Chapter Fourteen.
“Sweet, Sweet Home.”
Sour Sorrel wanted no reining in, but stopped short at the foot of the great hillock, down which two bonny-looking, sun-browned maidens had run, followed by a tall, grey, graceful-looking lady.
“It is Dominic, isn’t it?” cried one of the girls.
“Yes, it is!” cried the other. “Oh, Nic, how you have grown!”
“And oh!” cried the other, “how you have distressed poor Sorrel! You shouldn’t have ridden him so hard.”
This was in the intervals between kisses, as the lad was embraced by first one and then the other. But as soon as he could free himself, Nic ran to meet his mother, who was descending more slowly.
“My dear boy!” she cried.
“Mother!” and they were locked in each other’s arms.
Mrs Braydon could say no more for some minutes, but stood with the tears streaming down her handsome face, clinging tightly to her son, while the two dogs looked on uneasily, whining and giving short, half-angry barks, as if they did not quite understand whether the attentions of the three ladies were friendly toward their young master.
The tears stood in the eyes of the two girls as well, but they were tears of joy, and in a merry, laughing way the elder cried:
“Oh, mother, you must not keep him all to yourself!”
“No, no, of course not,” cried Mrs Braydon, locking one arm now in Nic’s. “Poor boy! how hot and weary he is, Janet!”
“Yes; and he has nearly ridden poor Sorrel to death,” cried the second girl.
“In his eagerness to get home,” said Mrs Braydon, clinging to her son affectionately. “At last—at last! Oh, my boy, it has seemed so long! But your father, is he just beyond the gully?”
“No, no!” cried Nic excitedly. “A day’s journey away.”
“And you have come alone?”
“Yes; but tell me,” cried Nic. “The blacks: have they attacked you?”
“No, no,” cried Janet quickly; “are they out?”
“Yes; we saw a large party this morning coming to attack the waggon. Father was afraid that they might have been here, and he sent me on for news.”
“No,” said Mrs Braydon, “they have not been near us. But your father?”
“I left him with the two men and the waggon.”
“They’ll be all right, mother,” said the second girl, squeezing up to Nic’s side and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Oh! how wet and hot you are. Sticky boy!”
“Yes, mother dear,” said Janet. “Hil is quite right. There’s nothing to mind.”
“But he said the blacks were going to attack the waggon, my dear,” cried Mrs Braydon anxiously. “We had better send over to Mr Dillon for a party to go and meet them.”
“Oh, nonsense, mother!” said Hilda, giving her dark brown curls a toss; “father would laugh at the idea. He’ll fire a few shots over their heads and send them scrambling away.”
“Yes, of course,” said Janet calmly enough. “Mamma is a little nervous sometimes, Nic. We don’t mind a few blackfellows about here. They are only like big children.”
“But what ought I to do?” cried Nic anxiously. “Shall I ride somewhere and get help?”
“Perhaps it is not necessary,” said Mrs Braydon, smiling rather piteously. “The girls are right. But, my dear boy, how did you find your way?”
“Father pointed out that gap in the mountain over there, and told me to ride straight for it.”
“What place was it where you left your father?”
Nic described it as well as he was able.
“I know: it must be the third water-hole from here; five-and-thirty miles away.”
“And he has ridden all that way since morning!” cried Mrs Braydon. “My poor boy! It is dreadful!”
“There,” cried Hilda saucily; “it’s all over, Jan. I knew mamma would spoil him as soon as he came. Go and have your face washed, Nic; you’re not fit to touch ladies. Cooey—cooey!”
Nic stared to see his pretty young sister, a year older than he, suddenly put her hands to her mouth and utter a peculiar cry.
“She’s calling one of the men.”
“Cooey!” came in response, and a shock-headed black in shirt and trousers came running down from one of the sheds.
“White Mary want er?”
“No, no: where’s Samson?”
“White Mary want er—Sam,” said the black aloud, as if telling himself; and he trotted off with a queer gait, his legs very far apart, as if he found trousers awkward to walk in; and he then burst into a sharp run, for the dogs, which had been smelling his heels, began to bark and rush after him.
“Here, here, here!” shouted Nic, for the black uttered a yell; and the dogs turned back obediently, and came to his side wagging their tails, and, apparently satisfied in their minds, were ready to respond to the friendly advances of the two girls.
“Hi! Sam!” cried Hilda, as a diminutive grey old man came hurrying down, smiling and touching his hat. “Take Sorrel, and give him a feed of corn and a good rub down. Hardly any water.”
“All right, miss. So this is young master? How do, sir? Glad to see you. Master close home?”
“No, no, Samson,” said Mrs Braydon anxiously. “What do you think? My son was sent on to see if we were safe here. The blacks are out, and a party surprised them by the waggon.”
To Nic’s annoyance the man showed a few very old yellow teeth in an ugly laugh.
“Master’ll surprise some o’ them if they don’t take to their legs mighty sharp, missus.”
“Then you don’t think there’s any danger?”
“Yes, I do—for them,” said the man. “Some on ’em’ll be howling while t’others picks shot-corns out o’ their black hides with a pynted stone.”
“Yes, of course,” said Hilda coolly.
“Then you don’t think I ought to send over to Mr Dillon to get help for him?”
