Back to Billabong Part 30

"Races!" said Tommy. "But what frivolity. Why, I'm bottling apricots."

"No wonder you look warm, you poor little soul," said Jim. "You oughtn't to choose a scorcher like this for bottling. Anyhow, the races aren't to-day, but New Year's day--Cunjee Picnic meeting. We're all going, so you and Bob have got to come. Orders from Norah."

"Oh, New Year's day. I'd love to come," Tommy said. "I've never seen races."

"Never seen races!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed young Australia in sheer amazement.

"Where were you dragged up?" They laughed at each other.

"Aunt Margaret wasn't what you'd call a racing woman," Tommy said. "I don't fancy Bob has seen any, either. Bill and Sarah, to say nothing of the baby, are going. I offered to mind the baby, but Sarah didn't seem to think the picnic would be complete without her."

"People have queer tastes," Jim said. "I wouldn't choose a long day at races as the ideal thing for a baby; but Sarah seems to think differently. Wonder what Bill thinks? Still, I'm glad she didn't take you at your word, because we'd have had to dispose of the baby somewhere if she had. I suppose we could put it under the seat of the car!"

"Oh, do you?" Tommy regarded him with a glint in her eye. "No; we'd have made you nurse her--she isn't 'it.' She's the nicest baby ever, and I won't have her insulted."

"Bless you, I wouldn't insult the baby for worlds," grinned Jim. "I'll look forward to meeting her at the races--especially as you won't be minding her. Then it's settled, is it, Tommy? We thought of riding; will it be too far for you?"

"Not a bit," Tommy said. "Bob and I rode in and out of Cunjee the other day, and I wasn't tired--and it was dreadfully hot."

"Then you'll be all right on New Year's day, because the racecourse is two miles this side of the township," Jim said. "But Norah said I was to tell you some of us could easily go in the car if you'd rather drive."

"Oh, no, thanks; I know you always ride, and I should love it," Tommy answered. "Is Mr. Linton going?"

"Oh, yes. Indeed, as far as I can tell, the whole station's going," Jim said. "All except Brownie, of course; she scorns races. She says she can't imagine why anyone should make anything run fast in the 'eat if they don't want to."

"Does Brownie ever leave Billabong?"

"Hardly ever," Jim answered, laughing--"and it's getting more and more difficult to make her. I think in a year or two it will need a charge of dynamite. Oh, but, Tommy, we got her out in the car the other evening--had to do it almost by main force. It was a hot evening, and we took her for a spin along the road. She trembled like a jelly when we started, and all the time she gripped the side with one hand and Norah's knee with the other--quite unconsciously."

"Do you think she enjoyed it at all?" Tommy smiled.

"No, I'm jolly well sure she didn't," Jim responded. "Brownie's much too well mannered to criticize anyone else's property, but when she got out she merely said, 'You have great courage, my dear.' And wild horses wouldn't get her into it again, unless we promised to 'make it walk,'

like we did the day we brought her over to help at your working bee. The funny part of it is that Norah believes she was just as frightened that morning, only she had a job on, and so was too busy to think of it. But as for going in a car for mere pleasure--not for Brownie!"

"Brownie's a dear," said Tommy irrelevantly. "Jim, can't you put that fierce animal in the stable or the horse paddock, or somewhere, and come in for some tea? I simply must get back to my apricots."

"And I've certainly no business to be keeping you standing here in the heat," Jim said. "No, I can't stay, thanks, Tommy--I promised dad I'd meet him at the Far Plain gate at eleven o'clock, and it's nearly that now. You run in to your apricots, and don't kill your little self over them; it's no day for cooking if you can avoid it."

"Oh, but I couldn't," Tommy answered. "They were just right for bottling; the sun to-day would have made them a bit too soft. And it's better to get them done; to-morrow may be just as hot, or hotter."

"That's true enough," Jim said. "Feeling the heat much, little Miss Immigrant?"

"Oh, not enough to grumble at," she answered, smiling. "And the bathing-hole in the creek is a joy; it's almost worth a hot day to get a swim at the end of it. Bob has built me a bathing-box out of a tree, and it's a huge success; he's very pleased with himself as an architect."

"That's good business," approved Jim. "You two never grumble, no matter what comes along."

"Well, but nothing has come along but good luck," Tommy said. "What have we had to grumble at, I should like to know?"

"Oh, some people find cause for grousing, no matter how good their luck is," Jim answered. "I believe you and old Bob would decline to recognize bad luck even if it did come your way."

