Читать книгу Golden Fiddles - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 4

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IF you have never lived in the Australian country-side you cannot hope to realize the thrill of “Show Day.”

Even in the little towns, though it is the great day of the year, its full glory cannot be felt. Township folk have other thrills: there are parties, the never-failing interest of shops, the bustle of an occasional election, the surge of trains that pass and stop, with motors buzzing round the station and new faces in the streets. There are moving pictures, even in the tiny places that can boast no cinema theatre—to them, out of the blue, come men with cars, equipped with little machines, once a week, or perhaps once a fortnight; and after dark the buzzing and thudding of the engine outside the wooden township hall wakes delightful anticipation, and the rows of hard benches are packed with country-folk to watch the faraway world flit by. Very knowledgeable are the township children about Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford and a host of other film stars. Life can be full of interest wherever there is community living, even though that community be small; and so when the Show comes along it is but one among many breaks, though it be the chief. But to the people on the lonely farms—ah, you must have lived there to understand.

On many of those little farms one day is the same as another, week in, week out. Sometimes Sunday makes a break, but very often there is no church near enough—for people with cows to milk and young children to tend. The work must always be done, even on Sunday, when tasks are cut to a minimum. Often there are no neighbours within visiting distance: more often the mothers are too busy to visit even when neighbours are fairly near. Father may ride to the nearest township occasionally, since men have business with banks and stores and auctioneers, and there are cattle and sheep sales to attend: and those expeditions bring a flutter of excitement to the household, from the moment that Father, unwontedly shaven and tidy, rides off in the morning, to the evening hour when he comes home, with news of the outer world and with saddle-bags bulging with groceries. There is always a smothered feeling of anticipation over his return, for no one knows what he may have heard or seen in the haunts of men; perhaps, if things have gone well, there may be a woman’s magazine for Mother, a few cheap sweets for the children—sticky bull’s-eyes or “mixed drops,” handed over with—“There—now you youngsters, clear out and let me talk to Mum!” Then Billy and Gladys and Tommy retire to the great wood-heap in the back yard, counting the treasure and sucking in measureless content, while Mum nurses the baby and refills Dad’s cup, and listens with hungry ears to all he has to say. You might not think it very interesting, you who dwell in cities, but it is wonderfully heartening to Mum.

Now and then there are family trips to the township, but not often; when the distance is long it is no light matter to get the work done and the children tidy, and to drive the long miles over bush tracks in a jolting buggy or a rough spring-cart, with just time to rush through necessary shopping and get back again in time to milk. Great days for Tommy and Billy and Gladys, no doubt, but wearing for Mum; and when the children are young there are many mothers who do not leave the farms half a dozen times in the year. Letters and papers come occasionally, left in the box at the gate by passing mail-men: now and then there is the excitement of a stray visitor—generally an agent coming to inspect sheep, in whose honour Mum cooks a special dinner, hoping that enough pudding will be left for the children when they come home from the bush school. The weeks and months go by quickly, for time flies when people are busy packing as much work as possible into the waking hours of each day; and nobody expects anything but work. But just one day looms from year to year, the great shining occasion that every one shares; and that is Show Day.

Show Day, to the township, begins sometime before lunch. On the farms it rarely waits for daylight and it was not five o’clock when Bob Balfour came out into the yard to cast an anxious look at the sky. There had been ominous clouds the night before, but they had vanished during the darkness, so that the morning promised nothing but sunshine and heat. Bob gave a whoop of joy and raced over to the stable where Nigger had enjoyed the unwonted luxury of a night under cover and a feed of chaff—such distinctions as may fall to a pony who is to face the show-ring and possibly carry off a ribbon. The black head showed over the half-door, and you might almost have said that he greeted his master with a smile. Bob slipped a halter round his neck and led him out into the open, quivering with anxiety as to the effect of Cicero’s horn.

“Doesn’t show much,” he muttered, running his fingers lightly over the glossy quarter. “Anyhow, it ’ud only be a fool of a judge who’d call it a blemish. I think I’ll give him a bit of a rub-up.” He sought a brush, and spent a satisfying ten minutes in putting on a little more finish, which Nigger bore with the resigned surprise of a pony who rarely knows grooming. Mr. Balfour’s voice interrupted Bob’s serene enjoyment.

“You can’t spend too much time over that pony, Bob—he looks well enough. Hurry up and bring in the cows.”

