Mates at Billabong Part 16

Then things became merry, and even Cecil warmed at the gifts on his plate, while the boys were exclaiming in delight over Norah's knitting, and Wally was shaking hands with Mr. Linton and looking half-shamefacedly at the plain gold sleeve links from him and the silver watch chain from Jim; and Mr. Linton's face was alight with pleasure at the waistcoat Norah had made for him, and the little oak bookshelf for his bedside that was the work of Jim's spare hours.

Finally all the bundles were unwrapped, and there was a lull, though Norah's eyes were still dancing, and she exchanged glances with her father.

Jim spoke.

"There's a string under my plate," said he, faintly puzzled. "At least, there's one end."

"Strings always have two ends," said Wally, wisely. "Where's the other?"

"I'm blessed if I know," said Jim. "It goes down to the floor."

Wally came round, investigating.

"Seems to me it goes out of the window," he said. "Guess you'd better follow it, Jimmy."

Jim looked round, a little doubtful. Then he saw Norah's face, and knew that there was something he did not understand. He laughed a little.

"Some one pulling my leg?" he asked, good-humouredly. "Oh, well, I'll chase it."

The string went somewhere--that was evident. Outside it was at the height of Jim's hand, and ran along the wall, so that it was easy to follow. They trooped after him as he went along, Norah completely unable to walk steadily, but progressing princ.i.p.ally on one foot, while David Linton's eyes were twinkling. The chase was not a long one; the string suddenly cut across to the door in the high fence dividing the front and back gardens, and there disappeared.

"What next?" said Jim.

"If it was me," said Wally, with a fine disregard of grammar, "I should open the door."

"Good for you, Wally," grinned Jim. "Here goes!" He flung the door open, and then stood as if rooted to the spot.

The string went on. It ended, however, just through the door, where its end was spliced to a halter, held by black Billy, whose smile disclosed every tooth in his head. Fidgeting in the halter was a big bay horse, showing all Monarch's quality, and all his good looks; a show ring horse, picked by a keen judge, and built for speed as well as strength.

He looked at Jim with a kind eye, set well in his beautiful head. There was no flaw in him; from his heels to his fine, straight forelock he was perfection.

Jim had no words. He did not need to be told anything--Norah's face had been enough; but he could not speak. He took refuge with the big bay, moving forward and putting out a hand, to which the horse responded instantly, rubbing his head against him in friendly fashion. Then, across the arched neck, Jim's eyes met his father's, and the colour flooded into his brown face.

"Well, old son--will he do?"

"Do!" said Jim, weakly. "Dad!--by Jove, I--I--" He stopped helplessly; then his hand went out and took his father's in a grip that made David Linton realize that this big son of his was nearly a man.

"Oh, Jimmy, I'm so glad--and isn't he lovely?"

"Why, he's perfect," Jim said, stepping back and running his eye over his Christmas box. "My word, Dad, he'll jump!"

"Yes, he'll jump all right," said David Linton. "Gallop, too, I should say."

"Plenty!" said Billy, with unexpected emphasis, whereat every one laughed.

"Billy and Norah have had this little joke plotted for some time," Mr.

Linton said--"and the experiences they have undergone in keeping strings and steed out of your way this morning have, I believe, whitened the hair of both!"

Jim looked gratefully round.

"You're all bricks," he said. "Has he got a name, Dad?"

"'A tearin' foine wan,' Murty says," responded his father; "since it's Irish: Garryowen, unless you'd like to change it."

"Not me!" said Jim. "I like it." He looked round as the sound of the gong came across the garden. "I say, don't mind me," he said--"go into breakfast. I don't want any this morning." His eye went back to the bay.

"Rubbish!" said his father--"he'll be alive after breakfast! Come along," and reluctantly Jim saw Billy lead his horse away to the stable. He discovered, however, on reaching the breakfast room, that he was remarkably hungry, and distinguished himself greatly with his knife and fork.