“Help? Tchah! Don’t you be so narvous, missus. They blackfellows don’t know no better. They comes out with some streaks of white chalk on their black carcadges, and they goes up to a waggon flourishing their hop-poles and making faces, and frightens some people, and then they steal flour and stores; but if they’ve gone to our waggon, I ’magine they’ve gone to the wrong un. Take a precious ugly face to scare the doctor. Tell you what he’ll do, ladies all. He’ll shoot over their heads first.”
“Yes, of course,” said Hilda.
“That’s right, Miss Hil. Then if that don’t do no good, he’ll give ’em a dose o’ number six. And then, missus, if that don’t do, he’ll try swan shot; but don’t you be frecken. Master knows how to manage strange blackfellows. Come along, my lad. Say, young master, you have give him a sweating, and no mistake.”
The horse went and placed its muzzle over the little old man’s shoulder, and gave a puff like a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Knows me, young master,” said the man, grinning. “Ay, nussed you, Sorrel, when you was on’y a babby, didn’t I?” he continued, patting the arched neck and carefully turning a few strands of the mane back in their place.
“There, mother dear,” said Janet affectionately; “you see it is not necessary.”
“But I feel as if, now I know you are all safe, I ought to go back,” said Nic.
“You couldn’t do it, sir,” said the old man. “Why, you don’t s’pose I should be talking like this if I thought the doctor was in trouble! There’s allus blacks about; and it’s on’y missus as is so scared about ’em. It’s all right, sir. Where did you say you left the master?”
“By the third water-hole.”
“By Bangoony,” said the old man. “Day’s trot, and the bullocks’ll want a three-hour rest half-way. They’ll be here twelve o’clock to-night, for master’ll make it one day for the last. Don’t you fret, missus; the doctor knows what he’s about. Blacks ain’t lifers. He’ll be here all right. Come along, my bairn!”
This last was to the horse, which followed him toward one of the sheds; and the dogs went after, one of them uttering a low growl as the man gave the nag a sounding slap.
Samson stood still, and then turned to the dog. “Now then: none o’ that. It ain’t your horse.” The dog growled, and its companion joined in. “Oh, that’s it, is it? I say, Mr Dominic, sir, hadn’t you better interrajuice us? They say they don’t know me, and I’m too useful to your father to feed dogs.”
“They won’t bite,” said Nic, going up, but walking very stiff and lame.
“That’s what folks allus says,” grumbled the old man; “but ‘dogs do bark and bite, for ’tis their nature to.’ Just you tell ’em to make friends.”
“Yes. Look here: friends! friends!” cried Nic. “Shake hands, Samson.”
“Sure I will, sir,” said the old man, grinning, as he rubbed a hard blackened hand down one leg of his trousers. “That ain’t dirt, sir. I’ve been tarring some o’ the sheep. On’y a bit sticky.”
“I don’t mind,” cried the boy, holding out his hand, which was taken in a firm grip, and proved to be more than a bit sticky, for it was held tightly as the man stared hard at him.
“And the master to’d me, he did, as you was on’y a bit of a sickly slip of a lad as he left in London or elsewhere when he come out here—a poor, thin, weak, wankle sort o’ gentleman, not what he is now.”
Nic wanted to loose his hand and get back, but it was held fast, and the old man went on:
“Why, you’ll grow into a big, strong man, sir, bigger than the doctor. Ay, I ’gaged with him arter he’d nussed me for my broken leg, as the ship doctor down at Botany Bay said must come off. ‘Nay,’ says your father, and him all the time suff’rin’ from a norful corf,—‘nay,’ he says, ‘don’t you have it took off, my man,’ he says; and I says I wouldn’t, for o’ course I didn’t want to go about like a pegtop; and he sets to and makes it right. This here’s the leg, stronger than t’other. I call it the doctor’s leg, and I said I’d come up country with him if he’d have me, and he said he would, and I helped him make this place. We cut the wood and knocked in the nails, and I’ve bred horses and sheep and cows for him, and I’m going to stick to him to the end, and then he’s promised to dig a hole hisself under yan big gum tree with my name placed over me, and that’s where I’m goin’ to sleep. Now you wants to go back to your mar. She’s been a-frettin’ arter you for years while you was being taught to read and write, so be a good boy to her. But, I say, you couldn’t ha’ rid another five-and-thirty mile to-day.”
“No,” said Nic. “Take care of the horse.”
“Ay, and the dogs too. Here, give’s your paw.”
The dog he spoke to growled and showed its teeth.
“Ah, friends! Give him your paw,” cried Nic.
The dog held out its right paw, but threw up its head and drew back its muzzle, as it looked at Nic protestingly, as much as to say, “He’s only a stranger, and I don’t know anything about him.”
“Now you,” growled Samson; and the same business was gone through, with the dog whining uneasily.
“Hullo! what’s the matter?” said Samson, lifting the leg. “There—don’t make that row. It’s on’y a thorn. You’ll get lots o’ them in your toes if you behave yourself. Dogs ought to wear boots in some o’ these parts. That’s it. Big un too. See it?”
He made an offer as if to prick the dog’s nose, after drawing out a long, sharp thorn, making the beast yelp; but as soon as it was out it gave the place a lick, and then barked loudly and danced about the old man, both dogs following him readily now as he went off grinning to the stable.
Mrs Braydon and the girls were waiting, and Nic was led limping toward the house.
“Only a bit stiff with riding,” said the boy. “Then we are to be comfortable about father?”
“I suppose so, my dear,” said Mrs Braydon. “Janet, my love, see to the tea.”