Bob obeyed sorrowfully, leading Nigger back into the stable. He had no intention of taking any fire out of him by riding round the paddock: that was a task Barney might well accomplish on a Show morning, though on ordinary days Bob scorned him as a mount. Norman came down the hill with the milk-buckets as he drove the cows into the shed, and they hurried through the milking and the feeding of pigs and calves.

“I’ll wash the separator and the buckets,” Norman said. “You go and brush up Jess and put the harness on her, and I’ll come along and pack the vegetables.”

Jess was the bay mare who went with equal docility in the plough, the cart, or the buggy. Bob caught her and gave her the smallest amount of grooming that would pass muster. He was a youth who believed unnecessary work to be mere foolishness—and who was going to look at old Jess? He grinned privately to find that his father was oiling Cicero’s horns afresh, having brushed the bull until no more brushing was possible. Jess was harnessed and tied up under a wattle-tree with a feed of hay, and Norman appeared: the boys ran the long-backed buggy out into the yard and packed it with boxes and baskets of vegetables, carefully covered from the sun. Mr. Balfour’s horse, already saddled, shared the shade of the wattle-tree with Jess, and soon Nigger and Barney were ready for the road, for Elsa and Bob were to ride with their father in charge of Cicero, who could be heard grumbling horribly in his shed, clearly demanding of the world why a bull should be thus torn from the peace of his paddock. Presently Mr. Balfour hailed them from the veranda.

“Hurry up, boys! Bob, you’ll never be ready in time. That bull has to be on the ground at nine o’clock.”

“Cut along,” Norman said. “I’ll finish here.” And Bob fled like a hare.

He scrambled into his best suit, deeply resentful when his mother appeared to insist upon the need of soap and water. Breakfast was ready, and his father was at the table, uttering gloomy prophecies that every one would be late. Kitty and Elsa were packing lunch swiftly, and Mrs. Balfour had a score of tasks to accomplish in the intervals of cooking. They gathered round the table, eating with hurried preoccupation, the girls jumping up every minute to see to some forgotten item of preparation. Mr. Balfour finished his breakfast and pushed back his plate. He took an envelope from his pocket.

“I had better give you the entry cards for your exhibits,” he said. “Here are yours, Kitty—don’t leave them behind. Scones, sponge roll, small cakes, biscuits, six sorts of jam—is that right?”

“Elsa’s drawing and ornamental writing,” reminded Kitty.

“Oh, yes; here they are. Put them in one of your baskets at once, and they won’t be forgotten. Here are the vegetable cards, Norman. By the way, I entered the Collection in your name—you can have the prize if you win.”

Norman flushed deeply.

“I say, thanks awfully, Father,” he said in a low voice. “For the Bank.”

“Half must go in the Bank, if you win it—it’s a guinea, and that’s too much to throw about. You haven’t won it yet, anyhow,” he added grimly. “Bob and Elsa, I’m off in five minutes—are you ready?”

They were not ready, but they managed it, with the united aid of Mrs. Balfour, Kitty and Norman, who ran hither and thither, seeking for hats, whips, clean handkerchiefs and other details. “I haven’t had half enough breakfast,” Bob groaned, as he fled. “Do bring heaps of lunch, Mother!” She stood a moment to watch them mount. Norman was at the shed letting Cicero out, while Mr. Balfour, on his horse, waited to turn him down the track. The great bull came angrily, pausing to mutter and paw the ground; but three riders were ready for him and Norman behind him, and he decided that it was easier to be docile than to try to break away. The sun flashed on his dappled white sides and on Nigger’s smooth blackness as they went down the hill.

The mother waited for Norman as he came back to the house.

“I’m so glad about the Collection being in your name, Norman,” she said. Yet at the back of her mind there was an ache. It would have been so easy for Walter to tell them from the first—to give the boy the extra inducement in his work. He had yielded to her, and she was grateful: but what need was there to keep the concession a secret until the very last morning? If he would be kinder to the boy—more of a friend. The ache pricked sorely.

Norman had no such thoughts, however.

“Yes, jolly decent, isn’t it? By Jove, won’t it be a lark if I win! But he wouldn’t give me any money, Mother. I asked him just now if I could have a couple of shillings, but it was no go. He doesn’t seem to think a fellow ever needs a penny to spend.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling.

