn’t it hard to hear!—they puff and
pant, and every one laughs, and the sea is noisy—and altogether it’s
enough to make Wagner sound like a musical comedy! And they look so
funny I can only laugh, instead of writing. Look—it’s a dead heat, I
believe!”

It was—Grantham and Wally breasted the tape together, and returned
presently, somewhat crestfallen.

“We’re awfully puffed, but it’s the last thing on the programme—we
might as well run it off,” Grantham declared. “You don’t mind, Wally?”

“Not a bit—my cheerful lay is naturally so unintelligible that a little
puffing can’t hurt it much,” Wally laughed. “Come on—ready, Norah?”

They went back to the starting-point and received the umpire’s
instructions; then came flying down the deck. Norah struggled hard to
recognise a tune that sounded like no melody she had ever heard, partly
because it would persist in mingling with the one which Grantham was
whistling desperately to Miss Agnew. Wally came to the end of the verse,
and began again, breathlessly. Light dawned on Norah in a flash.

“Oh—I am stupid!” she uttered, grasping her pencil and scribbling
“Bonnie Dundee” wildly. A half-second earlier Miss Agnew gave vent to a
shriek of intelligence, and wielded a distraught pencil. It was almost a
neck-and-neck race—but Grantham was a nose ahead.

“You’ve won!” said Norah, laughing. “Well done!” They shook hands
cheerfully; to stare in surprise, a moment later, when the doctor picked
up his megaphone and announced in stentorian tones that the winners were
Miss Linton and Mr. Meadows.

“But how?” queried Norah. All the spectators had left their places—they
were the centre of a laughing group. Wally arrived, triumphant, and
pumped her hand anew.

“That was my telegraphic partner!” laughed Grantham, in mock wrath. “I
whistled ‘Rule Britannia’ like a nightingale, and all she wrote was
this.” He held out a crumpled scrap of paper with “Brit” inscribed on it
in hieroglyphic letters. “Naturally, the umpire wouldn’t accept it—so
they disqualified me.”

“I’m awfully sorry!” Miss Agnew laughed. “I was overcome—and you
whistled so very badly—and I was sure Wally meant to start.” She tilted
a pretty nose. “I’m sure ‘Brit’ is good enough for that old tune,
anyway.”

Jim Linton swung round suddenly.

“Is that the wireless?”

From overhead, as every merry voice hushed to silence, broke out the
crisp, familiar crackle—the wireless, spitting its message over the
sea. No one moved for a moment. Then came another sound—a long, heavy
“Boom-m!” that ran echoing round the horizon. Women screamed, and ran
for their babies. Men looked at each other dumbly. The quick spitting of
the wireless went on—a tiny sound, following the crashing “Boom,” but
even more full of meaning.

“Boom-m-m!” Another heavy crash; and the spell that had fallen on the
laughing group of passengers broke suddenly, and there was a stampede
round to the starboard side of the ship. Norah, running, found Jim’s
hand on her shoulder.

“Steady, kiddie—keep back till we know what it is.”

“I can’t, Jim!”

“Yes, you can—keep Dad back. Wally and I will find out.”

“Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m!”

Ahead of the _Perseus_ something struck the water heavily, and almost
simultaneously great splashes like waterspouts shot up a ship’s length
away. Turning the corner of the deck, carried along by the crowd, Norah
saw a grey ship lying not far off, so close that she could see the evil
mouths of the guns that looked out from her side. Flame and smoke sprang
from them as she stopped, breathless. Again the long crash echoed, and
water shot into the air from three great splashes near the big liner.

“Good heavens—they’re shelling us!” a man exclaimed.

The passengers huddled together like frightened sheep, uncertain what to
do. There had been no signal for boat-drill, and no officer was visible,
except upon the bridge. The crackling of the wireless had stopped—and
suddenly they saw the Marconi operator spring up the bridge-ladder.

The doctor took swift command.

“Every one muster on the port side!” he shouted. “No need to risk flying
splinters here!”

He hustled the women before him, back to the side from which they had
come. A few children were crying pitifully; but there was no disorder,
and the women obeyed quietly, those who had no children turning to help
the mothers. Stewards appeared, and the doctor sent them through the
ship to collect stragglers; the stewardesses came up and took their
places quietly.

From the bridge, the second officer came hurrying down. He joined the
doctor.

“There’s no danger,” he said, so that every one could hear. “They put
those shells across our bows to stop us using the wireless—but Grey got
a certain amount away first. Then they signalled that they’d sink us if
we sent any more; so naturally, we didn’t.”

“What happens now?”

“Their orders are, to follow them at full speed. I don’t know what they
mean to do—but the Captain says that every one is to prepare to leave
the ship. It may or may not be a case of taking to the boats; they are
being got ready now. Not much luggage can be taken, but every one must
bring all available rugs and wraps; the nights are cold. Be ready to
obey the boat-drill signal.”

Mr. Linton’s party had prepared for such emergency early in the voyage;
it was only a few minutes before they were ready, suit-cases locked and
wraps rolled up. Jim came to carry up Norah’s belongings to the deck.
She cast a wistful look round the cabin. It had grown very homelike, and
the familiar photographs of Billabong and Bosun and her school chums
looked curiously out of place and forlorn amidst this sudden realisation
of war. She shut the door upon them with a little sigh.

On deck everything was as usual, save that sailors were working busily
at the boats, provisioning them, and getting them in readiness to swing
out from the davits. The horizon was empty of ships; only ahead of them
steamed the grey German warship, her smoke making dark plumes across the
sky. The _Perseus_ followed meekly. Norah could see the captain on the
bridge—and a great throb of pity for him surged up within her.

“He’s so responsible!” she said. “And he has such a lovely ship. It must
be dreadful to think of losing her.”

She looked up and down the long lines of the deck; at the towering mass
of the funnel overhead. It seemed incredible that so great a ship was
presently to be sunk; as easily might one believe that any splendid
cathedral could disappear suddenly into the ground. For weeks they had
lived on the _Perseus_, until she had grown like a second home to them,
as fixed and stable a thing as any hotel. Now she was doomed; they would
fire shells or torpedoes at her, and she would suddenly vanish, never to
be heard of again. The blue sea would ripple gaily over the place where
she lay—the sea on which she had ridden in splendour. It was too
horrible to believe.

Norah looked up at the bridge again, and saw Captain Garth’s set face.
He was gazing downwards at his ship. When his eyes met hers he smiled
and waved his hand slightly, and though Norah greatly despised tears,
she felt a hot lump in her throat and turned away to the rail, blinking
very hard. If it were dreadful for her to think of the great “crack”
liner going down, what must it be for the man whose pride and
responsibility she was?

They stood in a little knot on the deck, watching. Both ships were going
at full speed; but presently a line of flags fluttered out on the German
ship, they heard the sound of the engine-room telegraph ringing from the
bridge, and the throbbing of the machinery of the _Perseus_ stopped
suddenly. The German turned, steaming down upon them. A little way off,
the warship hove to and lowered a boat, containing two officers as well
as the crew. The _Perseus_ swung out a gangway to meet it.

The boat shot across the narrow strip of sea intervening between the two
vessels. The crew were stolid men, with heavy faces; they paid no
attention to the jeers or the questions of the crew of the _Perseus_ as
they rocked on the lazy swell beside her. Their officers sprang quickly
up the gangway, keen-looking men, very trim and alert. They cast a quick
glance over the passengers, and disappeared up the bridge ladder.

“Overhauling the ship’s papers,” the doctor said.

“Well, they can’t sink us while these men are on board!” remarked an old
lady, comfortably. She took out her knitting—a khaki muffler—and began
to work. “I do so like the German method of knitting—and now I feel it
my duty to use the English fashion. It’s so annoying!” she confided to
Norah. Her needles clicked busily.

Presently the two German officers came down the ladder, followed by
Captain Garth. They went to the Marconi-room, where the young sentry
stood his ground for a moment, ludicrously undecided, changing to
immense relief as the captain waved him aside with a curt nod. There
came sounds of altercation in the Marconi-room—and the young operator,
Grey, came out with a thunderous face and joined the passengers.

“Brutes!” he said, explosively. “They’ve dismantled the apparatus and
kicked me out—one of the great beasts threatened me with a revolver.
Wish I’d had one myself!”

“A jolly good thing you hadn’t, young man, if that’s how you feel about
it!” remarked the doctor.

There was a wretched feeling of helplessness over every one. To make
short work of the two strange men would have been so easy; to think of
doing it so futile, with the grey warship lying near, her guns trained
on the _Perseus_. They waited as patiently as they might until the
officers reappeared; and presently a message came to them to muster on
the boat deck.

They faced the Germans somewhat defiantly, the most placid of the
company being the old lady with the muffler, who knitted serenely, after
casting one glance of withering comprehensiveness at their captors. The
Germans held the passenger-list, and ran over it quickly. They spoke
English without difficulty, and with scarcely any accent.

“There is one name not present,” the senior said; “Henry Smith, booked
for London. Where is he?”

“In his cabin,” Captain Garth answered curtly,

“Is he ill?”

“No. He is a prisoner.”

“So?” said the German, his eye lighting with interest. “You will have
him brought here.” He talked to his companion in their own language
while the captain gave the necessary orders.

There was a little buzz among the passengers. Many of them had not heard
of Mr. Smith; those who had done so had acquired a vague idea that he
had left the ship at Durban. Now, as he came up the deck between two
stewards, every one craned forward to see him. He was pale and rather
thin, and the glance he cast upon Jim and Wally was scarcely one of
affection. Then he broke into a wide smile at the sight of the familiar
uniform, and uttered a quick German greeting.

The two officers showed some astonishment, which was merged in
sympathetic interest as Mr. Smith uttered floods of Teutonic eloquence.
Once they glanced keenly at the two boys—and Jim felt a thrill of
thankfulness that Norah’s part in the discovery of the spy had not been
revealed to Mr. Smith, who had evidently devoted his leisure in his
cabin to the solace of bearing malice. Finally the senior officer turned
to Captain Garth.

“Herr Schmidt will return with us,” he said. “Later, we shall require as
prisoners these two lads, the officer Dixon, and those of the passengers
who are military officers. Meanwhile you will have boats and passengers
ready, and prepare to leave the ship at daylight, on receipt of further
signals. Until then you will follow us. You will show no lights
whatever, and should you attempt to signal, we will sink you without
further notice. We will now inspect the crew—the passengers are
dismissed.”

David Linton stepped forward.

“You cannot mean to take my son and his friend prisoners, sir,” he said.
“They are only boys.”

“Only boys!” said the German, curtly. “Boys of their age and physique
are with the colours in our army to-day. But for their attack on Herr
Schmidt——”

Mr. Smith shot a rapid sentence at his countrymen. The officer laughed
unpleasantly.

“So?—going home to the army, are they? They will certainly be better
out of the way, then. That will do, sir—you will only earn them
increased severity.” And Mr. Linton, certain in his angry bewilderment
of only one thing—that he had made matters worse—found himself
dismissed, with a finality that forbade another word.

On the lower deck the Billabong quartet faced each other, at first
dumbly.

“Cheer up,” Jim said, at last, with an effort. “It’s hard luck, of
course, but they aren’t likely to do anything beyond imprisoning us.
Bother old Smith!”

“I wish to goodness we’d left him alone!” said Norah, miserably.

“No, you don’t—and we don’t,” was Jim’s sturdy answer. “I’ll always be
glad we stopped his little game—at any rate we’ll have had that little
scrap of the war! And we may escape—you never can tell—and come
careering over to London to find you. It will be all experience, as you
used to say!”

Norah shivered. She had never thought that the “experience” of which
they used to talk so light-heartedly would mean this.

“I wouldn’t mind so much, to know you were really in Germany,” Mr.
Linton said. “But to be on that abominable ship——!” He shot an angry,
anxious glance at the grey cruiser. Too well he knew her destiny—to
prowl the sea, a pirate in all but name, harassing British shipping
until she herself was sunk. There would be no getting back to Germany
for her—and no consideration for British prisoners on board of her when
the inevitable end came. He looked at the two boyish faces, his heart
full of blank despair.

