“Yes, Daddy.” A small brown paw slid itself into Mr. Linton's hand.
They were sitting on the verandah in the stillness of an autumn evening, watching the shadows on the lawn become vague and indistinct, and finally merge1 into one haze2 of dusk. Mr. Linton had been silent for a long time. Norah always knew when her father wanted to talk. This evening she was content to be silent, too, leaning against his knee in her own friendly fashion as she curled up at his feet.
“Oh, you hadn't forgotten, then?”
“Well—not much! Only I didn't know if you really wanted to go, Daddy.”
“Why, yes,” said her father. “I think it would be rather a good idea, my girlie. There's not much doing on the place just now. I could easily be spared. And we don't want to leave our trip until the days grow shorter. The moon will be right, too. It will be full in four or five days—I forget the exact date. So, altogether, Norah, I think we'd better consult Brownie about the commissariat department, and make our arrangements to go immediately.”
“It'll be simply lovely,” said his daughter, breathing a long sigh of delight. “Such a long time since we had a camping out—just you and me, Daddy.”
“Yes, it's a good while. Well, we've got to make up for lost time by catching3 plenty of fish,” said Mr. Linton. “I hope you haven't forgotten the whereabouts of that fine new hole of yours? You'll have to take me to it if Anglers' Bend doesn't come up to expectations.”
A deep flush came into Norah's face. For a little while she had almost forgotten the Hermit4—or, rather, he had ceased to occupy a prominent position in her mind, since the talk of the Winfield murder had begun to die away. The troopers, unsuccessful in their quest, had gone back to headquarters, and Norah had breathed more freely, knowing that her friend had escaped—this time. Still, she never felt comfortable in her mind about him. Never before had she kept any secret from her father, and the fact of this concealment5 was apt to come home closely to her at times and cloud the perfect friendship between them.
“Master Billy will be delighted, I expect,” went on Mr. Linton, not noticing the little girl's silence. “Anything out of the ordinary groove6 of civilisation7 is a joy to that primitive8 young man. I don't fancy it would take much to make a cheerful savage9 of Billy.”
“Can't you fancy him!” said Norah, making an effort to break away from her own thoughts; “roaming the bush with a boomerang and a waddy, and dressed in strips of white paint.”
“Striped indeed!” said her father, laughing. “I've no doubt he'd enjoy it. I hope his ancient instincts won't revive—he's the best hand with horses we ever had on the station. Now, Norah, come and talk to Brownie.”
Mrs. Brown, on being consulted, saw no difficulties in the way. A day, she declared, was all she wanted to prepare sufficient food for the party for a week—let alone for only three days.
“Not as I'll stint10 you to three days,” remarked the prudent11 Brownie. “Last time it was to be three days—an' 'twas more like six when we saw you again. Once you two gets away—” and she wagged a stern forefinger12 at her employer. “And there's that black himp—he eats enough for five!”
“You forget the fish we're going to live on,” laughed Mr. Linton.
“'M,” said Brownie solemnly. “First catch your fish!”
“Why, of course, we mean to, you horrid13 old thing!” cried Norah, laughing; “and bring you home loads, too—not that you deserve it for doubting us!”
“I have seen many fishing parties go out, Miss Norah, my dear,” said Mrs. Brown impassively, “and on the 'ole more came 'ome hempty 'anded than bringing loads—fish bein' curious things, an' very unreliable on the bite. Still, we'll 'ope for the best—an' meanwhile to prepare for the worst. I'll just cook a few extry little things—another tongue, now, an' a nice piece of corned beef, an' per'aps a 'am. An' do you think you could manage a pie or two, Miss Norah?”
“Try her!” said Mr. Linton, laughing.
“Let's tell Billy!”—and off went Norah at a gallop14.
She returned a few minutes later, slightly crestfallen15.
“Billy must be asleep,” she said. “I couldn't get an answer. Lazy young nigger—and it's still twilight16!”