“Oh, I didn’t really expect it,” the boy said, smiling. “I’ll have a good time without it. But it does make one feel a bit small, when all the other boys have money. Don’t you worry, Mother. What’s the next thing to do?”

“You might help Kitty,” she said. “Take her exhibits out to the buggy, and the lunch as well: I think it’s all ready. Kitty has been going hard for hours, and I don’t want her to be tired.”

Kitty showed no signs of being tired. She sang cheerfully as she flitted about the kitchen putting away the breakfast dishes as she dried them.

“Oh, you are a dear to help!” she told Norman. “Yes, everything is packed. Handle that box of cakes carefully, Norman, and don’t put anything on top of it. The jam is all by itself in a candle-box—goodness knows how many pots will survive the bumps on the road! Mind that billy, it’s got all the cups inside it. I won’t fill the milk-bottles until the very last moment, or the milk will certainly be sour by afternoon tea-time. This is going to be a blazing day.”

“It is: and the sooner we’re on the road, the better, for Jess won’t hurry herself,” Norman said. He went to and fro rapidly until everything was in the buggy, by which time the kitchen was neat and shining.

“All your clothes are on your bed, Norman,” Kitty told him. “I ironed your tie, and it really doesn’t look so bad. Now I’m off to dress. Wish I had time for another bath!”

“Well, you haven’t—and don’t spend long in making yourself beautiful,” he warned her.

“Me?” uttered Kitty. “My old frock is what it was last year, and you can’t spend time in prinking when you’ve nothing to prink with. I’ll be ready in two twos.”

Mrs. Balfour came to Norman as he was putting on his coat. She cast a critical eye over him, with an inward sigh for the baggy shapelessness of the cheap country suit. A good-looking boy, this tall, lithe son of hers: she had dreams occasionally of seeing him dressed as some of the squatters’ sons dressed, in clothes bearing the stamp of a Melbourne tailor. But these were dreams she kept to herself. She pulled down his tie and straightened his coat, in the manner of mothers.

“Norman, here’s a shilling,” she said. “Yes, you’re to take it—and I’ve got sixpence for Bob. I hate your being penniless.”

“Oh, Mother, you’re a brick!” he said delightedly. “Sure you can manage it? Won’t there be a row?”

“Of course not—it’s my private hoard,” she said, laughing. The children knew as well as she did that there was no money in the house of Balfour except the meagre supplies doled out for necessaries by its head. The private hoard was an old joke—the mysterious dream-fund that was some day to supply motors and aeroplanes and new clothes beyond belief. It was part of the game of “let’s pretend” that she had always played with the children.

“And won’t you need it?” he asked. “Sixpence would be enough for me, truly, Mother.”

“Certainly not.” She pushed him towards the door. “Don’t spend it all on sweets.”

“Sweets—not much! I want it for side-shows. There was a ripping glass-blower in a tent last year, and I couldn’t go in. The boys said he was a wonder. And—I suppose I’m an awful fool, Mother, but I do love a merry-go-round. I’ve only been on one a couple of times, but I feel just like a kid when I go near one!

“Well, be a kid as long as you can, my boy,” she said. “Now we’re all ready—lock the door, Kitty; and hang the key in the walnut tree, and we’ll be off.”

Early as it was, there were many people on the tree-fringed bush track. People who had exhibits for the shed had to be in before ten o’clock: people who had none wanted to be there to see the exhibits staged and make shrewd forecasts as to prize-winners. There was no sense in not making the day as long as possible: it came but once a year. The Balfours were passed by motors and by buggies with horses faster than old Jess: they passed in their turn spring-carts and crowded drays—all crammed with happy people dressed in their best. Scarcely a soul could have been left at home on the farms. Little boys, uncomfortably glorious in best suits and white collars: little girls with stiffly-frizzed hair: grave fathers, smoking contentedly as they drove, and comfortable mothers holding babies and bundles and keeping an anxious eye on the small fry in the back seats. The crowd thickened as they drew near the town and came in sight of the Show-ground, where flags fluttered from the long wooden hall known as the Shed—the heart of the Show for women, where all household exhibits were staged. People were pouring in at the gate, foot-passengers dodging motors and buggies, while restless horses pranced in the crush and perspiring officials shouted directions which nobody heeded. The noise of animals in the pens rose over the light-hearted chatter of the crowd: sounds of sheep and cattle, and from time to time the shrill neigh of a thoroughbred horse.