“Everything is ready, mother dear,” said the girl affectionately; “and really I don’t think we need fidget. Nic cannot go back. He must stay and take care of us and the station.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Braydon sadly, as if she thought it would be of more consequence to take care of the doctor; and Nic was led into the house, after passing through a neatly kept, well fenced-in garden, full of trees, shrubs, and flowers new to him, though beyond a hedge there was a broad spread of homely old friends of a useful kind, growing luxuriantly.
He was ushered at once into a pleasant room, made bright, in spite of its extremely simple furnishing, by white dimity curtains and home-made mats, the bed in the corner looking white as snow; and, left to himself, the boy luxuriated in a comfortable wash, though in place of ewer and basin he had but a bucket and tub.
Before he had finished, his mother was back with a cup of refreshing tea, this time with cream.
“You’ll find everything very rough, my son; but every time the waggon goes on its journey to the port it brings back same more domestic comforts.”
“Never mind the roughness, mother,” cried Nic, kissing her, and bringing a smile of joy playing about her lips; “it’s home, and I’m along with you all again.”
“Yes, my son; and I can be quite happy now,” said Mrs Braydon, clinging to him fondly. “There, drink your tea,” she said quickly, “finish dressing, and there’s a brush by the window, and I’ve brought you my glass. How brown and blistered your poor face is!”
“Oh, that’s nothing, mother,” cried Nic. “Hah! delicious!” he sighed, as he finished the tea, making his mother smile her satisfaction.
“Be quick. We have a tea-dinner ready, for we felt that you might come at any time. You will not have to come downstairs, dear; we are all on one floor. We only had one room and the waggon and a tent first; but others have been added, one at a time. I ought to go now, but it is so hard to leave you, my dear.”
She kissed him lovingly again—they were the first kisses she had pressed upon his lips for over five years—and then she hurried out.
“Hah!” sighed Nic; “I wish I knew that father was safe.” Then, stiff and with his hand trembling from his long ride, he took up the comb to smooth his hair.
“Might as well sit down,” he said; and he sank back on the bed. “How soft! Feathers! And the pillow—how cool! Cheeks burn so,” he muttered, as he subsided on the restful couch to gaze sidewise at the window with its little sill and flowers growing in a box, all fresh, bright and fragrant.
“I like flowers,” he said softly, and then—“Hah!”
He was breathing softly.
The bow strained tightly for so many hours was now unstrung. Every nerve and muscle were relaxed, and the soft, pure air which came through the open window played upon his scorched cheeks.
The horse was swinging along in that easy canter out of the burning sunshine into the shade—a soft, cool, delicious, restful shade—on and on and on toward the Bluff; and Nic felt that there was no more care and trouble in the world. There was nothing to trouble him. He had felt his mother’s kisses on his cheeks and lips, and the horse was not rushing, only swinging along in that glorious canter, for the shade had grown darker, into a soft, sweet obscurity, and everything was so still.
Chapter Fifteen.
After Nature’s Remedy.
Nic opened his eyes slowly, to gaze at a bright patch shining upon the floor, and he lay for some minutes gazing at it, thinking it very beautiful.
He knew it was the moon shining through flowers—a soft, mellow moonlight which came through a small window.
Then the full rush of thought came, and he started up.
“Awake, dear?”
“Mother!” cried Nic. “Why, have I been to sleep?”
“Yes, my darling, a long time.”
“And the tea—dinner?”
“It’s quite ready, my dear.”
“But—but what time is it?”
“The clock has just struck one, my boy.”
“Oh, what a shame!”
“No, my dear; it was nature’s great need.”
“But I slept like that! What news of father?”
“None, my love,” said Mrs Braydon, with a piteous tremor in her voice.
“I ought to have gone,” cried the boy angrily.
Bang! crash! like blows on the wooden sides of the house.
“What’s that?” cried Nic, starting to his feet.
“Hi! missus!” came in a harsh voice. “Here they are. What did I say?”
“Come?” cried Mrs Braydon wildly.
“Ay, missus. Our black’s just run in to where I was watching beyond the gully. I heard the cracking of Brookes’s whip, too, in the still. There! hear that?” he continued, as there was a faint distant report. “Master’s yonder.”
Nic stepped to the corner of the room, where he had stood his gun when he entered, went to the window, cocked the piece, thrust it out with its barrel pointing upward, and fired, in answer to his father’s signal.
“He’ll know what that means. All right,” said the boy. “Oh, mother, I feel so guilty; but he did tell me to stay and take care of you, for if I did not return he said he should know that all was right.”
“My word, young squire, you made me jump,” cried Samson, coming to the window. “Was that to siggernal the master?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m a-goin’ to meet him now. Too tired to come with me?”
“Oh no,” cried Nic; and the next minute he was trudging along beside the old man, leaving the house with its windows lit up and the fire shining through the open door as a welcome home to the master.
“You ought to go first, young gentleman,” said Samson, “but you won’t know the way in the dark; and as I’m going along by the sheep track, there won’t be room for you alongside me, so you’d better come behind. Keep close, for it’s dark under the green stuff and a bit awkward, but it cuts off a quarter of a mile. Come on.”
Nic followed the old man across a fenced-in enclosure, over the fence, and then down a steep slope into a gully, where their path soon resembled silvery lacework on velvet, for they were going beneath arching ferns of the most delicate nature. Then they had to leap dark roaring water, that flashed and sparkled where the moonbeams touched a broad glassy curve before it plunged down into some dark mysterious depth.