“Billy has no use for the day after the sun goes down, unless he's going 'possuming,” her father said. “Never mind—the news will keep until the morning.”
“Oh, I know,” said Norah, smiling. “But I wanted to tell him to-night.”
“I sympathise with you,” said her father, “and, meanwhile, to console yourself, suppose you bend your mighty17 mind to the problem of getting away. Do you see any objection to our leaving for parts unknown the day after to-morrow?”
“Depends on Brownie and the tucker,” said Norah practically.
“That part's all right; Brownie guarantees to have everything ready to-morrow night if you help her.”
“Why, of course I will, Daddy.”
“And you have to get your own preparations made.”
“That won't take long,” said Norah, with a grin. “Brush, comb, tooth-brush, pyjamas18; that's all, Dad!”
“Such minor19 things as soap and towels don't appear to enter into your calculations,” said her father. “Well I can bear it!”
“Oh, you silly old Dad! Of course I know about those. Only Brownie always packs the ordinary, uninteresting things.”
“I foresee a busy day for you and Brownie tomorrow,” Mr. Linton said. “I'll have a laborious20 time myself, fixing up fishing tackle—if Jim and his merry men left me with any. As for Billy, he will spend the day grubbing for bait. Wherefore, everything being settled, come and play me 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and then say good-night.”
Norah was up early, and the day passed swiftly in a whirl of preparations. Everything was ready by evening, including a hamper21 of monumental proportions, the consumption of which, Mr. Linton said, would certainly render the party unfit for active exertion22 in the way of fishing. Billy's delight had made itself manifest in the broad grin which he wore all day while he dug for worms, and chased crickets and grass-hoppers. The horses were brought in and stabled overnight, so that an early start might be made.
It was quite an exciting day, and Norah was positive that she could not go to sleep when her father sent her off to bed at an unusually early hour, meeting her remonstrances23 with the reminder24 that she had to be up with, or before, the lark25. However, she was really tired, and was soon asleep. It seemed to her that she had only been in this blissful condition for three minutes when a hand was laid on her shoulder and she started up to find daylight had come. Mr. Linton stood laughing at her sleepy face.
“D'you mean to say it's morning?” said Norah.
“I've been led to believe so,” her father rejoined. “Shall I pull you out, or would you prefer to rise without assistance?”
“I'd much prefer to go to sleep again—but I'll tumble out, thank you,” said his daughter, suiting the action to the word. “Had your bath, Daddy?'
“Just going to it.”
“Then I'll race you!” said Norah, snatching a towel and disappearing down the hall, a slender, flying figure in blue pyjamas. Mr. Linton gave chase, but Norah's start was too good, and the click of the lock greeted him as he arrived at the door of the bathroom. The noise of the shower drowned his laughing threats, while a small voice sang, amid splashes, “You should have been here last week!”
Breakfast was a merry meal, although, as Norah said, it was unreasonable26 to expect anybody to have an appetite at that hour. Still, with a view to the future, and to avoid wounding Mrs. Brown too deeply, they made as firm an attempt as possible, with surprisingly good results. Then brief good-byes were said, the pack scientifically adjusted to the saddle on the old mare27, and they rode off in the cool, dewy morning.
This time there was no “racing28 and chasing o'er Cannobie Lea” on the way to Anglers' Bend. Mr. Linton's days of scurrying29 were over, he said, unless a bullock happened to have a difference of opinion as to the way he should go, and, as racing by one's self is a poor thing Norah was content to ride along steadily30 by her father's side, with only an occasional canter, when Bobs pulled and reefed as if he were as anxious to gallop as his young mistress could possibly be. It was time for lunch when they at length arrived at the well-remembered bend on the creek31.
The horses were unsaddled and hobbled, and then turned out to wander at their own sweet will—the shortness of the hobbles a guarantee that they would not stray very far; and the three wanderers sat on the bank of the creek, very ready for the luncheon32 Mrs. Brown had carefully prepared and placed near the top of the pack. This despatched, preparations were made for pitching camp.