“Well, I’m glad to be through that gate,” Norman remarked, as he drove into the ground and pulled up beside the Shed. “Worst of old Jess is, you can never be sure she won’t go to sleep just when a motor is about to bump into her! Only half-past nine, so we didn’t do too badly. I’ll carry your things in first, Kit; come and tell me where to put them.”

The long hall was like a hive and heavy with the scent of flowers. Already they made a brave show, arranged on the tables running down the middle, and more were being constantly added as exhibitors hurried in. They sought despairingly for space to arrange them and ran backwards and forwards, bearing water-cans and vases. On shelves along the sides were displays of cookery, with jams, jellies, pickles, home-cured bacon, and mighty erections of butter, that even now showed signs of feeling the heat. There were long lines of fruit and vegetables and farm produce; a bewildering array of every variety of needlework known to woman; sections for children’s school-work and sections for “Art” and photographs, and sections for everything else that busy hands could make. Stewards with rosettes of ribbon on their coats dashed here and there, showing people where to place their exhibits and trying to answer fifty questions at once and to find room for fifty exhibits where there was space for only twenty. Women were greeting each other in the crowd with the delighted interest only possible when the meeting comes but once a year. Over all was the feeling of hurry and excitement, for the Shed was supposed to close for judging at ten o’clock—not that it ever did!—and every one wanted to see the display before the dense crowd of the afternoon would fill it to suffocation.

The Balfours knew just where their exhibits should go, so that it was not long before their empty boxes were packed away in the buggy and they were free to mingle with the crowd. Norman had had enough of the Shed, and he went off to leave the buggy in a conveniently shady place for their picnic lunch and then to wander round the wide grounds, already full of thrills for any country boy. The ring in the middle was still empty, for the judging of horses had not begun; but in long rows of pens sheep and cattle and pigs were to be inspected, to say nothing of sheds where frantic barking and cackling indicated the massed bands of dogs and poultry. Motor salesmen were eloquently urging the merits of their cars on crowds who pressed to see them: machinery in action clanked and thudded. And there were the side-shows, dear to every country heart: fat women, skeleton men, snake-charmers, negro boxers, mammoth pigs and midget ponies, all housed in tents in front of which their proprietors rent the air with appeals to the public: “Walk in! Walk in and see the Greatest Wonder of the World!” The merry-go-round was in full swing, grinding out a jigging tune while its brave steeds and gaily-painted cars whirled round, packed with laughing children and excitedly screaming girls. And there was everybody Norman had ever known, to say nothing of hundreds of strangers; and at every few yards seemingly benevolent men begged that he would purchase three darts for a penny and throw them at a board, so that they might present him with rings and tie-pins and magnificent brooches. It was small wonder that his shilling vanished like a snowflake in a volcano.

But he was back at the Shed door when it reopened after the judging, and fought his way with a beating heart through the surging crowd within. Old See Ying, the Chinese market-gardener, was just in front of him: he also showed vegetables, and so did Miss Berrill, who owned the finest farm on the Creek. They were both rich—See Ying was reported to have untold gold hidden in his frowsy hut—and didn’t need the prize as he did, but he was horribly afraid of them: Miss Berrill had sea-kale in her collection, and salsify, and other queer things that nobody else grew. Then he was suddenly aware of Kitty’s face, a study of delight, and she had brushed past the Chinese and caught his arm.

“Oh, you’ve won, Norman! You’ve won!”

“Go on!” he gasped, hardly able to believe his ears. “What?”

“The Collection! And beans and parsnips and second for pumpkins! Come and look!”

They battled to the shelves. It was really true—there was the blue card with gold lettering and his own name scrawled in pencil. “Best Collection of Vegetables—Norman W. Balfour.” It was unbelievable: he looked again and again, hardly daring to trust his eyes. Then he drew a long breath.

“By Jove!” Suddenly a thought came to him. “What about your things?”

“Haven’t looked,” said Kitty, laughing. “I wanted to see this first.”

“Oh, Kit!” was all he said. But he caught her arm and piloted her through the crowd with such determination that they reached the cookery section in a wonderfully short time. And there was more glory—for blue cards with Kitty’s name leaned negligently against her biscuits and sponge roll, and the red card for second place sat upon her scones, which reduced Kitty to such imbecility that she could only gape through the wire netting that now guarded the exhibits and laugh and quiver. When she had recovered some measure of sanity they discovered that one of her entries for jam was first; after which, dazed and drunken with success, it seemed only natural to find that Elsa’s drawing had also scored. Indeed, Elsa was there to see, regarding her blue card with the air of one who dreams dreams and sees visions. Then it was necessary to join forces and battle round the hall once more to make certain that nobody had made a mistake; after which the three hurtled from the Shed and dashed, pell-mell, across the grass to find their mother.