“Pretty place this by daylight, sir,” said the old man. “Mind how you come across here. Give me your hand to steady you, for it’s pretty tidy dark.”
“What is it—water?” asked Nic.
“Yes; it’s a deep bit of a pool as the master dammed up, and this here’s a tree felled to lie acrost it like a bridge. You won’t like it by daylight p’raps, but it’s quite safe, and you can’t see how deep it is in the dark.”
Nic hesitated for a moment, then lightly grasped the man’s hand, but only for a moment. The next the bony hand had clutched his wrist like a vice.
“That’s better,” said the old man. “Now you can slip if you like, and I can hold you if you do.”
There was nothing else for Nic to hold but his tongue and his breath, as he stepped on to the rugged wood in the black darkness, for the moonbeams were shut out now by the rocks, overhead, and then, as he took step for step behind his companion, so close to him that he kept kicking his heels, he felt the difference underfoot for a few paces and the tree trunk yield and give a little in an elastic way. Then all at once the character of the path was changed, and Nic felt the hard rock beneath his feet.
“Is that deep?” he said, rather huskily.
“Well, with what we’ve got not far away we don’t call that deep. It’s on’y a sort o’ crack like. ’Bout hundred and fifty foot, say.”
“A hundred and fifty feet!” cried Nic, with an involuntary shiver.
“Somewheres about that,” said Samson coolly. “But you wouldn’t hurt yourself if you went down, for there’s a good depth o’ water in the pool. But you’d get strange and wet.”
Nic drew in a deep breath.
“There—it’s all good going now, sir: a bit downwards and then up hill.”
The old man strode on, leading his companion up and down for a while and then beginning a steady ascent.
“This is the bit as the sheep made going to and from the folds. ’Nother five minutes and we shall be atop o’ the side o’ the gully. You come along a bit higher up. There we are,” he said, at last. “Now look straight ahead and tell me what you see.”
“A light swinging to and fro, and up and down.”
“That’s it, sir; and that light’s the master’s waggon lantern. Know why it dances about like that?”
“Somebody seems to be swinging it.”
“Yes,” said the old man with a chuckle; “and some, body’s that big bullock with the white spot on his for’d. Know how he carries the lantern?”
“Tied round his neck.”
“Nay; it’s been hooked on to his horn,” said the old man with a chuckle. “I showed master how to do that, and you wouldn’t think it was in a big stupid-looking hox; but it’s my belief as old Cheery likes carrying that there light, and is quite proud of it.”
“Nonsense!” said Nic, as he watched the faint star down below them on the level.
“No, I dunno as it’s nonsense, sir. I think he do, because if he didn’t he’d on’y have to give his head a cant on one side and send that there lantern a-flying; and he never do. Now steady: it’s a bit steeper here. See your way better, can’t you?”
“Yes, it’s so much more open; and how beautiful it looks in the moonlight!”
“Ay, it do, sir; but it looks better by day a deal. Now hold hard.”
Nic stopped, and the old man gave the Australian cry, which was answered hoarsely from the darkness round the swaying lantern. Then there were several sharp cracks of a whip and the rattle of chains.
“That’s old Brookes. He can slash a whip. Good workman, Brookes, on’y he hayve got too much tongue. There now, we’re down on the level, and you can make out the waggon. Leastwise I can.”
“Father!” shouted Nic excitedly. “All well?”
“All well?” came back.
“Yes!” and a minute later the boy was walking by his father’s side, holding on by the horse’s mane, answering questions and asking others.
“Oh yes,” said the doctor; “they came out at last and made a show of attacking us; but I sent a charge of shot spattering among the leaves over their heads, and they turned and ran.”
Half an hour after, while the oxen were still laboriously tugging the heavy waggon up the slope leading to the station, Nic and his father reached one illuminated door, where the doctor sprang down to embrace wife and daughters, after which he handed his horse’s rein to old Samson and waited till the wain was drawn up into the enclosure and the bullocks were turned loose to graze.
“Our task to-morrow, Nic,—to see to the unloading.”
“But will the things be safe there?” said the boy.
“Safe? yes, unless the blacks come down upon us. But I have no fear. Now, Nic, I’m not like you: I haven’t been fed and pampered by the women for hours. I’m starving for a good meal.”
“So am I, father.”
“What, again?” said the doctor, as he reached the door, just as Brookes and Leather carried the lantern into the kitchen, where a meal was spread for them. “Here, my dear, this boy says he’s hungry again.”
“Again, father?” cried Hilda; “why, he has had nothing but a cup of tea!”
“Why? Not well?”
“Oh yes, father, quite,” cried Nic. “I’ve only been asleep.”
Chapter Sixteen.
Life at the Station.
The late supper in the plain, homely room—where the table was on trestles, the chairs were stools, and the arm-chairs ingeniously cut out of casks, the carpet sacking, and the hearthrug skins—and the performance in the way of sleep on his arrival, interfered sadly with Nic’s night’s rest.
It was an hour after his father’s return before they all retired; and as soon as Nic was in his room he felt not the slightest inclination for bed. Everything was so new and fresh; the brilliant moonlight lit up the tract outside with such grand effects that the first thing he did was to take the home-made tallow candle out of its socket and hold it upside down till it was extinct, and then put it back.