Wally glanced over the rail. The German boat was returning to the
warship. Mr. Smith sat in the stern with the two officers—a podgy
embodiment of triumph.

“Well, the laugh may be on our side,” he said, cheerfully. “Anyhow, we
needn’t pull long faces over it; I’m hoping for another chance to get
even with old Smithy. Don’t you worry, sir—I’ll look after little Jimmy
for you!”

Jim grinned down on him affectionately. But to David Linton came
memories of Edward Meadows’ anxious face—of his last request, to look
after the little brother who was “such a kid.”

“I’ll work every means in my power to get you both back,” he said,
huskily. “Meanwhile, I can give you plenty of money; and I know you will
both try to keep on good terms with them; you’ll be better treated if
you do. The German sailors do seem disposed to behave as decently as
possible.”

“There are other people a long way worse off than we are,” Jim said.
“Dixon’s married, I know; he has a wife and kiddie in Glasgow. And Major
Edwards and Captain Field have got to leave their wives on the
_Perseus_—my aunt, isn’t it rough on poor little Mrs. Field, with that
troublesome baby!”

Norah jumped.

“That’s my pet baby!” she said. “I’ll go and see if I can take him for a
while.”

She fled to the Fields’ cabin. Captain Field, a tall, delicate man with
quiet ways that Norah liked, was sitting on the couch, his arm round his
wife. The baby was howling dismally, as if he understood. Mrs. Field,
white and tearless, was trying vainly to rock him to sleep.

“I’ll take him, Mrs. Field,” Norah said breathlessly. “He’ll be quite
all right—don’t you worry.”

Mrs. Field protested feebly.

“You want to be with your boys yourself,” she said. “He will go to sleep
presently.”

“He’ll be much happier on deck,” Norah said. She grasped the baby’s
outdoor attire in one hand, tucked him under the other arm, and fled.
The boys and her father had established themselves in a corner of the
deck-lounge; and there the baby sat on a table and played with Jim’s
keys, and became extraordinarily cheerful and contented. Somehow, he
helped them all.

“The nicest yearling I ever saw!” said Jim, when at last it grew dusk.
He rose, giving the baby one finger, on which he fastened with interest,
evidently regarding it as edible. “No, you don’t, young man; I’ve got to
go and put my things together; it’s time we did it, Wal. You’ll come,
too, dad?”

David Linton nodded.

“I’ll go and tub the baby,” Norah said.

She bathed him in one of the big bathrooms, to his great amazement and
delight; and then, wrapping him in a big, soft bath-towel until he
looked like a hilarious chrysalis, she took him back to his mother. Mrs.
Field looked better when she opened the door to receive the
sweet-smelling bundle.

“You’ve bathed him?—oh, Norah, you dear!”

“He was so good,” said Norah. “Of course, he hasn’t his nightie on, Mrs.
Field.”

“I must dress him altogether,” the poor little wife said. “You know we
have to take to the boats at daylight.”

“Yes, of course,” Norah said. “Oh, and Dad said I was to tell you,
Captain Field, that he has made arrangements for Mrs. Field and Tommy to
come in our boat, in—in the boys’ place; and they will be in his
special charge—and Tommy is mine. So you mustn’t worry.”

“Thanks,” said Captain Field; and could say no more. He put out his,
hand and shook Norah’s very hard.

Dinner was served as usual, and people tried to eat. The captain came in
late, and made a little speech between the courses. He was immensely
sorry for them all, he told them; it was the fortune of war, and there
was nothing to be said. Everything possible would be done for their care
and safety, and he told them that he did not doubt that they would aid
him in any measures he could take. Breakfast would be served half an
hour before daylight; they would be called in time. He urged them all to
go to bed early and try to get a good night’s rest. The German ship had
just signalled renewed warnings against any lights showing—he wished
them to remember that they were completely in the power of an enemy who
would sink them without hesitation if orders were disobeyed. He thanked
them for their calm behaviour in the afternoon and, in advance, for the
equal calmness he knew he might expect in the morning. “We’re not a
fighting crowd, but we don’t show the white feather!” finished the
captain, abruptly. He gave a jerky little bow and left the saloon.

“Poor dear young man!” said the old lady who knitted, wiping her eyes.

There was very little sleep on board the _Perseus_ that night. People
talked together in little groups. All luggage was already stowed in the
boats, and nothing remained to be done. In a corner of the deck the
Billabong family stayed, not talking very much, since there seemed so
little to say, but finding some comfort in nearness to each other. Wally
had written letters to his brothers and given them into Mr. Linton’s
keeping.

“Norah ought to turn in,” Jim said, at length. “It’s all very well for
us, for we’ll be in some sort of comfort on the German ship. But it
makes me sick to think of you two—in an open boat. You ought to get all
the sleep you can.”

“Oh, we shall be all right,” his father said. “It’s such calm
weather—and we are no great distance from Teneriffe. We can soon get
into the track of ships, and the chances are that we shall not have to
spend a night in the open.”

“And if we do, it won’t hurt us,” Norah said. “Don’t you bother about
us, Jimmy.”

“Well, go to bed, anyhow,” the boy said. “You’re tired as it is. You may
as well feel fit when you leave in the morning.” So Norah went off
obediently; and soon Wally followed her example, leaving Mr. Linton and
his son to pace the deck together for hours—in silence, most of the
time. The ship’s bells had been forbidden, and there was nothing to mark
the passing of the night. The _Perseus_ cut through the dark water,
following her captor, whose grey shape loomed near. Their heavy thoughts
went ahead, picturing the parting that must come with the dawn.



                             CHAPTER XVII.


                       WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT.

DARKNESS still hung over the sea when the little company on the
_Perseus_ met at breakfast. Most of them were heavy-eyed and pale; but
they made a brave effort at cheerfulness and tried to eat—never had a
meal seemed so unreal and horrible. It was quickly over, and they
trooped on deck.

Dawn was breaking. The German ship, no longer ahead, but a little to the
starboard, seemed like a grim watch-dog. No signals had come from her as
yet, and the _Perseus_ was still under orders to go at full speed. No
one knew where they were heading—their course had been peremptorily
changed, and the passengers could form no idea of direction. They were
like sheep driven in unfamiliar ways; over them all the sense of utter
helplessness.

The grey light, creeping over the sea, showed them watching in
groups—with all available wraps on, and rugs in readiness. In a corner
Mrs. Field sat, one hand in her husband’s. He was holding their baby,
his cheek resting against the soft little face. Major Edwards and his
wife walked up and down a lonely deck-space, not speaking.

An officer made a tour of the ship presently, to see that no passengers
were absent, and that all possible preparations had been made. He knew
nothing, he said; they had kept by the German ship all night. Now they
merely awaited the order to take to the boats; the enemy’s boat would,
of course, come over to secure the prisoners, and probably to sink the
ship by means of explosives placed in her hold, and setting her on fire.
“Cheaper than torpedoes,” said the officer, “and less noisy. They’re
shocking bad shots, too, on those armed merchantmen; and it would take a
heap of shells to sink the old ship, because of her water-tight
compartments. Much easier to blow her up from within.”

“Wretches!” said the old lady who knitted. She was still busy at her
khaki muffler.

“It’s war,” said the young officer, hurrying off. On the lower deck the
stewards and crew were mustered, awaiting inspection. After answering to
their names they took their usual boat-stations, without the ordinary
signal. The chief cook was cheery.

“No luncheon to cook!” quoth he, pleasantly. “And no need to abuse any
one for not having cleared up properly after breakfast! Well, I’ve
always heard that every dog gets a holiday one day in his life; it’s an
ill wind that blows nowhere!” He rallied the butcher on his downcast
mien.

“Think of all the good meat that’s going to the bottom!” said the
butcher, gloomily.

“Wot I think is, that I won’t have to ’andle any of it,” said the gay
cook. “Don’t you never get fed-up with the very thought of meat,
butcher? Sometimes I dreams of it all night!”

“Ijjit!” said the butcher. He withdrew himself, and sat on the edge of a
boat, wrapped in melancholy.

Slowly, faint streaks of pink showed in the eastern sky, and a pale
flush crept upwards. The sun came out of the sea, as if reluctantly,
unwilling to bring such a bitter morning.

“They’ll stop us soon, now,” Jim said. “Sure you’ve got all your wraps,
Norah?” He had asked the question three times already, but Norah smiled
up at him.

“Yes—and my nice old ’possum-rug,” she said. “Won’t it be a comfort in
the boat, Jim?”

“It ought to help you to get a sleep,” Jim said. “Air-cushions packed?
You’ll have to get Grantham to blow them up for you, since I won’t be
there; he’s in your boat.”

“I can do them, thanks, Jim,” said Norah quickly. No one else should
touch the cushions he had given her.

“Old duffer!” said Jim, very low—understanding well. They smiled at
each other.

“I wish they’d end it,” Major Edwards was saying to his wife. “This
waiting is worse than the actual saying good-bye!”

“I wonder why they don’t come,” she answered. “They only wanted
daylight, didn’t they?

“Yes—and the sooner the boats get away, the better, I should imagine,”
he said. They resumed their hard walk, up and down—up and down.

Overhead, on the bridge, there seemed a mild stir. The captain could be
seen, watching the German ship through his glasses. Then he directed
them to another point of the horizon, astern. Presently he disappeared,
returning almost immediately with a telescope.

John West came round a corner at full speed.

“Smoke astern!”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know—another catch for the enemy, very likely. What luck for
her if she gets two liners in one day!”

Everybody rushed to see; and made but little of the smudge of smoke, far
on the horizon. They came back to watch the enemy. Only the Fields had
not moved; Tommy was asleep, his face against his father’s.

On the German ship things were stirring. They could see hasty movements
of men. Smoke began to pour from her funnels.

“They’re coming, I expect,” Jim said. He tightened his grip on Norah’s
arm.

Mr. Dixon left the bridge, and came hurriedly aft. The passengers
flocked round him.

“There’s a ship in sight,” he said, “and we think she’s a British
cruiser. The enemy evidently think it, and they’re getting up steam.”

“Not going to stop?” a girl cried wildly.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” He hesitated. “We trust you to show no panic.
It is quite possible that they may try to sink us without taking off the
passengers—will you all get to your boat-stations quickly and put on
the life-belts the stewards will serve out?”

There were white faces, but no panic. Men and women trooped to their
stations, the former stooping to pick up children, and taking babies
from their mother’s arms—arms that took them back hungrily as soon as
the life-belts were adjusted. The boats were swung outward from the
davits, their crews in their places; and for a few minutes a very agony
of suspense held the ship silent. Every eye was glued to the German
ship. People held their breath, watching the guns—each moment expecting
a flash and an explosion.

A line of flags fluttered into place on the enemy’s rigging, and
simultaneously the passengers glanced up at the bridge of the _Perseus_,
whore alone the message could be understood. They saw Captain Garth put
his glasses down hurriedly and grip Mr. Dixon’s hand. Then he caught up
a megaphone and turned to them, speaking through it.

“The enemy is leaving us,” came the shout. “They signal, ‘We will not
destroy your ship on account of the women and children on board. You are
dismissed. Good-bye.’”

A burst of cheering broke from the passengers. One girl fainted; men
turned and wrung each other’s hands. Captain and Mrs. Field did not stir
for a moment; then they rose, moved by the same instinct, and
disappeared within the ship. Mrs. Field staggered as they went and her
husband’s free arm caught her to him. Tommy had never stirred—his
little face lay against his father’s cheek.

David Linton put his hand on his boy’s shoulder, speechless. Norah had
laid her head on the rail, and her shoulders were shaking. Wally patted
them hard.

“Buck up, old girl!” he said.