Mrs. Balfour was unpacking luncheon-baskets. She had declined to face the crush in the Shed. But no one knew how many anxious glances of nervous impatience she had cast towards the long brown building. “If only they could each win just one thing!” she breathed.

Then she saw them racing to her, and she knew that only winners could run with such abandonment of joy. But when the full glory of the results was shouted at her by three voices at once she could do nothing but gasp.

“Not all those prizes! Oh, darlings, I can’t take it in! Tell me quietly—you, Kitty.”

But they couldn’t tell her quietly. Kitty tried, but the others broke in, laughing and excited, and drawings, parsnips and jam mingled in a jumble of bubbling words: until finally she found a scrap of pencil and made a list of the successes on the back of an envelope.

“Fancy being able to make a list!—and I had hoped for two or three, if we were very lucky!” she breathed. “Isn’t it wonderful? And how rich you’ll be!”

That sobered them, and they added up prize-money. A guinea for Norman, eighteen shillings for Kitty, five shillings for Elsa!—you have to be as completely penniless as the young Balfours to guess at what it meant. They fell to planning the spending of it in a hundred ways.

“Doesn’t seem fair that Kit gets less than I do, and with four prizes against one,” said Norman. “But, then, she can do what she likes with hers, and half of mine vanishes into the Bank. I hate the Bank!”

“I wish they’d pay the money to-day instead of weeks ahead,” said Kitty. “Mother, do you suppose Father would advance us a little of it? We’d pay him back.”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Balfour hesitated. “He may not have any to spare. But we can ask him. I wonder how Bob has got on?”

“No luck,” Norman answered, shaking his head. “Nigger was turned out of the ring quite early in the judging of the hack ponies. But, of course, he’s still got a chance in the school-pony class. Tell you what. Kit, if Father will advance us any of our money we’ll each give him a shilling. That will help to console him.”

“Yes, and I’ll give him sixpence,” Elsa put in. “That’s more money than Bob ever had in his life—or me either,” she added thoughtfully and ungrammatically. “Now, if Father has only won with Cicero, everything will be beautiful.” She gave a long sigh. “Isn’t it exciting to be rich? I’ve often wondered how it must feel to put your hand in your pocket and find money there!”

“Well, you can’t do it yet,” said Norman practically.

“No, but I know it’s coming true. Here’s Father, and he looks quite cheerful. You tell him, Mother.”

Mr. Balfour was unusually good-humoured, for Cicero had been placed first. He smiled upon his family’s delight, and heard the tale of the Shed successes with real pleasure.

“By Jove, that’s good!” he said. “Well done, children! The Balfours have scored to-day, and no mistake. Well, we can do with a bit of luck—it isn’t very much that comes our way.”

“And we want some of the money now, Father,” put in Elsa, striking while the iron was hot. Elsa could always do more with their father than the others. “Just a little,” she added hastily, seeing him frown. “We’ll pay you back. Every one has a little money to spend on Show Day. And Bob hasn’t won, and we want to give him some.”

“You’ll only fritter it,” he said.

“Ah, they don’t get a chance to fritter much, Walter,” Mrs. Balfour begged. “Just a couple of shillings each. I think they deserve it.”

“Well, they do,” he said. “They’ve worked hard, I’ll say that for them.” He felt less at odds with the world: not only had his bull won, but a man from another district had made an offer to buy him at a price that tempted him to sell. He put his hand in his pocket and brought out some silver, looking at it as though he found it hard to let it go. “There’s two shillings for each of you—and for Bob too,” he said. “You needn’t pay it back, either. But don’t imagine this is going to happen every year!”

“I say, you’re jolly good, Father!” Norman said, while the girls uttered incoherent thanks. The marvel of the shining coins almost took away their breath. Money! And theirs to spend without question! This was indeed a dream-day.

“That’s all right,” Mr. Balfour said gruffly. “Now we’d better hurry up and have lunch. I want to get back to the cattle-pens.”