The room was now all bright in one part, black shadow in the others; and he was going to the open window to look out, but just then an idea struck him, and he took up his gun, closed the pan, drew the flint hammer to half-cock, and proceeded to load. He carefully measured his charge of powder in the top of the copper flask, and poured it into the barrel, in happy unconsciousness that in the future ingenious people would contrive not only guns that would open at the breech for a cartridge containing in itself powder, shot, and explosive cap, to be thrust in with one movement, but magazine rifles that could be loaded for many shots at once.
Then on the top of the powder he rammed down a neatly cut-out disk of felt, the ramrod, drawn from its loops and reversed, compressing the air in the barrel, driving the powder out through the touch-hole into the pan, and making a peculiar sound running in a kind of gamut: pash—pesh—pish—posh—poosh—push—pud—pod—por—with the wind all out and the powder compressed hard down by the wad. Next a little cylindrical shovel full of shot was extracted from the belt, whose spring closed as the measure was drawn out, and the shot trickled gently into the barrel, glistening in the moonlight like globules of quicksilver. Another wad was rammed down; the pan opened and found full of the black grains, and the ramrod replaced in its loops behind the barrel, the gun being stood in the corner beside the bed ready for emergencies in that rough land.
Nic’s next proceeding was to listen and find that the murmur of voices heard beyond the partition had ceased, and he slipped off his shoes and stepped softly to the open window.
The flowers smelt deliciously in the cool, soft night air, and he looked out, leaning his arms on the sill to realise more thoroughly that he was in the place he had so often longed to see when he did a similar thing at the Friary in far-off Kent.
It seemed impossible, but it was true enough. His old schoolfellows might be looking out of the window now over the Kentish hills, but he was divided from them by the whole thickness of the great globe. They were in the northern portion of the temperate zone; he, as he leaned out, was in the southern. They would be looking at the hills; he was gazing at the rugged mountains. Then, too, it was just the opposite season to theirs—summer to their winter, winter to their summer.
“It’s like a big puzzle,” thought Nic. “I shan’t understand it all till I’ve made a globe. I wish I’d studied the big one at the Friary more. How strange it all seems!”
As he looked out, the place appeared very different. He had seen it in the full sunshine; now, in the silence of the night, the trees glistened in the moonlight as if frosted, and the shadows cast stood out black, sharp, and as if solid.
And how still and awful it all seemed! Not a sound,—yes, there was: an impatient stamp from somewhere on the other side of the house. He knew what that was, though: the horses were troubled by some night insect. There was another sound, too, as he listened—and another—and another.
He was wrong: there was no awful silence; the night, as his ears grew accustomed to the sounds, was full of noises, which impressed him strangely or the reverse as he was able to make them out or they remained mysteries.
As he tried to pierce the distance, and his eyes wandered through the network of light among the trees on the slopes which ran up toward the mountains, his first thoughts were of blacks coming stealing along from shelter to shelter, till close enough to rush forward to the attack upon the station; and over and over again his excited imagination suggested dark figures creeping slowly from bush to bush or from tree to tree.
Once or twice he felt certain that he saw a tall figure standing out in the moonlight watching the house, but common sense soon suggested that a savage would not stand in so exposed a position, but would be in hiding. Then, too, as minutes passed on and he was able to see that the objects did not move, he became convinced that they were stumps of trees.
That sound, though, was peculiar, and it was repeated. It was a cough, and that was startling, just in the neighbourhood of the house. But again he was able to explain it, for he had heard that cough in the fields of Kent, and the feeling of awe and dread passed off; for he knew it was the very human cough of a sheep.
But that was no sheep—that peculiar croaking cry that was heard now here, now there, as if the utterer were dashing in all directions. That was followed by a hollow trumpeting, and a short, harsh whistle, and a strange clanging sound from far away, while close at hand there was a soft, plaintive whistling and a subdued croak.
By degrees, though, as he listened, he was able to approximate to the origin of these calls. Night-hawks, cranes, curlews, and frogs might, any of them, or all, be guilty; and some kind of cricket undoubtedly produced that regular stridulation, as of a piece of ivory drawn along the teeth of a metal comb.
Then there was a heavy booming buzz, as some great beetle swung by; and beneath all, like a monotonous bass, came a deep roar, which could only be produced by falling water plunging down from on high into some rocky basin.
“What a place! what a wonderful place!” thought Nic, as he gazed out—perfectly sleepless now; and as he thought, the idea of wild beasts came into his head, for there was a deep-toned, bellowing roar, very suggestive of tiger or lion, till it was answered by a distant lowing, and he knew that the first was the bellow of some huge bull, the latter the distant cry of a bullock far up in the hills.
The time glided on. The white bed was no longer inviting, and he could not tear himself away from the window. At last, though, thinking that he had better lie down for fear of being very tired next day, he reached out his hand to draw in the casement, but kept it there, for a very familiar sound now struck upon his ear: Clap, clap, clap, clap of wings, and then a thoroughly hearty old English cock-a-doodle-doo! and the boy burst into a merry laugh.
“Go to sleep, you muddle-headed thing,” he muttered. “Don’t make that noise in the middle of the night.—They always do that at home when the moon shines.”
But the cock-crow was answered from a distance, and there was the lowing of cows; chirping came from the trees, there was the piping of the magpie, and soon after the deep chuckle of a great kingfisher, followed by burst of; shrieks and jarring calls from a great tree; and it suddenly struck the watcher that there was a pallid light shed from somewhere behind him.