Flags had shot up on the _Perseus_, in courteous answer to the Germans.
Mr. Dixon, appearing, was overwhelmed with congratulations and
questions.

“It’s a British cruiser, right enough, and our friend the enemy has got
to show a clean pair of heels,” he said. “We’re only keeping her
back—her speed is knots ahead of ours. We’ll know more when we get the
wireless going again—Grey is hard at work on the spare outfit already.
We’ll hold on as we are for the present, to give the British ship any
information we can.”

“There is no further danger?” queried the old lady with the khaki
muffler.

“No, ma’am—none at all, that I know of.”

“What a good thing!” said she, placidly. She knitted on, without any
pause.

“The captain sends you all his thanks,” Dixon continued, gazing at her
in bewilderment and awe. “He says you can shed life-belts and, as the
Germans put it, dismiss—it’s ‘as you were,’ in fact. There will be
another breakfast in an hour’s time—I don’t fancy any one ate much of
the first one. We’ll let you know any news we can,” and he hurried back
to the bridge.

Already the German ship had forged far ahead of the _Perseus_.

“Aren’t her stokers having a time!” uttered Wally, as the smoke poured
from her. “It’s going to take her all she knows to get away from that
cruiser of ours.” He was unfastening Norah’s life-belt as he spoke,
while Jim removed Mr. Linton’s. “Are you all right, Nor?”

“Oh, yes,” said Norah, turning a strained, white face. She looked up at
Jim, and met his eyes, smiling at her. “It’s—it’s a bit of relief,
isn’t it?”

Every one was trying to speak calmly, although, now that the long
tension had been so suddenly relaxed, there was more appearance of
emotion than in the moment of greatest danger. Two or three women had
become hysterical, and the stewardesses and doctor were busy reducing
them to common-sense. Mrs. Edwards had not spoken at all since the
megaphone had cried their reprieve from the bridge. She rose after
awhile and slipped away.

The British cruiser was coming up astern, at full speed. Already they
could see the grey hull, business-like and determined.

“I expect we’ll signal to her as soon as the enemy is a bit further
away,” Jim said. “I hope to goodness we’re going to see the fight!”

“Will there be a fight?” Norah asked, excitedly.

“Why I should think so. She isn’t out for her health,” Jim answered. “It
will be a heartsome sight if she sinks the German, won’t it—and great
Scott, how annoying it will be for Mr. Smith!”

“Whew-w!” Wally whistled. “I clean forgot our friend Smithy!”

“I doubt if he’s as happy now as he was on the _Perseus_,” said Jim,
laughing. “That British ship is a flyer and no mistake. Nor, old girl,
why don’t you go and get out of six or eight of those coats before the
fun begins? You can’t wear them all day.”

“No, nor this hat,” said Norah, who was dressed for emergencies. “I’ll
hurry back.”

Her way to her cabin led her past the Edwards’ and she glanced in, at
the sound of sobbing. Mrs. Edwards, who had no children, had borrowed
little Tommy Field. She was kneeling before the couch on which she had
placed him, her face buried in his frock, her whole frame shaking with
sobs. Tommy regarded her doubtfully—and then, finding her hair soft
under his little hands, began gleefully to pull it down, gurgling with
joy. Mrs. Edwards did not seem to notice—even though they hurt her; it
may be that she found a comfort in the touch of the little hands. At the
sight, Norah suddenly found that she, too, was sobbing. She ran on into
her cabin.

When she passed, a little later, on her way back, she heard the murmur
of voices, and saw Major Edwards bending over his wife. Somehow Norah
knew that she was better, though she went by quickly, averting her eyes.
Dimly within her, though she had not learned to put the thought into
words, Norah knew that the world holds few women whom a baby cannot
help—even a borrowed baby.

“Norah! Norah! Hurry up!”

Jim’s voice came ringing down the alleyways.

“I’m coming!” Norah shouted, beginning to run. “What’s the matter?
Anything wrong?”

“No—only the British ship is coming up hand over fist, and signalling
like mad. And the German is just tearing away, but I don’t believe she
can do it.” Jim’s face was flushed and his eyes dancing. “Losh, but I
wish I was on that cruiser! Isn’t it the mischief that our wireless
isn’t ready! Come along—I was afraid you’d miss her.” He raced up the
companion-ladder, Norah at his heels.

At the top Wally was prancing with excitement.

“Oh, hurry up, you two!” Each boy grasped one of Norah’s hands, and they
tore along the deck. Every one was hanging over the rail, watching the
British ship approaching. Beside the great bulk of the _Perseus_, or of
the German ship, she seemed small. But she was built for speed and armed
to the teeth.

Mr. Linton offered Norah his glasses—but she found that her hands were
shaking too much to use them. The change from despair to relief had,
indeed, affected every one; ordinarily grave people laughed and talked
excitedly, and the younger passengers were like children released from
school. No one would go down to the second breakfast. Stewards wandered
round with trays of beef-tea, and people took cups absent-mindedly, and
forgot to drink them. The decks, generally so spic-and-span, were
littered untidily, since rugs and wraps had been flung down wherever
their owners happened to be standing—and the stewards were themselves
far too disorganised to perform ordinary duties. For one morning at
least, the sober _Perseus_ was “fey.”

“I’d give something to understand what she’s talking about,” John West
exclaimed, watching the cruiser, which was exchanging rapid signals with
the _Perseus_.

“Easy enough to guess,” Jim said. “They want to know anything we can
tell them, that’s all. Look at us”—he glanced aloft—“flag-wagging our
hardest. This is beginning to make up for last night!”

“Yes—you chaps must have had a pretty bad time,” West said. “I’m jolly
glad rescue came—it wasn’t any too soon.”

“Oh, a miss is as good as a mile,” said Wally. “I’m too cheerful to
think of last night. By Jove, I believe they’re coming near enough to
talk! Isn’t it gorgeous!” He seized Norah, and they executed a wild
polka down the deck—a proceeding which would ordinarily have attracted
some attention, but just now drew not a single glance, except from the
knitting old lady, who beamed over her muffler, and said, “Bless them,
pretty dears!”—which remark filled Wally with wrath beyond anything he
had manifested for the German ship. They came back to the others,
outwardly sober, but still bubbling within.

“She’s the _Sealark_,” the second officer told them. “Light
cruiser—about 6,000 tons; and her armament is a dream. I saw her in
Portsmouth Harbour last July. I guess she’ll make things warm for the
beggar.”

“How did she come—was it just luck?” Wally asked.

“Luck?—not it! She caught our ‘S.O.S.’ signals yesterday; a jolly good
thing for us young Grey stuck to his wireless as long as he did. Watch
her—she means hailing us, I think.”

From the bridge, a voice through a megaphone demanded perfect silence on
the decks—and every voice was hushed as the cruiser came rapidly
alongside, so close that greetings could easily be exchanged. Rapid
questions and answers flashed from bridge to bridge. The _Sealark_ was
ready for action; they could see the cleared decks, and the guns trained
in readiness. Bluejackets swarmed everywhere, cheery-faced and alert,
and waved jovial greetings to the big liner. Norah found her heart
thumping. War! this was war, indeed!

The cruiser drew away, exerting her utmost speed. Mr. Dixon came down to
the passengers.

“She wants us to stand by to help with the wounded,” he said. “She’ll be
engaging the German soon. No, I don’t think it will be much of a fight;
the German is more than twice her size, but she’s only an armed
merchantman, and the _Sealark’s_ guns outclass hers hopelessly. We’re
not going to run risks of shells, of course, but you’ll get some sort of
a view.” He favoured Norah with a special grin. “I shouldn’t wonder if
you got your friend Smith back, Miss Norah!”

It was half an hour later that the first dull roar of a gun echoed
across the sea. The _Perseus_ had altered her course, so that she should
not be in the line of fire, and the three ships formed an irregular
triangle. They saw the puff of smoke from the _Sealark_ and then
another, and another; but the German held on her way, unchecked,
although the _Sealark_ was rapidly overhauling her. Then she began to
return the shots, and the watchers on the _Perseus_ could mark by how
much they fell short by the splashes as they fell. The British cruiser
answered, her superior range giving her an immense advantage.

“Ah—she’s got home!”

Mr. Linton’s quick exclamation came just before a shout from the bridge.
One of the funnels of the German ship had tilted suddenly, and remained
looking curiously helpless, like a child’s damaged toy. The _Sealark_
had found her range. Shot after shot crashed; another funnel fell
sideways, and a great black stain showed near the stern where a shell
had hit its mark. The ships grew nearer together.

“The German’s having engine-trouble, I believe,” Grantham hazarded. “Her
speed is falling off.”

“By Jove, she’s hit the _Sealark_!”

Almost simultaneously with two vicious puffs of smoke from the German
guns there came a commotion on the deck of the British cruiser. Through
the glasses could be seen marks of damage, and one gun spoke no more.
But, as if in swift retaliation, a series of crashing shots from the
_Sealark_ shook the air—and the enemy ship seemed to shiver and pause.
A gaping hole showed in her side. Again the British guns roared across
the water.

“She’s done,” Mr. Linton said.

The German ship was quite done. She listed slowly, more and more of her
hull becoming visible as the deck, with its litter of wreckage and
broken funnels, sloped away from them. Gushes of vapour that might have
been either smoke or steam poured from her; and then, as the watchers
held their breath in suspense, blue wreaths of smoke curled lazily
upwards. She was on fire and sinking.

“The _Sealark_ is signalling to us,” the second officer said. “We’re
wanted—it’s full steam ahead. But she won’t last until we get there.”

The guns of the British cruiser had ceased. A moment before she had been
nothing but a death-dealing machine; now she suddenly became an
instrument of mercy, dashing forward to save life. The _Perseus_ was no
less ready. The water foamed from her bows, as she bore down upon the
sinking German.

“She’s going!” A score of voices raised the cry.

The German warship tilted still further. Then she gave a long, lazy
roll, like a sea-monster seeking rest; her stern lifted, and she dived
down, head-first. So quickly was it done that it seemed a dream; one
moment the great ship held every eye—the next, and she was gone, and
scarcely a ripple marked the place of her sinking.

As she went, black forms dropped from her, looking, at that distance,
like a swarm of flies. They could be seen faintly in the smooth water,
tiny dots upon the surface of the slow swell.

“Oh—hurry! hurry!”

Norah did not know that she had spoken. Her eyes were glued to those
helpless black specks.

The boats were already swung out. As the _Sealark_ and the _Perseus_
came near the broken wreckage and bobbing heads, both ships slackened,
and the boats shot down to the water. There was a moment’s delay as the
ready oars came out and they drew away from the side; then they leaped
forward, every man bending in real earnest to his work. Once among the
wreckage, all but two oars were withdrawn, and the rowers leaned over,
intent on their work of mercy. They lifted out one dripping form after
another. Their cries of encouragement drifted back to the ships.

“I don’t think one other head is showing,” said Jim at last. “Poor
beggars—what a crowd have gone down!”

They scanned the sea with keen eyes. There was nothing to be seen but
spars and littered wreckage.

“The boats are coming back,” Norah said, her voice shaking. Not to look
had been impossible; but it would be as impossible ever to forget what
she had seen.

They came back with their burden of flotsam and jetsam; it was pitifully
small, compared to the number who had been on the ship. Some were
wounded, many exhausted from shock and immersion. These were busy times
for the doctor and his assistants on the _Perseus_. The _Sealark_ had
but little room for prisoners and the sick, and was glad to turn them
over to the great empty liner.

“We’re practically a floating war prison,” said Mr. Dixon. They had
exchanged final greetings with the British man-of-war, and the _Perseus_
had resumed her course to the Canaries. “The two officers who called
yesterday are with us, bless their jovial hearts! They aren’t
wounded—and they’re not so supercilious either. An exceedingly wet and
cold man can’t very well be supercilious, even if he’s a German—and
those chaps were half-drowned rats when we pulled ’em in.”

“What about Mr. Smith?” Wally asked.