"It's not coming," Tommy said, laughing. "So don't talk about it--I don't believe it exists." She stood watching him for a moment as he tried to mount; his big young thoroughbred resented the idea of anyone on his back, and Jim had to hop beside him, with one foot in the stirrup, while he danced round in a circle, trying to get away. Jim seized an opportunity, and was in the saddle with a lithe swing; whereupon the horse tried to get his head down to buck, and, being checked in that ambition, progressed down the paddock in a succession of short, staccato bounds.

"I think I should have to recognize bad luck coming if I had to ride him instead of Jim," remarked Tommy quaintly. She turned and ran in to her neglected apricots.

New Year's day broke clear and hot, like all the week before it. Norah, arriving at the Creek about ten o'clock, looked a little anxiously at her friend.

"We're used to riding in the heat, Tommy, dear," she said. "But you're not--are you sure you feel up to it?"

"Why, I'm going to love it," Tommy said. She looked cool and workman-like in a linen habit and white pith helmet--Norah's Christmas present. "I hadn't these nice things to wear when Bob and I brought the sheep out from Cunjee three weeks ago; and it was just as hot, and so dusty. And that didn't kill me. I liked it, only I never got so dirty in my life."

"Well, we shall only have a hot ride one way," said Norah philosophically. "There's a concert in Cunjee, and the boys want to stay for it. The concert won't be much, but the ride home in the moonlight will be lovely. You and Bob can stay, of course?"

"Oh, yes. Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so he will milk the cows," Tommy answered. "He wanted them to stay for the concert, but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense, and said it was no place for a baby. I didn't think she considered any place unfit for a baby, and certainly Bill doesn't."

"Bush people don't," said Norah, laughing. "If they did, they would never go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter what happens. And the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry nearly as much as pampered ones that are always in the nursery."

"Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early," said Wally's voice from the door. "It leaves them in later life, and they stay gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says--" But at this point Norah and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the horses--finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.

Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.

"They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago," he said. "Now look at them--why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of moisture out of them."

"Don't let that worry you, my boy," David Linton said. "The stock are doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time of the year they won't ask you for green gra.s.s." He gave a low chuckle.

"You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the drought years--why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your hand.

Now you've gra.s.s, as you say yourself, like a crop." He looked at it critically. "I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an anxiety later on."

"Gra.s.s fires?" queried Bob.

"Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this gra.s.s is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any fool swagman drops a match carelessly. However, you'll just have to keep your eyes open. Luckily, your creek can't burn--you'll always have so much safeguard, because your stock could take to it; and that row of willows along the bank would check any gra.s.s fire."

"My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this year!"

said Wally.

"Yes, it would certainly travel," agreed Mr. Linton. "Well, we've ploughed fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only hope for good luck. You'd better burn a break round your house soon, Bob."

"Bill was saying so only this morning," Bob answered. "I nearly chucked the races and stayed at home to do it--only I was afraid it might get away from me single-handed, and I couldn't very well keep Bill at home."

"Oh, time enough," the squatter said lightly. "You're not so dry as we are, and we only burned last week."

"We'll come over and help you to-morrow, if you like," Jim said. "Wally wants work; he's getting too fat. A little gentle exercise with a racing fire on a hot day would be the very thing for him. We'll come and burn off with you, and then have a bathing party in the creek, and then you and Tommy must come back to tea with us." Which was a sample of the way much of the work was done on the Creek Farm. It had never occurred to the two Rainhams that life in Australia was lonely.

The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one race day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted along it, light buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the universal two-wheeled jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers and their families. Wives, a little red-faced and anxious, resplendent in their Sunday finery, kept a watchful eye on small boys and girls; the boys in thick suits, the girls with white frocks, their well-crimped hair bearing evidence of intense plaiting overnight. Hampers peeped from under the seats, and in most cases a baby completed the outfit. Now and then a motor whizzed by, leaving a long trail of dust-cloud in its wake, and earning hearty remarks from every slower wayfarer. There were riders everywhere, men and women--most of the latter with riding-skirts slipped on over light dresses that would do duty that night at the concert and the dance that was to follow. Sometimes a motor-cycle chugged along, always with a girl perched on the carrier at the back, clinging affectionately to her escort. As Cunjee drew nearer and the farms closer together the crowd on the road increased, and the dust mounted in a solid cloud.

The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the fence, cantering over the short, dusty gra.s.s. It was with a sigh of relief that Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which buggies and hors.e.m.e.n were making their way.

"There's the racecourse," he said.

"Racecourse!" Tommy e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "But it just looks like an ordinary paddock."

"That's all it is," said Jim, laughing. "You didn't expect a grand-stand and a lawn, did you? Cunjee is very proud of itself for having a turf club at all, and n.o.body minds anything as long as they get an occasional glimpse of the horses."