“Why,” he said half aloud, in a regular Hibernian spirit, “it’s to-morrow morning!”
Morning it was, coming on fast; and all thought of bed being now given over, Nic began to put on his shoes.
“Lady O’Hara said things were all upside down here,” he muttered; “but I didn’t know I was going to sleep in the daylight and sit up all night.”
A few minutes’ thought, however, took away his surprise at the apparently sudden advent of the dawn, for it was well on toward morning when the family had left the dining-room—that name being maintained; and now, feeling bright, cheery, and full of anticipations of what he had to see in his new home, Nic had a wash and brush and hurried out, to find that the business of the day had begun.
The first he encountered was Leather, who responded to his cheery good morning with a keen look and a surly nod, as he passed on, and went off from the shed he had left for the open field.
The next minute, as Nic went round the house, there was a tremendous burst of barking, and the two dogs charged at him so excitedly that one went right over the other in collision; but they were up again directly, leaping at him, careering round, snapping playfully at each other, and madly showing their delight at meeting a familiar face in the strange home.
“Hullo, old fellows!—good dogs, then!” cried Nic, lavishing his caresses on the excited beasts. “Down there! steady there! I’m not for breakfast: don’t eat me.” The dogs sobered down and trotted beside him, each trying to walk with its sharp-pointed muzzle thrust into one of his hands.
“Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle,” came from a great tree which sheltered one side of the house, and the dogs looked up and barked.
“’Morning, young master,” came in a harsh, cracked voice: “smart morning. Here, you two: I’m just going to feed old Nibbler, and I’ll give you a share.”
There was the rattle of a chain hard by, and a heavy bark, as a great dog like a greyhound that had grown stout, came out of a kennel formed of a barrel laid on its side. The great beast looked at the two collies and growled, while the latter set up the dense frills of hair about their necks and showed their teeth.
“None o’ that, now!” cried old Samson. “You three have got to be friends. You don’t know Nibbler, Master Nicklas.”
“Dominic,” cried the boy.
“Ah, I allus forget. Missus has told me your name times enough, too. I can allus recklect that there’s a Nic in it. Hi, you, Nib, this here’s the young master—young master! d’yer hear?”
The dog growled, but wagged its tail.
“We calls him Nibbler, sir; but he’s a biter, and no mistake, ain’t yer, old man? You ought to ha’ had him with yer when them blacks come yesterday. He don’t mind spears and boomerangs, do you, Nib?”
The dog growled and showed its teeth.
“Pst, lad!—blackfellow.”
The dog made a bound to the full extent of its chain, and uttered a deep bay.
“All right, Nib. Gone!” cried Samson, showing his yellow teeth. “Breakfast.”
The dog’s manner changed directly.
“Come and pat him, Master Nico-de—Dick-o-me—I say, sir, hadn’t I better keep to Nic?”
“Yes, if you like,” replied the boy, approaching the great dog, but only to be received with a low growl.
“Ah!” shouted Samson, “didn’t I tell you this was young master come home? Down!”
The dog threw itself on its side, blinked at him with one eye and raised one paw deprecatingly, as it slowly rapped the ground with its long thin tail.
“Now come and put your foot on his neck, sir, and pat his head. Don’t you be afraid.”
“I’m not going to be,” said Nic; though he felt a little nervous, and thought of the consequences of a snap from those steel-trap jaws.
“That’s right, sir. There—you’ll be friends enough after this, Nibbler knows.”
But Nibbler shook his head and growled, for the collies, after protesting, whining jealously at Nic’s favours being bestowed upon a stranger instead of upon them, barked again and came on steadily, as if to attack the stranger.
“Down, down!” cried Nic; and they stopped.
“It’s all right now; they shan’t fight. Here, I’ll show you. You ketch hold of this, sir.”
Samson took an old pitchfork from where it stood in a corner, handed it to Nic, and then, somewhat to the boy’s dismay, took hold of the big dog’s collar with both hands, and set it free by dragging the strap over its ears.
Then for a moment there were threatenings of a fight, but a shout from Samson checked the turbulent spirit.
“Give Nib a rap over the head with that fork shaft if he don’t mind you, sir. He’s hard as iron, so you may hit sharp. Couldn’t break you, Nib, eh?”
The dog looked up and uttered a short bark. “Here, Master Nic,” whispered the old man with a grin: “go closely to him and say sharply, ‘Kangaroo!’”
Nic did as he was told, and the dog gave a tremendous bound and stood looking wildly round, ending by running back with a deep-toned bark, looking up at him as much as to say, “Where?”
“Gone, Nib!” cried Samson. “Now follow the young master, and he’ll give you some breakfast.”
The little old fellow led the way, Nic followed, and the three dogs came behind, Nibbler with a collie on either side, keeping up a low muttering growl, which sounded like threats of what they would do if the big dog interfered with their master. To which Nibbler responded by some language of his own, and leering looks to either side, as if in search of spots where there was not so much hair when he began to nibble.
Samson stopped at the far end of the farthest shed, where there was a little lean-to; and on raising a wooden latch and throwing open the door, there within hung half a sheep, with the skin on a peg, and a chopping-block and a hatchet in the middle.
“Slaughterhouse, sir,” said Samson, with a grin. “’Bliged to be our own butchers out here,—fishermen too. S’pose you’ll ketch our fish now? Mind chopping off some o’ that sheep while I hold it on the block?”