Mr. Dixon shook his head.

“No sign of him—gone down, poor little man. It’s just as well, I
suppose; he’d have hated not getting back to his Fatherland. And I, at
least, am devoutly glad that I haven’t to give up some of my leave to a
trial in England.” Mr. Dixon gave a cavernous yawn. “I haven’t had any
sleep since the night before last, and I’m going to turn in; and people
who look as tired as you, Miss Norah, should do the same.”

“I don’t think I’m tired,” said Norah vaguely. The chief officer
laughed.

“Put her to bed, Jim,” he said, nodding his head. “We’ve enough German
patients without a good Australian as well. And you might turn in
yourself, by way of experiment—you look as if you could do with a
sleep. I’m going to dream that I’m a prisoner on that beastly German
boat, for the pleasure of waking up and finding I’m not—I advise you to
do the same!”



                             CHAPTER XVIII.


                              LAS PALMAS.

“IT’S the heartsomest sight ever I seen!” said the quartermaster.

They were steaming slowly in to the big harbour of Las Palmas. Jim and
Wally were great friends with the quartermaster, although he had once
fallen over them bodily, an awkward occurrence that had produced a
temporary coolness. He had forgiven them since discovering that their
knowledge of knots was beyond that of the ordinary land-lubber
passenger, and that Jim carried good tobacco, and frequently had some to
spare.

The harbour was gradually opening up ahead—and they were looking at a
sight of which the _Sealark_ had warned them. Dotted all over the
land-locked stretch of dancing blue were ships, great and small; idle
ships, with no smoke coming from them except the little trail from the
cook’s galley. Many bore names well known in the big cities of the world
where passenger steamers go. The _Perseus_ went so close to some that
they could scan their decks, where idle sailors lay about, playing cards
and smoking—or leaned over the rail to watch the great British ship
come slowly into port. Never had the Australian boys seen such sleepy
ships.

“That one looks queer,” Jim said, indicating a vessel close in-shore;
and the quartermaster grinned.

“She’s strolled ashore, an’ broke her back,” he said, cheerfully. “Good
enough for her, too—and for the lot of ’em. Don’t it do your heart good
to see ’em, miss?”—to Norah, who came up at the moment. “Lyin’ there
with their dinky little black an’ white an’ red flags trailin’ out over
their sterns, afraid to move; an’ the barnacles a-growin’ on ’em. They
grow quick, too, in this nice warm water!”

“Are they the German ships?” Norah asked.

Jim nodded assent.

“Thirty-one of them,” he said, an unusual note of pride in his quiet
voice. “Most of them have been there since the first fortnight of the
war, when all the German merchant-shipping scurried for cover.”

“And there they sit,” said Wally, happily, “afraid to show their noses
out, because they know they’ll be caught—and a little British cruiser
comes and counts them now and then, like an old dog rounding up a mob of
sheep.”

“They’ve sold all their cargoes for food,” said the quartermaster. “Ate
’em up, like—an’ much them Spaniards ashore gave ’em for the lot! Them
Las Palmas dagoes must be pretty wealthy these times. An’ the beggars
can’t get away, nor do nothink. Must make ’em feel pretty savage, seein’
ships like us come strollin’ in an’ out.”

“By Jove, it must!” Jim uttered. “Here are we, worth a million and a
half of money—and just the cargo England wants—meat and wool and
foodstuffs; and they’ve got to watch us go out safely! Wouldn’t it make
you permanently sour!”

“Well, it brings home what sea-power means,” Mr. Linton said. “Not a bad
thing to remember, this harbour, when things go wrong at the Front—and
to realise that the same state of affairs is going on in many harbours.
I’d like to know how many German ships are bottled up, all over the
world; she can’t have much trade left.”

“Why, you won’t find the German merchant flag afloat, sir,” said the
quartermaster, “unless it’s sittin’ tight in a neutral port like this.
As for her trade——!” He snapped his fingers. “Well, she’s a long way
off beat yet; but she ain’t doin’ any business!”

They had been running for some hours in sight of the Grand Canary, the
chief island of the group—its rugged hills and headlands had been a
welcome sight after the long stretch of unbroken sea. Since their escape
from the German warship there had been a feeling of unrest all over the
_Perseus_: the time seemed interminable, and the old sense of security
in which they had lived contentedly had altogether gone. People were apt
to jump at unusual sounds; books and games languished, for there was a
painful fascination in scanning the sea for a smoke-trail that might or
might not be another enemy cruiser. Above all, the hunger for news of
the war became more and more intense, blotting out all lesser interests.

The _Perseus_ dropped anchor in the outer harbour—so crowded with
shipping were the inner waters, that the huge vessel would have had
difficulty in finding room to turn. Almost immediately the agents’
launch was seen hurrying out from the shore. In its wake came a huge
flotilla of dinghies, containing every saleable article known to the
bumboat-men of the Islands—lace, alleged to be Spanish, fine linen
embroideries and drawn-thread work, silks, “sandalwood” boxes—made of
any wood that came handy, and soaked in sandal oil to tickle tourist
nostrils—roughly carved ivory, Canary knives and ebony
elephants—probably of Birmingham manufacture—and a host of other
“curios,” equally reliable and valuable. In addition, there were boats
loaded to the gunwale with oranges and others with vegetables; and some
that were top-heavy with an unwieldy cargo of basket-chairs. Until the
medical officer of the port had granted pratique to the ship, no one was
allowed on board; so the boats clustered thickly on each side, and the
men held up their wares, shrieking their prices, and managed to conduct
quite a number of sales by the simple expedient of passing the goods up
in a bucket lowered from the deck.

Spanish medical officers are generally full of their own importance, but
devoid of any inclination to hurry. It was some time before the
impatient passengers saw the official boat coming leisurely across the
harbour; and a further delay ensued before the pompous Spaniard had
satisfied himself that the _Perseus_ was sufficiently free from any
disease.

“They had small-pox brought to them by a ship once,” Mr. MacTavish told
Norah; “and ever since they’ve been so scared that they’d refuse to let
any one ashore if we had as much as a case of nettle-rash on board!
Judging by the smells of the place when you get there, I should think
they bred for themselves all the diseases they’d need.”

“He’s going back to his boat,” Norah said, looking over the rail at the
gorgeous, gold-laced official.

“Then I expect it’s all right,” said the officer. “Just watch those
bumboat-men.”

Some one had communicated to the boatmen the fact that the _Perseus_ was
free ground, and the boats were crowding to the gangway in a struggling
mass, each striving for first place at the steps. There seemed no rules
of the game; they shoved each other aside furiously, edged boats out of
the way with complete disregard of the safety of their crews or cargoes,
and kept up a continuous babel of shouts and objurgations, coupled with
wild appeals to the passengers to wait for the bargains they were
bringing.

“Look at that chap!” Wally said, chuckling at a man whose boat had just
reached the steps when a well-directed shove from the stern sent it
flying lengths ahead. The man subsided in a heap on his wares, which
were of a knobbly character and not adapted for reclining. He protested,
in floods of fluent Spanish, while his wily ejector, who had promptly
taken his place, proceeded to get his own goods on board with much
calmness.

“They’re awful sharks,” said Mr. MacTavish. “Generally they bring on
board about three decent things, in case of striking any one who really
knows good stuff; the rest is just the scrapings of the Las Palmas
shops—all the things they know they’ll never sell ashore. You want to
be up to their tricks—and, whatever you do, don’t give them more than a
quarter of the money they ask.”

The Spaniards were pouring on board in a steady stream. Some, without
wasting time, dashed to vacant spaces on the deck and began to lay out
their wares; others rushed up and down, thrusting goods, fruit, and
post-cards almost into the faces of the passengers and asking fabulous
prices for them. Norah, who had no wish at all to buy a fan for which
the vendor demanded five shillings, said, “I’ll give you ninepence,” and
expected to see him disappear in wrath. But the Spaniard smiled widely
and said, “Thank you, miss!”—and Norah found herself the embarrassed
possessor of the fan, while the seller as urgently begged her to buy an
elephant.

“Oh, take me away, Wally!” she said, laughing. “Can’t we go ashore?”

“There’s a launch coming off now,” Mr. MacTavish said. “They’ll take
you, and bring you back. But don’t go unless you’re a good sailor, Miss
Norah—there’s a cheery little lap on in this harbour.”

“I’ll risk it,” Norah declared, laughing.

“Well, it upsets quite a few,” said the junior officer. “However, you’re
ashore in a quarter of an hour, so the agony isn’t prolonged.”

The launch bobbed cheerily across the harbour, and the “lop” of which
Mr. MacTavish had spoken proved quite sufficient for several of the
passengers, who were both green and glad when the little boat arrived at
the stone steps of the wharf. At the head of the steps enthusiastic
drivers proffered their services. The Billabong party, by the Captain’s
advice, had engaged a guide—a bustling gentleman, speaking very
imperfect English, who hurried them to the quaint little carriages of
the town—two-wheeled, hooded erections, capable, when rattling over
their native cobblestones, of inflicting innumerable contusions on the
human frame. They dashed wildly up a long, ascending road, the drivers
urging their raw-boned steeds with whip and voice.

Las Palmas, to the hurried tourist, offers but little in the way of
sight-seeing. To the leisured, with time to drive away from the white
town, up the mountain, to Monte and Santa Brigida, there is opportunity
for seeing the best of the island—rolling country with deep little
cleft glens running to the sea, banana gardens, and the vineyards among
which Santa Brigida nestles—vineyards where the Canary wine of old days
was made. Motor-buses run there to-day—unromantic successors to the gay
old adventurers who sailed the Spanish Main and drank Canary sack.

The majority of ships, however, stay in the port but a few hours, making
the call only for mails and vegetables and a shipment of fruit for
London; so that the average tourist can but put himself in the hands of
a guide and make a meteoric dash through the city, seeing what the guide
chooses to show him, and no more.

“Did you ever see such unfortunate, raw-boned horses!” gasped Norah. “I
do wish our man wouldn’t beat him so continually.”

The guide smiled widely. “De horse she not mind de beat,” he said.

“I expect they’re used to it,” Jim remarked; “it really seems part of
the show. Anyway, they all do it.”

They hurried through the great Cathedral, seeing vestments three hundred
years old; through the fruit and fish markets; and then to the place
which the guide plainly regarded as the champion attraction of the
town—the prison. It was a gloomy building, entered through a big
courtyard where snowy-white geraniums bloomed in startling contrast to
the grim stone walls. Within, they glanced at the room where trials were
held; and then were conducted along dim corridors and into a cell where
an unpleasant iron framework was fixed above a bare iron chair.

“De garotte!” announced the guide, proudly. “Where dey put to death de
murderers!” He sat down in the iron chair, and obligingly put his neck
in the clutch of the grisly collar, to show how it worked—whereat Mr.
Linton uttered an ejaculation of wrath, and hastily removed his
daughter.

“Do they really kill people there?” Norah asked, wide-eyed. It did not
seem easy to realise.

“They do—but there’s no need for you to look at the beastly place!”
said her father, indignantly.

“Well, it looked awfully tame,” said Norah. “I suppose I haven’t enough
imagination, daddy. It was rather like the arrangement they put to keep
your head steady in a photographer’s!”

Jim and Wally came out, followed by the guide, who looked rather
crestfallen.

“Unpleasant beast!” remarked Jim. “He’s been showing us a collection of
knives and scythes and other grisly weapons, with dark and deadly
stains—says various ladies and gentlemen used them to slay other ladies
and gentlemen! First you see the garotte, and then what brings you to
it. It puts you off murdering any one, at all events in Las Palmas!”

“It makes me feel like murdering the guide!” said Wally. “I never saw
any one gloat so unpleasantly!”