Afterwards it was necessary to try the bay's paces without delay, and they all watched Jim take him round the home paddock. Garryowen moved beautifully; and when Jim finally put him at the highest part of the old log fence, and brought him back again, he flew it with a foot to spare. The boy's face was aglow as he rode up.

"Well, he's perfect!" he said. "I never was on such a horse." He came close to his father. "Dad," he said in a low tone--"are you sure you wouldn't like him instead of Monarch? He's far more finished."

"Not for anything, thanks, old chap--I prefer my pupil," said his father, his look answering more than his words. "You see he never bucks with me, Jim!"

Jim laughed, dismounting. "Like to try him, Cecil?"

"Thanks," said Cecil, scrambling up and setting off down the paddock, while Jim watched him and writhed to think of possible damage to his horse's back and mouth. Billy, who was near, said reflectively, "Plenty b.u.mp!" and Murty O'Toole roundly rebuked Jim for "puttin' up an insult like that on a good horse!" They breathed more freely when Cecil came back, albeit the way in which he sawed at the bay's mouth was calculated to strike woe to the heart of any owner. Then Wally tried Garryowen, and finally Norah, having flown to the house for a riding skirt, had a ride also, and sailed over the log fence in a manner fully equal to Jim's. She came back charged with high compliment.

"He's nearly as good as Bobs, Jim!"

"Bobs!" said Jim, loftily. "We don't compare ponies with horses, my child!"

"Then he's not to be compared with Bobs!" Norah retorted st.u.r.dily, and, the laugh being on her side, retired quickly to dress for dinner.

Dinner was typical of Billabong, and an Australian Christmas--one with the thermometer striving to reach the hundred mark. Everything was cold, from the mammoth turkey, with which Mr. Linton wrestled, to the iced peaches that topped off what the boys declared "a corking feed."

There was plum pudding, certainly, but it was cold, too. Wally found in his piece no fewer than four b.u.t.tons; and, deeply aggrieved, went afterwards to remonstrate with Mrs. Brown, who was amazed, declaring she had put in but one, which to her certain knowledge had fallen to the unhappy lot of Sarah. Further inquiries revealed the fact that Jim had come to the table well supplied with b.u.t.tons, with which he had contrived to enrich Wally's portion as it travelled past him--which led to a battle on the lawn, until both combatants, too well fed and weak with mirth to fight, collapsed, and slept peacefully under a pine tree.

Later on the horses were saddled, and every one rode out to the river, where Brownie and the maids had already been driven by Fred Anderson, and where they picnicked for tea. Afterwards they lay on the soft gra.s.s, with the water murmuring past them, and Mr. Linton told them stories--for Christmas was ever, and will ever be, the time for stories.

Simple, straightforward tales, like the man himself: old Christmases overseas, and others in many parts of Australia--some that brought a sadder note into the speaker's voice, and made Norah draw herself along the gra.s.s until she came within touch of his hand. Words were never really needed between them--being mates.

So they stayed until the golden western sky had grown rose colour, and the rose glow faded into night, that brought with it a little cool breeze. Then the horses were saddled, and they rode home by the longest possible way, singing every imaginable chorus, from Good Old Jeff to the latest medley of pantomime ditties, and ending with a wild scurry across the paddock home. They all trooped into the house, waking its quietness to youth and laughter.

But David Linton called to Norah.

"Come on," he said, "we'll finish up with the real Christmas songs."

So they all gathered round the piano while Norah played, and joined in the old Christmas hymns and carols--none the less hearty in that they sang of frost and snow with all around them the yellowing plain, dried up by the scorching sun, and, beyond that, the unbroken line of the little trodden Bush. The young voices rang out cheerily, David Linton listening in his armchair, his hand over his eyes.

Norah was in bed when her father looked in, in pa.s.sing, to say good-night. She put up her face to him sleepily.

"It's been a beautiful Christmas, Daddy dear!" she said.

CHAPTER XI

"LO, THE POOR INDIAN!"

I mind the time when first I came A stranger to the land.

HENRY LAWSON.