“I? No,” said Nic.
“That’s your sort!” said the man, lifting the half sheep from a hook fastened in the beam overhead. “Emmygrunts does anything. I want you to chop off that lyne, and then cut it in three bits for the dogs.”
“Then you don’t only give them bones?” said Nic.
“Gives dogs what we’ve got plenty on. It’s mutton now. We don’t want this to spyle. It was alive and well yes’day, but a couple o’ dingoes hunted the pore thing down. Hi! Nib, what come o’ them dingoes?”
“R–r–r–r–ur,” snarled the big dog fiercely.
“Ay, you did, mate. He gave them dingo, sir. These wild dogs is one of our biggest noosances after the sheep. Now, please chop straight. Well done, sir! There’s three. Take care. That chopper’s very sharp. Now through there and there. That’s right. Three bits. I was going to bury half on it, for it won’t keep mor’n two nights; but your two sheep, dogs’ll help him. We’ll feed ’em up a bit for two or three days, and then starve ’em for two or three more to put it straight. Now then, sir, you stick the fork into they three bits, and you shall feed ’em, that’ll clinch old Nibbler’s making friends with you. See?”
Nic nodded.
“Look,” said Samson: “he knows what I’ve been saying.”
The dog, which was sitting watching, with a collie on either side—the latter evidently in doubt as to whether the joints were intended for the house—gave a deep bark.
“Now give him the biggest bit, sir.”
Nic stuck the fork in the piece of loin and held it out to the big dog, and it came and took it with a low muttering sound, wagging its tail slowly from side to side, while the collies grew excited, growled, and tossed up their heads to utter a protesting whine.
“Here, you, Nib, wait,” cried Samson. “Give t’other two their bits, sir.”
Nic served each collie, and then stared at what followed.
“Now then!” cried Samson, “take it out in the back and eat it. Show your chums the way. Right off. No messing about nigh the house. Off with you!”
The big dog uttered a low growl, and went off with its breakfast, the collies following; all three looking decidedly comic with their jaws distended.
“There you are, sir,” said the old man, wiping the chopper very carefully and then sticking it into the big clean block. “Seems a pity. Beautiful mutton. The brutes had only just pulled it down when Nib was on to ’em. Leather called me to see. It was half-hour’s walk, and there he was sitting by the sheep, and the two dead dingoes close by.”
“Didn’t he begin worrying it?” asked Nic.
“Him, sir? Nibbler worry a sheep? Not him. Why, I’ve seen him lie down and let the lambs play about him. I should like to ketch him at it. Not him, sir: I eddicated that dog. There ain’t his like nowhere. Coming along o’ me, Master Nic?”
“Yes: I want to see all about the place.”
“That’s right. Ah, you’re a lucky one: it’s all ready for you. When me and master come there was just nothing; and now see what it is. Look what a garden we’re getting. Here, Brooky! Did you bring in the cows?”
“Yes.—’Mornin’, sir,” said the man.
“’Morning. Tired after your journey?”
“Wonder if I warn’t!” said the man. “I had everything to do. Look ye here, Sam: next time waggon goes up to town you’ll come too, and so I tell the master.”
“What’s the matter, matey?”
“Heverything. That there Leather’s no good at all. I have to do all the work, and I won’t stand it.”
“Why, I thought Leather did more than you,” cried Nic. “I noticed it as we came; but you always grumbled at him.”
Samson showed his yellow teeth and chuckled.
“Don’t you be sarcy, sir,” growled Brookes; “and what are you crowin’ at, old Sam? You needn’t begin makin’ a noise like a laughin’ jackass. Something’s going to be changed, or I goes to another station.”
“Goin’ now?” shouted Samson, as the man strode off angrily.
“Never you mind,” growled Brookes; and he disappeared round a barn-like structure.
“He’s got his knife into Leather,” said Samson, chuckling. “Strange, disagreeable sort o’ chap, Brookes, sir. Leather’s sour as Devon crabs; but I will say this on him: he do work, and work well. But yah! a hangel couldn’t satisfy Bill Brookes. Reg’lar curds-and-whey sort o’ fellow. But don’t you stand none o’ that, sir,” continued the old man seriously. “You’re young master: you let him have it for telling you not to be sarcy. He wouldn’t ha’ said it to me; and if you don’t check him I shall tell the master. Bill Brookes wants to play first fiddle here; but he can’t and won’t. I’m foreman; and if I’ve on’y got a little body, Master Nic, I’ve got a will as big as Bill Brookes’s, and bigger too. Now I’ll go and feed the pigs.”
This highly interesting piece of business was gone through, Samson mixing up some meal and water, pouring it into the troughs, and belabouring the greedy animals with the mealy stick.
“Take your feet out o’ the stuff, will yer?” he roared. “They do make good pork and bacon and ham, Master Nic, but they are about the savagest, fiercest things I know. Fine pigs, though, ain’t they? Come on: I want to see if that chap’s getting on with the milking.”
Sam led the way to a shed with open side, where the black whom Nic had seen on the previous day was busy milking; the thick, rich milk given by one of half a dozen beautifully clean cows descending in its double stream, quisk—whish, and frothing up in the white pail.
“Take some in to White Mary soon,” said Samson, and the man raised his shining black face and grinned.