They left the prison and rattled back into the main streets of the town.
Spanish girls in graceful mantillas looked down upon them from upper
windows; and once Norah declared that she saw a Spanish cavalier
serenading one, with guitar all complete—which seemed unlikely, even in
Las Palmas, in broad daylight. The streets were narrow and dirty, the
cobblestones unbelievably rough. At top speed the little carriages
bumped over them, their occupants bouncing hither and thither, and
suffering many things. They rejoiced unaffectedly when at length they
halted, and set out on foot to explore the business part of the town.

The shops were full of fascinating things, to unaccustomed eyes, and
their owners did not wait for people to enter, but came to the doorways,
or even out into the streets, begging them to buy; each pointing out how
much more excellent was his shop than that of his neighbour. Whether
they succeeded or failed in making a sale, they were always exquisitely
polite.

“You feel,” said Wally, “that even if they don’t manage to sell you a
pennyworth, they’re amply rewarded for their trouble, by the pleasure of
having seen you!”

In a restaurant overlooking the sea they procured very bad coffee with
cakes of startling colours and quite poisonous taste; after which
refection every one felt rather ill, and formed a high opinion of
Spanish digestive powers. There were German sailors in the restaurant
evidently from the ships in the harbour; they looked sourly at the
cheery little party of English-speaking people, and muttered guttural
remarks that clearly were not pleasant.

“It’s hardly to be expected that they should feel good-humoured at the
sight of us,” said Jim. “Poor beggars—here since war broke out, with
nothing to do, and practically no money; and their ships rotting in the
harbour. And they have to watch us go in and out just as we please. It
wouldn’t excite one’s finer feelings, if one were a German.”

“Have Germans got any?” queried Wally.

“They’re not overstocked, I believe,” Jim said, grinning. “But one
wouldn’t develop many in Las Palmas, anyhow. I’ve seen more villainous
faces here than in the whole course of my previous existence. Our Zulu
friend in Durban was a beauty, compared to some of them.”

“Yes, one wouldn’t care to wander about here alone on a dark night,”
said his father. “Half of the populace look as though they would quite
cheerfully and politely assassinate any one for sixpence. Come on,
children; the guide seems to be getting excited—it’s time we went back
to the ship.”

The _Perseus_ steamed away in the twilight—the crowd of boatmen
chattering and shouting round her until the last moment, and attempting
to sell for a few pence articles for which, earlier in the day, they had
demanded many shillings. Past the imprisoned German ships they went,
seeing the sullen crews watching them, envying them the freedom of the
seas. The captain came along the deck as they watched the sunset and the
slowly fading white town under the mountain.

“Well, we didn’t get much news out of Las Palmas,” he said. “One never
does. It’s all deadlock, anyhow, at the Front; winter has shut down on a
lot of activities.”

“Judging by my papers, most of the battle area seems water-logged,” said
Mr. Linton. “It wouldn’t give much scope for movements.”

“No,” the captain agreed. “Personally, the agents have left me
completely undecided; we’re scheduled to go to London, but they say we
may be sent to Liverpool—or anywhere else.” He laughed. “Time was when
a man was master on his ship—but in war he’s not much more than a
cabin-boy. There’s a hint that the Government want our cargo of meat to
go straight to France.”

“What—would we go there?” Norah queried, much excited.

“Not much!” said the captain, with emphasis. “Too many mines and
submarines about, Miss Norah, to take passengers on cross-Channel
excursions. No, I guess I’d have to land you all at some Channel port.
They say we’ll hear by wireless—meanwhile, I wouldn’t advise you to
label your luggage.”

Mr. Linton looked anxious.

“I’ll be just as glad if we don’t have the trip up the Channel,” he
said. “There would be no further danger of cruisers, I suppose; but one
does not feel encouraged by the idea of floating mines—not with
daughters about.”

“Indeed, you catch me letting you meet a mine alone!” said Norah
hastily. “Me, that can hardly trust you to change your coat when it’s
wet!” Whereat the Captain chuckled and departed.



                              CHAPTER XIX.


                         THE END OF THE VOYAGE.

PERHAPS the last week of the voyage was the longest of all.

From Las Palmas the _Perseus_ ran into bad weather, and the Australians
were sharply reminded that instead of their own hot December they were
coming to English winter. Ice-cold gales blew day and night; the decks
were constantly swept by drifting showers of sleety rain. It was often
impossible to keep cabin port-holes open, even in the day-time, since
the waves were high; and at night they were definitely closed. Wally,
who had opened his on a night that was deceptively calm, was found by
Jim “awash,” a wave having entered and deluged everything. Wally was
equally apologetic and wrathful; he paddled in the chilly flood,
rescuing damp boxes from under the berths.

“I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he said penitently. “The cabin was so
horrid stuffy—and the waves seemed quiet. I think”—hopefully—“that my
things have got the worst of the mess, anyhow.”

“I wish you’d come out of that and get dry socks on,” said Jim,
laughing. “You look like an old pelican, wading round there! Here’s
Scott—he’ll fix it up.” They fled, leaving the flood to the
much-enduring steward, who had probably grappled with such emergencies
before.

The evenings were the worst time. By nightfall the closed-up ship was
unbearably airless; rather than remain below, it was better to face the
dripping decks, to find a comparatively sheltered corner in the inky
gloom, and there to sit, wrapped in mackintoshes and rugs, until
bedtime—when the keen salt wind would have effectually made every one
sleepy. They woke up heavy-headed, and fled back to the deck as soon as
dressing could be hurried through. No one could possibly call the deck
comfortable, but at least it was airy—though, perhaps, too airy.

News came now each morning by wireless; unsatisfactory news, for the
most part, since it told but little and spoke only of the long winter
deadlock just commencing. Still, it was something, and the passengers
clustered round the notice-board after breakfast, reading the scrawled
items hungrily. Daily the feeling of tension increased, as the ship
ploughed her way to the end of her long journey. It was harder than ever
to be cooped up in idleness when so much was happening just ahead; so
much waiting to be done.

They saw no warships, yet they knew that the watch was all round them,
vigilant and sleepless. Daily the wireless operator heard the echo of
their signals, telling nothing except that the grey watchdogs of the
seas were somewhere near, hidden in the veil of mist through which they
went. It was hard to realise, so lonely did the _Perseus_ seem, that her
position was known—that, somewhere, preparations and plans were being
made, of which she was the centre, although even her captain knew
nothing. Three days off the English coast the invisible Powers-That-Be
spoke to her.

“Orders!” said Jim, dashing into his father’s cabin, where Mr. Linton
and Norah were endeavouring to pack his belongings. “No London or
Liverpool for us, thank goodness! We’re all to be landed at Falmouth. It
means a day less at sea.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard for a good while,” said Mr. Linton.
“Six weeks at sea during war-time is enough for any man. Wireless
orders, I suppose?”

“Yes—the captain won’t disclose whether they’re from Government or from
the agents—but the officers believe it’s Government, and that the ship
is going straight to Brest or Cherbourg with her foodstuffs, as soon as
she gets rid of us. We get in at daylight on Monday.” He rushed off to
find Wally.

They could, indeed, have got in on Sunday night, but for the war
regulations—that no ships should enter an English port between sunset
and sunrise; so, from evening on Sunday, the _Perseus_ dawdled along,
knowing that she must kill time, and preferring to do it in the safety
of open ocean rather than off a rock-bound coast. Then, as if the sea
wanted a final diversion with them, a fog came up, and the officers
spent an anxious night, “dodging about” in the mist and looking for the
unfamiliar entrance to Falmouth Harbour—all the time in dread of
hearing breakers on a near shore. Two days before, they found later, a
ship had gone on the rocks during the night. The Cornish coast stretches
harsh hands to trap the unwary.

Fortune, however, befriended the _Perseus_. Towards morning the fog
lifted, and the harbour entrance showed clearly. Norah, lying awake in
her berth, saw through her port-hole a rugged headland—and almost
immediately a blinding flash filled her cabin with so bright a light
that for a moment it seemed on fire. It passed away as quickly as it had
come; and Norah, springing to the port-hole, saw a dim coast and
powerful searchlight that went to and fro across the entrance. Not even
a fishing-dinghy could have slipped in unperceived by its white ray.
Then a black funnel came so close to her face that she jumped back in
astonishment. Looking down, she could see, below, the deck of a little
gunboat, where were men in blue uniforms. A curt voice was hailing in
tones of crisp authority.

“What ship are you, and where from?”

“The _Perseus_—from Australia.”

“Last port?”

“Las Palmas.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Wireless orders.” Norah smiled a little at the evident note of
grievance in Captain Garth’s voice—as who should say, “I never asked to
come!”

The gunboat moved on, until it was directly under the bridge. Norah
could hear curt instructions as to anchoring. Then the fierce little
grey boat darted away across the harbour.

She dressed hastily. Everything had been left ready overnight, and her
little cabin wore a strangely cheerless aspect, denuded of all its
homelike touches and with labelled and corded luggage lying about. Jim
and Wally found her ready when they looked in on their way to the deck.

“Put on your biggest coat,” Jim said. “It’s colder than anything you
ever dreamed of. To think they’re probably having bush-fires on
Billabong!”

“I wish we had one here!” said Wally, shivering.

There were yellow lights still showing in the houses round the harbour,
but daylight had come, and soon they began to twinkle out. It was a bare
coast, with a grey castle on one headland—behind it, on a long rise, a
dense cluster of huts that spoke of military encampment. The harbour
itself was full of ships; among them, the _Perseus_, largest of them
all, was going dead slow. The crew could be heard exchanging greetings
with deck-hands engaged in morning tasks on vessels lying at
anchor—question and answer ran back and forth; war news, curiosity
about the long voyage, and often, “Goin’ to enlist, now you’re home?”
Every one was excited and happy; the crew were beaming over their work;
the stewards—most of whom had declared their intention of
enlisting—wild with joy at the thought of home after their long months
of absence.

The Australians drew together a little; there was something in the bleak
grey December morning, in the cheery bustle and excitement, that made
them suddenly alone and homesick—homesick for great trees and bare
plains, for scorching sunlight and the green and gold splendour of the
Bush.

“Doesn’t it seem a long way away?” Norah said, very low; and Jim and
Wally, knowing quite well what she meant, nodded silently. To them, too,
home was a great way off.

They hurried through an early breakfast, and came again on deck to find
the anchor down for the last time, and the _Perseus_ lying at rest. An
official launch was alongside; and presently all the passengers were
mustered in the saloon, to answer to their names and declare their
nationality and business. It was a war precaution, but a perfunctory
one; as Wally remarked, the late Mr. Smith would have had no difficulty
whatever in passing with full marks.

Then came good-byes, beginning with the captain, somewhat haggard after
his final vigil, and ending with little Tommy Field, who insisted on
attaching himself to Norah, and was with difficulty removed by his
parents. A tender was alongside; great piles of luggage were being shot
down to it. There were many delays before the passengers, blue and
shivering, were ushered down the gangway to the tossing deck below.

Norah looked back as the tender steamed off slowly. Far above them
towered the mighty bulk of the _Perseus_, as it had towered at Melbourne
so many weeks before. Then it had seemed strange and unfriendly; now it
had changed; it was all the home she knew, in this cold, grey land. She
had a moment’s wild desire to go back to it.

“Well, I am an idiot,” Wally said, beside her. “For weeks I’ve been
aching to get off that old ship—and now that I’m off, I feel suddenly
like a lost foal, and I want to go back and hide my head in my cabin! Do
you feel like that?”

“’M,” said Norah, nodding very hard. “England feels very queer and
terrifying, all of a sudden, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t you bother your little head,” said Jim. “We’ll worry through all
right.”

Ashore there came a long Customs delay, since enthusiastic officials
insisted on having a lengthy hunt through luggage for revolvers, which
were liable to confiscation. They waited in a huge shed, which smelt of
many things, none of them pleasant. Finally they were released, and made
their way through a bewildering maze of rough buildings and railway
lines, until they found themselves at the station at Falmouth, where a
special train awaited them.