Here luck favoured them, for a visit to their former camping place showed that tent poles and pegs33 were still there, and uninjured—which considerably34 lessened35 the labour of pitching the tents. In a very short time the two tents were standing36, and a couple of stretchers rigged up with bags—Mr. Linton had no opinion of the comfort of sleeping on beds of leaves. While her father and Billy were at this work, Norah unpacked37 the cooking utensils38 and provisions. Most of the latter were encased in calico bags, which could be hung in the shade, secure from either ants or flies, the remainder, packed in tins, being stowed away easily in the corner of one of the tents.
When the stretchers were ready Norah unpacked the bedding and made their beds. Finally she hung the tooth-brushes to the ridge39 poles and said contentedly40, “Daddy, it's just like home!”
“Glad you think so!” said Mr. Linton, casting an approving eye over the comfortable-looking camp, and really there is something wonderfully homelike about a well-pitched camp with a few arrangements for comfort. “At any rate, I think we'll manage very well for a few days, Norah. Now, while Billy lays in a stock of firewood and fixes up a 'humpy' for himself to sleep in, suppose you and I go down and try to catch some fish for tea?”
“Plenty!” laughed Norah.
It soon became evident that Anglers' Bend was going to maintain its name as a place for fish. Scarcely was Norah's line in the water before a big blackfish was on the hook, and after that the fun was fast and furious, until they had caught enough for two or three meals. The day was ideal for fishing—grey and warm, with just enough breeze to ripple41 the water faintly. Mr. Linton and Norah found it very peaceful, sitting together on the old log that jutted42 across the stream, and the time passed quickly. Billy at length appeared, and was given the fish to prepare, and then father and daughter returned to camp. Mr. Linton lit the fire, and cutting two stout43 forked stakes, which he drove into the ground, one on each side of the fire, he hung a green ti-tree pole across, in readiness to hold the billy and frying-pan. Billy presently came up with the fish, and soon a cheery sound of sizzling smote44 the evening air. By the time that Norah had “the table set,” as she phrased it, the fish were ready, and in Norah's opinion no meal ever tasted half so good.
After it was over, Billy the indispensable removed the plates and washed up, and Norah and her father sat by the fire and “yarned” in the cool dusk. Not for long, for soon the little girl began to feel sleepy after the full day in the open air, and the prospect45 of the comfortable stretcher in her tent was very tempting46. She brushed her hair outside in the moonlight, because a small tent is not the place in which to wield47 a hairbrush; then she slipped into bed, and her father came and tucked her up before tying the flap securely enough to keep out possible intruders in the shape of “bears” and 'possums. Norah lay watching the flickering48 firelight for a little while, thinking there was nothing so glorious as the open-air feeling, and the night scents49 of the bush; then she fell asleep.
“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!!”
A cheeky jackass on a gum tree bough50 fairly roared with laughter, and Norah woke up with a violent start. The sunlight was streaming across her bed. For a moment she was puzzled, wondering where she was; then the walls of the tent caught her eye, and she laughed at herself, and then lay still in the very pleasure of the dewy morning and the wonderful freshness of the air. For there is a delight in awaking after a night in the open that the finest house in the world cannot give.
Presently the flap of the tent was parted and Mr. Linton peeped in.
“Hallo!” he said, smiling, “did the old jackass wake you? I found him as good as an alarum clock myself. How about a swim?”
“Oh—rather!” said Norah, tumbling out of bed. She slipped on a jacket and shoes, and presently joined her father, and they threaded their way through the scrub until they came to a part of the creek where a beach, flat and sandy, and shelving down to a fairly deep hole, offered glorious bathing. Mr. Linton left Norah here, and himself went a few yards farther up, round a bend in the creek.
At the first plunge51 the water was distinctly cold, but once the first dip was taken Norah forgot all about chilliness52, and only
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