“I say, why do you say White Mary?” asked Nic, as they left the cow-shed. “Who’s she?”
“Because you’ve got to talk to them blackfellows so’s they can understand you, sir. White Mary’s white woman to them. He’s going to take the pails as he fills ’em in to Miss Janet: she sees to the dairy. And Miss Hilda, she’s White Mary too, and so’s your mar.”
“Oh,” said Nic thoughtfully. “Now then, I want to see the horses.”
“Which? those on the run or in the stable?”
“On the run?”
“Yes. They’re miles away, and you’d want to ride.”
“Well, in the stable.”
“This way, then; but won’t you come and see my garden first? I’ve got real apple trees a-growing.”
“I’ll see the garden after. I want to look how Sour Sorrel is.”
“Fresh as a daisy, sir.”
“I want to feed him.”
“You should have got up sooner, Mister Nic. I fed the horses more’n hour ago, and rubbed ’em down. Do you like Sorrel?” said Samson, showing his teeth.
“Like him!” cried Nic, with a voice intense in its appreciation.
“That’s right, sir. I bred him speshly for you, Master Nic. He was to be for you, and you won’t ride him too hard, will you?”
“Why, it would be a sin!” cried Nic.
“Sin ain’t half bad enough word for it, sir,” cried the old man. “Any one as’d hurt a horse with a temper like Sorrel, and such a willin’ heart, ud do anything wicked, I don’t care what it is. Why, I don’t believe even a lifer ud do that.”
“What’s a lifer?” asked Nic.
“Transported for life, sir.”
“Oh yes, I remember now,” said Nic, as they turned into the long wooden stable. “Ah, father! you up already?”
“’Morning, Nic, my boy. Oh yes, we are early birds here. Been round the farm?”
“Yes, some of it. He has been showing me.”
“Well, do you think you can be content with our rough life?”
“Oh, I say, father!” cried Nic protestingly, “don’t talk to me like that! Like it? Everything seems too good. Why, I love it already.”
“Don’t be too enthusiastic, my boy,” said the doctor, clapping him on the shoulder. “It is not all bliss. See what a journey it is to civilisation.”
“Bother civilisation!” cried Nic. “That means me being away from home with people who don’t care for me.”
“You should make people care for you,” said the doctor gravely. “Our friendships depend much upon ourselves.”
“But I wanted to come out, father.”
“And you’ve come to where nearly all our neighbours are blacks—savages, and many of the others convicts, who are not merely blacks on the surface, Nic. Well, we shall see how you get on. You may alter your tone, my boy.”
Nic said nothing, and the horses—six—were inspected.
“Janet and Hilda ride those two little mares, Nic,” said the doctor; “and sometimes I get your mother to mount this old favourite, but not often. The others are away grazing.”
“You have plenty of horses, then?”
“Yes. They are a necessity here, where so many miles have to be covered a day. You think you will be contented here?”
“Of course, father.”
“But you’ll have to work, Nic.”
“To be sure, father. I’m sure I shall like it.”
“A great change from school, my boy.”
“Yes, father; but it was a great change for you to come from your London practice.”
“So it was, Nic,” said the doctor: “a greater change, perhaps, for I was no longer young and sanguine. Greatest of all was the change for your mother and sisters—leaving, as they did, all the pleasant comforts of life, to be their own servants and stoop to all kinds of work. But they were very good. They saw health was the great thing. Nic, boy, for once let me refer to this seriously. I came out believing that I might prolong my poor weary life a year. At the end of that year I thought I could prolong it two more; and at the end of those three years I began to be hopeful of living with those dear to me another three.”
“And now, father, you are going to live to be a fine, healthy, hearty old man.”
“Please God, Nic,” said the doctor, reverently raising his hat,—“for the sake of your mother and the girls.”
“He might have said, ‘and for your sake too,’” thought Nic, as the doctor walked away to pat one of the horses, returning directly after to talk in a bright cheery way.
“I’m glad you like the horses and the place, Nic,” he said. “Your mother and I were a little nervous about it being dull for you.”
“Oh, I shan’t be dull, father,” cried the boy. “Not if you have a boy’s healthy appreciation of nature, Nic; and that I hope you have. No, you can’t be dull; there is too much to take your attention. It will be a rougher education, but it is a grand healthy life—one like this out in a new land, to make a good simple natural home. People fear to come to some of these places, because they say there’s no doctor. I am a doctor, Nic.”
“Yes, father; and I’ve heard say that you were a very clever one.”
“I did my best, boy. But I was going to say I am a doctor, and saving for an occasional accident, which nature would heal, I am like a fish out of water.”
“Break-fast!” cried a merry, girlish voice; and Hilda, looking bright and eager, looked in at the stable door.
“Ah! here you are, Nic!” she cried. “What a shame! your first morning, and not been to say ‘how are you?’ to mamma!”
Nic rushed by her before she had finished, and ran into the house, where Mrs Braydon was eagerly waiting to welcome him to the board.
“I needn’t have been so apologetic,” said the doctor drily, as he came in a minute later and took his place. “Here have I been preaching to this boy about the hardships of our life, and our rough fare, and—humph! French ham, new-laid eggs, coffee, cream, honey, jam, hot bread-cakes, and—tut—tut—tut! My poor boy, I am so sorry there are no fried rolls. Can you make shift?”
“Yes, father,” said Nic, laughing, as he thought of school fare. “I’m going to try.”
He did.