It was all strange to the Lintons. The very accent of the Cornish folk
around them was unintelligible; the houses, packed closely together, as
unfamiliar as the bleak landscape and the leafless trees—trees that
Norah considered dead until she suddenly realised that she was no longer
in Australia, where a leafless tree is a dead tree, and where there is
no long winter sleep for Nature. These trees were bare, but dense with
growth of interlaced boughs and twigs; not beaten to gaunt skeletons,
like the Australian dead forest giants. Norah found that in their beauty
of form and tracery there was something more exquisite than in their
spring leafage.

“Don’t the houses look queer!” Jim said. “We’ve been travelling for ever
so long, and I haven’t seen a single verandah!”

Gradually, as the day wore on, the rain drifted up in a grey cloud,
blotting out all the cold landscape. It blew aside now and then, and
showed empty fields, divided by bare hedges; an emptiness that puzzled
the Australians, until they realised that they were in a country where
all cattle must be housed in winter. The fields, too, were astonishing:
quaint, irregularly shaped little patches, tiny beside their memories of
the wide paddocks of their own big land. The whole country looked like a
chessboard to their unaccustomed eyes; the great houses, among their
leafless trees, inexpressibly gaunt and bleak.

Then, so soon after luncheon that they exclaimed in astonishment,
darkness came down and electric lights flashed on throughout the train.
The conductor came in to pull all blinds down carefully.

“War regulations, sir,” he said in answer to Mr. Linton. “No trains
allowed to travel showin’ lights now, for fear of an attack by
aircraft—and goin’ over bridges they turns the lights off altogether.
Makes travellin’ dull, sir.”

“It sounds as though it should make it exciting,” said Mr. Linton.

“Might, if the aeroplanes came, sir,” said the conductor, laconically.
“They do say them Zeppelins is goin’ to shake things up in England. But
they ain’t come yet, an’ England ain’t shook up. Might be as well if she
wur.” He went on his mission of darkness.

The slow day drew to a close. The train made few stoppages, and
travelled swiftly; but it was late before the long journey across
England was over, and they began to slacken down. Peering out, Norah and
the boys saw a dimly-lit mass of houses, so solid a mass, so
far-reaching, that they were almost terrifying. They were gaunt houses,
tall and grey, crowned with grimy chimney-pots; for miles they ran
through them, finding never a break in their close-packed squares. Then
came more lights and a grinding of brakes as they drew up; outside the
train, raucous voices of porters.

“Paddington! Paddington!”

“London at last!” said Mr. Linton.

Presently they were packed into a taxi, whizzing along through dim
streets. The taxi-lights were darkened; there were few electric lights,
and all the upper parts of their glass globes had been blackened, so
that hostile aircraft, flying overhead, should find no guiding beams.
Lamps in shop windows were carefully shaded.

It was a weird city, in its semi-darkness of war. The streets were full
of clamour—rattling of traffic, sharp ringing of tram-bells and the
hooting of motors, and, above every other sound the piercing cries of
newsboys—“Speshul! War Speshul!” Motor-buses, great red structures that
towered like cars of Juggernaut, rattled by them, their drivers darting
in and out among the traffic with amazing skill. Taxi-cabs went by in a
solid stream. The pavements were a dense mass of jostling, hurrying
people. And in whatever direction they looked were soldiers—men in
khaki, with quiet, purposeful faces.

“Heaps and heaps of them aren’t a day older than I am!” Wally declared,
gleefully, bringing his head in. “Look at that little officer over
there! Why, I might be his uncle! If they are taking kids like that,
Jim, they can’t refuse you and me!”

“They won’t refuse you,” David Linton said, gravely, looking at the
brown faces—Jim’s, quiet, but full of determination; Wally’s vivid with
excitement. There was no doubt that they were excellent war
material—quite too good to refuse.

Norah’s hand closed on his in the darkness. The same thought had come to
them both. The long voyage, with its comparative peace, was behind them:
ahead was only war, and all that it might mean to the boys. The whole
world suddenly centred round the boys. London was nothing; England,
nothing, except for what it stood for; the heart of Empire. And the
Empire had called the boys.



                              CHAPTER XX.


                         THE THING THAT COUNTS.

“LITTLE chap!—you mustn’t mind like that.”

Norah kept her face from the room, looking out into the hurrying London
street. Something quite unfamiliar was in her throat—a hard, hot lump.
She felt Jim’s hand on her shoulder, but she would not look at him until
she had mastered the lump’s determination to choke her.

She turned to him in a moment.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” she said penitently. “I didn’t mean to be such an
idiot—truly.”

“You’re weak,” said Jim, with concern. “You can’t get influenza and be
in bed in this beastly hotel for three weeks without feeling it. Never
mind, kiddie—you’ll be better as soon as you can get out into the
country.”

“I expect it’s the influenza,” Norah answered, seizing upon so excellent
an excuse, but still despising herself very heartily. “I never was in
bed so long before; and it doesn’t buck one up. And I wasn’t expecting
to see you in your uniform, and—and——” She turned back to the window
hurriedly.

Jim talked on, as if he had not noticed.

“We’ll be able to see quite a lot of you,” he said. “It’s great luck
going into camp at Aldershot—if you’re in London we’ll be able to run
up often; and of course, if you’re not, it will be because you’ve come
to live even nearer. We were jolly lucky to have had so much Australian
training—it has saved us a heap of fagging here.”

“Yes, it was great luck,” said Norah, to the window.

“You’ve got to get fat, by the way;” said Jim. “This little influenza
game of yours, has pulled you down—you’ll have your shoulder through
your dress, if you don’t watch it. I was talking to a fellow from
Aldershot this morning, at the tailor’s: he says it may be months before
we go out to the front. Or we may be put on garrison duty somewhere in
England. They want us to be as fit as possible before we go.” He
laughed, shortly. “Fit! and he says that ordinarily a regular regiment
reckons that it’s two years after a subaltern joins—even after
Sandhurst training—before they consider him worth his salt! Well, I
hope we won’t make a mess of it, that’s all.”

“You won’t make any mess of anything,” Norah cried, indignantly,
swinging round to face him. “You know ever so much already—drill and
shooting and riding—”

“What I don’t know would fill a barn,” said Jim sagely. “Drill isn’t
everything—there’s knowing men, and handling them, and finding out what
you can do and what you can’t. It makes you nearly scared to be an
officer, sometimes.” He squared his shoulders resolutely. “But I’m going
to have a mighty hard try at my job. I believe it’s something of a start
in the right direction to know that one doesn’t know much!”

Norah fingered the star on his cuff.

“Well—there are ever so many more ignorant than you.”

“That’s the awful part of it,” Jim said soberly. “I believe there
are—and that says a heap! I know just enough to be sure I’ve got to
start learning and work at it like fun. But one hears that half the
fellows think that they can mug up the whole game in a month, and go
cheerily out to the Front. Well, it’s all very well if you’re a private.
But if you’ve even one star you may be responsible for other men’s
lives.” He shrugged. “It’s a queer country. Why on earth can’t they
catch them young and train them, as they do in Australia? It never hurts
any of us!”

“Dad says they will have to do it some time.”

“So they will. But if they had done it before, there mightn’t have been
a war at all.”

Down the corridor they heard the clash of the lift-door shutting, and
then quick steps.

“Here’s Wally,” Jim said, smiling. “He’s been struggling into his Sam
Browne belt. You just see if he doesn’t look topping!”

Wally burst into the sitting-room like an avalanche.

“Hallo, Norah, I’m so glad you’re up! Better?—truly—honest? You look a
bit sorry on it—poor old girl. We’re going to get you out this
afternoon—the sun is actually shining, and goodness knows, it may never
occur again!” He brought his heels together with a click, standing
before her, tall, and straight, and merry. “How does the kit look, Nor?”

Behind him, David Linton came in quietly. Like Norah, he looked from one
to the other; boys only, big and brave in their new khaki with its
touches of brass and leather—manhood very close before them.

“You both look beautiful—that is, your uniforms do!” said Norah. “We’ll
be exceedingly proud to go out with you, won’t we, Dad?”

“I’ll be exceedingly glad when I get some of the newness off,” Jim said.
“When one sees people back from the front, a bit stained and worn, it
makes one feel cheap to be creaking along, just turned out like a
tailor’s block.”

“From all I hear of Aldershot mud, we won’t have long to wait for the
stains,” said Wally, comfortably. “And London mud is an excellent
breaking in—you wait till a merry motor-’bus passes you at full tilt,
and you’ll get all the marking you want! This city for wet grubbiness in
January comes up to Melbourne in the same month for dry
grubbiness—think of old Melbourne on a hot north wind day, with the
dust in good going order!”

“But to-day isn’t bad,” Jim said; “there’s really sunshine, and it’s not
so cold. Don’t you think, Dad, we might take the patient out?”

“I’m not a patient any more,” Norah disclaimed. “It was bad enough to be
one for three weeks—I’m quite well now. Do let us go out.”

“I’ve ordered some sort of a carriage,” said Mr. Linton—“having
foreseen mutiny on the part of the invalid. It should be ready; get your
things on, Norah, and make sure there are plenty of them. The sun here
isn’t what you would call a really warm specimen of its kind.”

It was a watery sun, but it shone brightly enough on Piccadilly as they
drove along the splendid street. On either side great smoke-grimed
buildings towered high: but above them the sky was blue, and in
Piccadilly Circus there was a brave show of flowers, though the
“flower-girls”—who are rather weird old women—shivered under their
shawls among their baskets of violets and tulips. One had a basket that
made Norah suddenly cry out.

“Why, it’s gum-leaves!”

They stopped the carriage, and Wally jumped out and ran back, returning
presently with a little cluster of eucalyptus boughs, with yet unopened
capsules among the grey-green foliage.

“She says it came from the South of France,” he said. “But it’s good
enough to be Australian!”

To Norah it was quite good enough. She held the fragrant leaves
throughout their drive—seeing, beyond the roar and grime of London
streets, open plains with clumps of gum-trees—seeing their leaves stir
and rustle as the sweet wind blew through.

From Piccadilly they turned into Hyde Park. Above the great gateway was
a queer erection—the searchlight that every night scanned the sky above
London for aeroplanes. Everywhere in the Park were soldiers; companies
marching and drilling, some in khaki, and others in any scraps of
uniform that could be found for them temporarily—including even the
scarlet tunic of other days. Officers were riding their chargers in the
Row; and carriages drove up and down with wounded soldiers out for an
airing in charge of nurses; men with arms or legs in splints, or with
bandages showing under their caps. The Park looked shabby and worn, its
brilliant grass trodden almost out of existence by the thousands of men
who drilled there daily. Its sacred precincts were even invaded by rough
buildings and tents—war stores, outside which stood sentries with fixed
bayonets. No longer was it London’s most cherished pleasure-ground, but
a part of the machinery of War.

Everything about them spoke of War: the marching soldiers, the wounded
men, the newsboys who shouted the latest tidings in the streets. The
shops were full of soldiers’ comforts and of Service kit: the darkened
lamps gave mute testimony to its nearness. There was no topic in all
their world but War. Men and women alike were preparing and helping;
even children had taken on a new gravity since they had learned how many
of the fathers and brothers who marched away came back no more. Boys
fresh from school had been swallowed up by its hungry mouth; boys still
in the playground were drilling, impatient for the day that saw them old
enough to follow their companions.

And they themselves were part of its machinery. War had brought them
across the world; and the more nearly they approached the thunder of the
guns, the less important became their own concerns, except so far as
they touched War. Home—Australia—Billabong; all their little story
faded into insignificance, even to themselves. Things which had been
important no longer counted: personal grief and happiness, personal
success and failure, a wave of great happenings had swept them all
away—of all their concerns nothing mattered now except the two cheery
lads in khaki who looked with curious eyes at London, and thought no
high-souled thoughts at all, but simply of doing the “decent thing.”

To Norah the realisation came home suddenly. Dimly she had been seeing
and feeling these things during the weeks that she had lain ill while
her father and the boys were busied about commissions and uniforms: and
now the knowledge came to her that where great matters of duty and
honour are concerned, individual matters drop out. The nation’s honour
was the individual’s honour: therefore the individual became as never
before, a part of the nation, and forgot his or her own concerns in the
greater responsibility. Suffering and trouble might come: but there
would always be the help of pride in the knowledge that honour was the
only thing that really lasted.

The boys were merry enough as they drove round the Park, and, leaving
the carriage, strolled through Kensington Gardens. Peter Pan’s statue
looked at them from its green background; and Norah found a quaint hint
of Wally in the carved face of the boy “who wouldn’t grow up.” Children
in woollen coats and long gaiters were sailing boats on the Round Pond;
Jim rescued an adventurous cutter which had gone too far, to the loudly
expressed despair of its owner, an intrepid navigator of four. But the
ordinary Park games of the children were almost deserted, for there was
a daily game of absorbing interest now—soldiers to watch, who manœuvred
and drilled and marched, until there were few Park children who did not
know half the drill themselves. Small boys drew themselves up and
saluted Jim and Wally smartly—to the embarrassment of those yet
unfledged warriors: even babies in perambulators crowed at the sight of
the uniforms and the cheery sound of bands playing the men back to
barracks.

They came upon one ridiculous knot of street urchins—ragged youngsters
who had manufactured caps and belts and putties out of yellow paper, and
were marching in excellent order under their leader, a proud lad with a
wooden sword. They halted, and engaged an imaginary enemy vigorously;
some falling gloriously on the field of battle, the others routing the
foe with great slaughter, and finally carrying off the wounded. Jim gave
them sixpence, which the captain accepted with the gravity with which a
soldier may receive the V.C.

There were other people in the Gardens—women in mourning, and some who
wore only an armlet of black or purple. They were sad-faced women; and
yet they bore themselves proudly, and their look was high as it dwelt
upon the uniformed lads who passed them. It was not possible to see
them, and not to know what their proud thoughts were, and what their
grief. Men looked at them reverently—women who had given up their dear
ones to Empire and were steadfast and brave in the memories that were
all they had left.

The afternoon darkened, and a chilly wind began to ruffle the surface of
the Round Pond and to fill the sails of the tiny yachts. Mr. Linton
hurried Norah to the shelter of the carriage, and they drove back to the
hotel, through the roaring traffic of Oxford Street.

“Did you ever see such a jam?” Wally ejaculated. They were halted in a
block near Oxford Circus; ahead of them dozens of motor-’buses, around
them taxi-cabs, carriages, and huge carts; and all fitted into the
smallest available spaces, like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. In front
of all a policeman held a mighty, white-gloved hand, huge and
compelling. Presently he lowered it, and the packed vehicles began to
move across the open space of the Circus, while the released body of
foot-passengers streamed over like a swarm of ants.

“You know,” said Jim, looking with admiring reverence at the policeman,
“a few of those chaps would be very useful at the Front, in case of a
rout among our fellows. They would only have to hold up that immense
white hand and the flight would stop like a shot!”

“Yes, and in the interval between those duties they could be directing
the forward movement to Berlin!” said Wally eagerly. “Let’s suggest it
to the War Office!”

“I would, if we hadn’t got our commissions,” said Jim. “As it is, I want
to stay in the Army. Reformers always have a poor time at the hands of
officials.”

The carriage stopped, and they hurried into the hotel, glad to get away
from the keen January wind. Jim came last, after paying the coachman;
Norah paused in the warm, carpeted lounge to wait for him. As he entered
quickly, tall and good to look at, in his khaki, an old lady with a
black armlet passed out. Jim held the swing door for her. She looked at
him and stopped involuntarily: in her face such a mingling of longing
and sorrow that the boy’s glance dropped, unable to meet those hungry
mother-eyes. For a moment her lip quivered; then, she forced a smile.

“You are going out?” she asked.

“I hope so,” Jim answered gravely.

“May I wish you luck, and shake hands with you?” She put out her hand,
and Jim took it in his brown paw, gently.

“Thank you,” he said. They looked at each other for a moment, and then
the mother who had no son passed on.

Norah and Jim went up the staircase in silence. Tea was waiting, and
Norah poured it out; the boys waiting on her. She was still weak after
her illness: glad, presently to go to lie down, at Mr. Linton’s
injunction. She wanted to get herself in hand before the parting came:
it was bad enough to have even once gone near to breaking down. English
influenza, Norah thought, had a depressing effect upon one’s backbone.

Jim came in soon, and sat down on the bed, tucking her up warmly. They
talked in low voices of the time that was coming.

“So you’ll just be the plucky little mate you’ve always been,” Jim said
to her, at last. “Remember, it’s your job. This thing is so big that
there’s more or less of a job for every one. Only I think a man’s is
simpler—at least it’s ready waiting for him, but a woman has got to go
and hunt hers up. You aren’t a woman, kiddie, but you’re going to look
after your job.”

“I’m going to try,” Norah said.

“It’s hard on Dad,” said Jim. “He’s getting old, and sometimes I think
he isn’t as strong as he was. I’ll be worried about him all the time I’m
away: but I’d be much more worried if you hadn’t come. It’s a tremendous
weight off my mind that I’m leaving you to look after him.”

Norah flushed with pleasure.

“Is it, Jim? I’m so glad.”

“Why, you’re almost everything to him,” Jim said. “I’m not going to
think of morbid things, because the chances are that Wally and I will
come back: but if I don’t, I know Dad won’t have lost the best thing he
has.”

“Please, Jimmy,” said Norah, very low.

“I won’t, old chap,” said Jim. “Just don’t worry, and try not to let Dad
worry: and both of you get busy. There are heaps of relief jobs for
people who really want to work. And afterwards you’ll be satisfied
because you really did your bit in the war. If every one did just their
little bit the whole job would be done in no time. It’s the slackers
that keep it going—and you never were a slacker, Nor. You’ve always
done your share.”

“Mine is such a tiny little share,” Norah said. “It hardly seems to
count.”

“Don’t you believe it!” Jim answered. “We can’t all do a big thing, like
Kitchener and Jellicoe; and lots of men never get a chance for
distinction—they say half the V.C’s and D.S.O’s are pure luck. But
every one has got some sort of a little row to hoe, and everyone’s row
counts. Your job is partly to look after Dad, and I believe you’ll do it
best by getting busy—both of you. Dad will go to pieces if he’s idle,
and worrying about Wally and me.”

“I won’t let him,” said Norah, nodding. “I promise, Jim. We’ll work.”

“Then that’s all right,” Jim said. “And you’ll keep fit yourself; and
we’ll see you ever so often.”

“Oh—do come often!” Norah whispered. They wrung each other’s hands.
Then Mr. Linton came in, and also sat down on the bed, and they managed
to be quite cheerful, and made great plans for excursions when Norah
should be quite strong and the boys came up from Aldershot. It might be
three months, or three days, before they were sent out to the
fighting-line: there was nothing to be gained by speaking of it.

Jim looked at his watch, at length.

“Nearly time we went,” he said.

Norah jumped up and made a valiant attempt to tidy her curly hair—on
the state of which Wally made severe comments when they rejoined him,
declaring that she might have been crawling under the haystack at home.

“I know I’ve got to remember I’m in London,” said Norah penitently,
“Wally, why will you be like Aunt Eva!”

“Never mind—we’ll bring you a large bunch of assorted German scalps
when we come back from the Front,” said Wally. “They’ll look lovely in
the hall at Billabong, among the native weapons!”

“If you bring your own scalps in good order, we’ll excuse you the
Germans,” said Mr. Linton.

“If you leave untidy German oddments about Billabong, Brownie will be
annoyed!” said Norah, laughing. “Oh, won’t it be lovely when we all go
back!”

“It will be just the best spree we ever had—and that is saying a lot!”
Wally answered. He looked down at Norah. “There’s something a bit unfair
about this, you know,” he declared. “Norah has been in all our plans
ever since she was a bit of a youngster; and now we’ve got to go and
leave her out, for the first time. We’ll have to work up something very
special when we come back, old Nor, to make up for it.”

“The very most special thing will be to go back—all together,” Norah
said. “And don’t you trouble about me—I’ll find a job. You’ll be a
bit—just a little bit—careful about dry socks, won’t you, boys? And
send me them to darn every week. Aldershot will be terribly hard on
socks.” She looked at the clock, following the direction of Jim’s eyes.
“I know it’s time you were off,” she said, straightening her shoulders
and looking at them with a little smile.

David Linton watched the tall young forms dive into the throbbing taxi.
It darted off among the traffic, and he went back to their sitting-room.
There was a hint of age in his face.

“Well, little mate?” he said.

Norah sat on the hearthrug, and leaned her head against his knee. They
fought their loneliness together. And since the fight was for each
other, they succeeded.

“It’s a big thing,” the father said, presently. “I’m glad they’re not
out of it, Norah, whatever comes. Please God we’ll get them back—but if
we don’t, we’ll know they did their best. It’s not a bad cause for
pride—to do their best, in a big thing.”

He was silent, his hand on Norah’s hair.

“We’ll always have that,” she said.

“Yes—always. Only it’s a bit hard on you, Norah. You have always been
such mates.”

Norah found his hand and put her check against it.

“We’re all mates—always—no matter what happens,” she said. “Don’t you
worry about me, Daddy—I’ve got my job.”



[Illustration: “He brought his heels together with a click.”]

           _From Billabong to London_]             [_Page_ 310

                                THE END.

                   London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.



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At a time when Nature-study in all its branches is so wisely encouraged
in our schools, such a book forms the surest means of promoting lifelong
interest in the subject. The services of some of the leading naturalists
of the day have been enlisted, and amusement and instruction are so
interwoven that, while it can be truthfully said there is not a dull
page in the book, it is equally true that there is not a useless one.
THE BOOK OF ANIMALS is suited to children of all ages.

                                  The
                                 Wonder
                            Book of Children
                            OF ALL NATIONS.

Just the book that the times demand. The War has taught us all the
importance of knowing more of the ways of life and modes of thought of
other peoples, especially of those gallant Allies who have stood by us
in the fight for freedom. The articles, though brimful of information,
are brightly written and as thrilling as any story, while the
ILLUSTRATIONS are absolutely unique in their variety and interest,
having been garnered from every quarter of the globe. There are 12
beautiful COLOURED PLATES by eminent artists.

                                  The
                                 Wonder
                             Book of Empire

Recent events and pending developments alike render it of the utmost
importance that we should know more of the lands under the Union Jack,
of their peoples and resources, their wonders and attractions.
Especially is it important that the children of all parts of the Empire
should realise how glorious is their heritage. In addition to over 300
illustrations, the book has 16 pages of COLOURED PLATES, including the
Arms and Badges of the principal Dominions, and a specially-drawn Map of
the Empire.

                                   A
                          Charming Colour Book
                             FOR CHILDREN.

                           ALICE’S ADVENTURES
                             IN WONDERLAND

                Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. 340 Pages.
             Handsome Binding Design with Pictorial Wrapper
                   and Endpapers. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net._

                           48 COLOURED PLATES
                        By MARGARET W. TARRANT.

=THE= edition of Lewis Carroll’s immortal masterpiece. Alice and the
whimsical company she meets in the course of her adventures have been
presented in many guises, but never has an artist so successfully
conceived the characters from a child’s point of view, or given more
happy expression to the sly humour and mock seriousness of the story.
With no fewer than 48 pages of Coloured Plates, this daintily produced
volume is easily superior to editions published at three or four times
the price.

                                 OTHER
                            Charming Colour

                       WARD, LOCK & CO.’S BOOK OF
                             Nursery Rhymes

                Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt, 340 Pages.
             Handsome Binding Design with Pictorial Wrapper
                   and Endpapers. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net._

                           48 COLOURED PLATES
                         By MARGARET W. TARRANT

Not since the days of Kate Greenaway have the old Nursery favourites
been so daintily presented. Indeed, many will prefer Miss Tarrant’s
renderings for their more playful fancy, greater delicacy of colouring,
and richer variety of costume.

Little Jack Homer, Jack Sprat, Tom Tucker, Old King Cole, and their
illustrious company are all here, and in addition are many less-known
pieces and a few modern rhymes of proved popularity.

The type is large and well arranged, and by means of the full Index of
First Lines any rhyme can be found in a moment.

                           Books for Children

                       WARD, LOCK & CO.’S BOOK OF
                              FAIRY TALES

                Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. 360 Pages.
             Handsome Binding Design with Pictorial Wrapper
                   and Endpapers. 3_s._ 6_d._ _net._

                           48 COLOURED PLATES
                         By MARGARET W. TARRANT

A companion volume to the Book of Nursery Rhymes, which has already
achieved such popularity. Here again are all the immortals—old and yet
ever new—Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Puss in
Boots, Jack the Giant-Killer, the redoubtable Bluebeard, and a host of
others. The text has been carefully edited in such a way that the
youngest child can understand and enjoy the stories.

With these volumes, or either of them, at hand neither Mother nor Nurse
need fear a dull day in the playroom.

As Birthday or Christmas Gifts for little people they are certain of
warm appreciation.

                                   A
                          Beautiful Gift Book.

                            BIBLE STEPS FOR
                                CHILDREN

              With 8 Coloured Plates and 16 Reproductions
               of some of the most Beautiful Pictures in
                              Sacred Art.


                    Large Crown 8vo.      =2/6= NET.

The sacred stories are here re-told in simple and reverent language
easily intelligible to young people. Sunday School teachers and others
will find this a most useful Gift Book.

In the rush of modern life, and with minds blunted by much scanning of
books and newspapers, we are apt to forget that a little child comes
fresh to the Bible, and that the old, old stories make their appeal to
him in all their majestic simplicity. If left to himself, uninfluenced
by companions and older friends, he will frequently express a preference
for such a story as that of Joseph and his brethren, or David and
Goliath, to the most attractive of modern efforts. All that is necessary
is to disentangle the stories from extraneous wrappings and to let them
tell themselves. As an introduction to the Greatest of Story Books this
volume will be found invaluable.

                               Stories by

                              ETHEL TURNER


        Large Crown 8vo, Fully Illustrated, Cloth Gilt, 2s. 6d.

“MISS ETHEL TURNER is Miss Alcott’s true successor. The same healthy,
spirited tone is visible, which boys and girls recognised and were
grateful for in ‘Little Women’ and ‘Little Men,’ the same absence of
primness, and the same love of adventure.”—_The Bookman._

                              _NEW VOLUME_

                             JOHN OF DAUNT

                        With 6 Illustrations by

                            HAROLD COPPING.

Child characters when realistically portrayed in fiction, as Miss Turner
alone can picture them, have always the same attraction as their living
counterparts would have, did they exist. Everyone knows Miss Turner
always writes well, but the publishers have no hesitation in claiming
that in “John of Daunt,” she is seen at her best. Her titular character
is as charming, original, and lovable as any the author has ever
conceived, and the book should add much to her reputation.

                               Stories by

                              ETHEL TURNER


      Large Crown 8vo, Fully Illustrated, Cloth Gilt, 2_s._ 6_d._

                 SEVEN LITTLE AUSTRALIANS.
                 THE FAMILY AT MISRULE.
                 THE LITTLE LARRIKIN.
                 MISS BOBBIE.
                 THE CAMP AT WANDINONG.
                 THREE LITTLE MAIDS.
                 STORY OF A BABY.
                 LITTLE MOTHER MEG.
                 BETTY AND CO.
                 MOTHER’S LITTLE GIRL.
                 THE WHITE ROOF-TREE.
                 IN THE MIST OF THE MOUNTAINS.
                 THE STOLEN VOYAGE.
                 FUGITIVES FROM FORTUNE.
                 THE RAFT IN THE BUSH.
                 AN OGRE UP-TO-DATE.
                 THAT GIRL.
                 THE SECRET OF THE SEA.
                 THE APPLE OF HAPPINESS.
                 FAIR INES.
                 THE FLOWER O’ THE PINE.
                 THE CUB.
                 PORTS AND HAPPY HAVENS. (3_s._ 6_d._)

                               STORIES BY

                            Mary Grant Bruce

      Large Crown 8vo, Fully Illustrated, Cloth Gilt, =2=s. =6=d.


                             JIM AND WALLY.

Mrs. Bruce writes with a freedom and grace which must win hosts of
readers, and there is a loveableness about her Australian youths and
maidens which makes one never tired of their healthy and sociable views
of life.

                          A LITTLE BUSH MAID.

“It is a real pleasure to recommend this story to Australian
readers.”—_Perth Western Mail._

                          MATES AT BILLABONG.

“The incidents of station life, its humours, festivities, and mishaps,
are admirably sketched in this vivid narrative.”—_Adelaide Register._

                          TIMOTHY IN BUSHLAND.

“The writer understands all about the wonders of the Australian bush,
its wild horses, kangaroos, wombats, and infinitely various natural
life.”—_Daily Telegraph._

                               GLEN EYRE.

“‘Glen Eyre’ is a great advance upon anything we have read of Mrs.
Bruce’s earlier work. An admirable story exquisitely told, full of
gentle pathos, and ringing true all through.”—_The Sportsman._

                          NORAH OF BILLABONG.

“The story is written in a refreshing and lovable manner, which makes
instant appeal, and we are quite sure the authoress will be asked for
still ‘more Norah’.”—_Manchester Courier._

                             GRAY’S HOLLOW.

“A story always healthy and enjoyable in its sympathetic delineation of
unsophisticated nature in both scenery and human beings.”—_The
Scotsman._

                       FROM BILLABONG TO LONDON.

“The story has many more incidents than Mrs. Bruce’s earlier books, and
though her style is quiet and matter-of-fact, she does succeed in
infusing reality into her exciting episodes.”—_The Melbourne Argus._

                          CHARMING STORIES BY

                           Isabel M. Peacocke

               Fully Illustrated, Crown 8vo, =3=s. =6=d.


                             MY FRIEND PHIL

        With Six Illustrations in Colour by MARGARET W. TARRANT.

“QUEENSLAND TIMES.”—“A really delicious book . . . without doubt it is
far and away the best book since Ethel Turner took the reading world by
storm with her ‘Seven Little Australians.’ Phil is an eternal
questioner, quizzer and actor. He is no white-haired Willie, but a
natural, frank, unconventional young imp, who carries a golden heart and
withal is a perfect gentleman. There is no laying down this book when
opened until the end is reached, be the reader young or old.”

                          DICKY, KNIGHT-ERRANT

               With Six Illustrations by HAROLD COPPING.

MISS PEACOCKE is a new writer, who attracted attention last year by the
publication of a phenomenally successful story entitled “My Friend
Phil,” which has been recently dramatised, and also produced as a cinema
play. It is far and away the best book since Ethel Turner took the
reading world by storm with “Seven Little Australians.” The tale was
droll, sympathetic, bright and full of literary charm. All the author’s
fine qualities are reproduced in “Dicky, Knight-Errant,” the story of a
delightful scamp of a Boy-Scout, who flits through a love romance like
Cupid, and will cheer the hearts of young and old alike. The story is
brim full of excitement and jollity, and is altogether sweet.

                           The Little Wonder
                                 Books

                Medium 16mo, Picture Boards. =1=s. =0=d.

The many children in all parts of the world who have grown accustomed
year by year to look for THE WONDER BOOK as the most welcome feature of
Christmas or the birthday will learn with interest that the big WONDER
BOOK has now some little brothers and sisters. THE LITTLE WONDER BOOKS
are not for big boys and girls at all; they are the little ones’ very
own. Each booklet contains about Thirty Illustrations in Colour, printed
on the very best art paper, and the type is so large and clear that it
will not baffle even the tiniest toddler. Best of all, the stories are
real stories, such as little people love and learn by heart almost
without knowing they do so.

                 1. BOBBY BUN AND BUNTY.
                 2. THE BROWNIES’ BIRTHDAY.
                 3. APPLE TREE VILLA.
                 4. TIM TUBBY TOES.
                 5. MOTHER GOOSE: Nursery Rhymes.
                 6. TICK, TACK AND TOCK.
                 7. BULLY BOY.
                 8. ROBBIE AND DOBBIE.
                 9. THE ANIMAL A.B.C.
                 10. BEN BO’SUN.
                 11. THE TOY SOLDIERS.
                 12. BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.
                 13. OLD NOT-TOO-BRIGHT AND LILYWHITE.
                 14. THE GOBLIN SCOUTS.

                           C. G. D. Roberts’

                              NATURE BOOKS


            Large Crown 8vo. Cloth Gilt. Fully Illustrated.
                    Pictorial Endpapers. =2=s. =6=d.

A Beautifully produced series of Animal Stories by a writer who has
succeeded in depicting the many thrilling incidents connected with
Animal Life with a reality unapproached by any other living Author.

                        HOOF AND CLAW
                        THE HOUSE IN THE WATER
                        THE BACKWOODSMEN
                        KINGS IN EXILE
                        NEIGHBOURS UNKNOWN
                        MORE KINDRED OF THE WILD
                        THE FEET OF THE FURTIVE

“Under the guidance of Mr. Roberts we have often adventured among the
wild beasts of the land and sea, and we hope to do so many times in the
future. It is an education not to be missed by those who have the
chance, and the chance is everyone’s. Mr. Roberts loves his wild nature,
and his readers, both old and young, should love it with
him.”—_Athenæum._

                           WARD, LOCK & CO.’S

                          Favourite Gift Books

                       OF AUSTRALIAN CHILD LIFE.

                           By LILIAN TURNER.

                              =2=s. =6=d.

                      AN AUSTRALIAN LASSIE.
                      BETTY, THE SCRIBE.
                      PARADISE AND THE PERRYS.
                      THE PERRY GIRLS.
                      THREE NEW CHUM GIRLS.
                      APRIL GIRLS.
                      STAIRWAYS TO THE STARS.
                      A GIRL FROM THE BACK BLOCKS.
                      WAR’S HEART THROBS.

                           By VERA G. DWYER.

                              =2=s. =6=d.

                          WITH BEATING WINGS.
                          A WAR OF GIRLS.
                          MONA’S MYSTERY MAN.
                          CONQUERING HAL.

                           By OTHER AUTHORS.

                              =2=s. =6=d.

                       MAORILAND FAIRY TALES.
                             EDITH HOWES.

                       MAX THE SPORT.
                             LILIAN M. PYKE.

                       DAYS THAT SPEAK.
                             EVELYN GOODE.

                       THE CHILDHOOD OF HELEN.
                             EVELYN GOODE.

                      The Story of a Great Soldier

                              LORD ROBERTS

                             (K.G., V.C.),

                        By CAPTAIN OWEN WHEELER

                               Author of
           “The Story of Our Army,” “The War Office, Past and
                             Present,” etc.

          Large Crown 8vo. Fully Illustrated, =3=s. =6=d. net.

It has been felt that a life so adventurous and romantic as that of the
great Field-Marshal should be enshrined in a volume which, while
moderate in price, should also be authoritative, carefully and
accurately written, and suitable especially for presentation to boys,
both of this and future generations.

The task of producing such a life has been very successfully
accomplished by Captain Owen Wheeler, whose reputation as a writer on
military men and military matters is too widely spread to need further
reference.

As a

                           GIFT BOOK FOR BOYS

of all ages this story of a dauntless hero could scarcely be surpassed,
for long after his deeds as a soldier have lost all but historical
significance his character will remain as an example to the manhood of
Great Britain and the Empire, and indeed of all English-speaking races.

The book is

                          LAVISHLY ILLUSTRATED

with portraits and drawings which practically depict the battle-history
of the British Empire during a period of sixty years.



                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.





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