“I’ll go for the hot water,” Norman said eagerly. He took the tin billy with its little bag of tea and hurried to where a great copper boiler of water bubbled over a fire and a man was filling tea-pots and kettles and cans for scores of picnickers. Even there he found something of the joy of the winner: a farmer said, “My word, you can grow great parsnips up your way, sonny!” And Miss Berrill, whom he had hated for her sea-kale and salsify, leaned from the car where she was eating sandwiches and congratulated him. “You beat me fairly, and I’m glad you won, Norman,” she said. He thanked her awkwardly, feeling that he had been a brute to call her “old Miss Berrill”—why, she didn’t look old at all, and she beat him in generosity. “I’ll give you some sea-kale roots for next year, if you like,” she called after him. No one but an awfully good sort would have made an offer like that. He went back to the buggy with a glowing face.

The afternoon went by on wings. The wonderful glass-blower was again to be seen, and Norman took his mother to watch him working in his hot little tent. It was the first time in his life that he had been able to pay for her, and the experience gave him a strange new pride. As for the pride of Mrs. Balfour, there are no words to depict it. Had the glass-blower been the sorriest failure imaginable she would have watched him with delight as eager. The two happy faces caught the eye of Miss Berrill.

“I never knew how young and pretty that Mrs. Balfour was,” she told her brother. “She looks like that big boy’s elder sister.”

“Poor soul, she can’t have much of a time,” he said. “Balfour has a hungry bit of country, and they must be deadly poor.”

“She has a rich look this afternoon,” Miss Berrill said quaintly. “Something has made her happy. I’m glad I didn’t win that guinea.”

Norman and his mother and the girls wandered among the stock-pens after the glass-blower’s show was over. There were plenty of people admiring Cicero, whose blue card was tacked to the fence of his pen, round which the great bull moved restlessly. Everywhere they met people they knew, and stopped to talk, and there were more friendly congratulations. They found places near the ring, to watch the horse events, hacks, trotters, harness-horses and jumpers, in a long succession. Miss Berrill made them join her party for afternoon tea, and that in itself was a great event. Norman was uplifted, though he felt shy and awkward, conscious that his suit was not like the clothes of the other boys who clustered round the car, joking and laughing. But it made him proud to see his mother’s quiet ease, despite her shabby frock. She was as good as anyone there, and Kitty and Elsa didn’t seem a bit embarrassed. Some one said in his hearing how pretty Kitty was, and it gave him a little thrill. Some day, he vowed inwardly, the girls should have a chance—decent clothes, and a car, and a chance to mix with the right sort of people. It was not clear how this miracle was to happen, but one never knew.

They were still grouped round Miss Berrill’s car when the school ponies came into the ring. It was always a popular event, and every one crowded to look. This was the chance for all the good old pony-friends that had no hope in sections where breeding and soundness and freedom from blemishes counted: the school ponies were judged for their general fitness for carrying children, and each must have not less than two riders. A neat bay went round, bearing three little girls in white frocks, and people buzzed with admiration: there were many others with two jockeys, several with three, and one sturdy cob had four. Norman looked anxiously for Nigger and Bob.

Bob had not sought his family much during the day. He had hosts of friends of his own age, with whom he had had a royal time, merely appearing at intervals to be fed. His unexpected accession to wealth had rendered him speechless for a time: but he recovered, and it is safe to say that no money expended that day on the ground had given more delirious joy than Bob’s two shillings. It was all gone now, but the memory of its going would last him for many a day.

He had selected his riders carefully: there was no lack of applicants for the honour, but Bob had his own ideas as to size, weight, and common sense, and the choice had taken time. At the last moment one boy had disappeared, and to find him had not been easy: so that all the other ponies were in the ring when he rode up to the gap in the fence at last—Nigger bearing himself nobly under the weight of four small boys. Others ran beside, encouraging the quartette to victory.

“There he is at last,” Norman said. “He’s got a good set of little chaps. Wonder what he’s waiting for.”

Bob had checked Nigger at the entrance to the ring. His face had fallen. He had thought Nigger would be the only pony with four riders—and before him, trotting sedately round, was a wretched brown cob, also with four. He groaned. Then, like a good general, he acted swiftly.

Near him, running alongside, was a tiny boy, the brother of one of his other riders. Already he had begged to ride, and had been scornfully refused, but now greatness was to be thrust upon him. Bob whistled to him, with a quick call to a bystander—“Give him a leg up, will you?”—and in a moment the little lad had been sandwiched in between Bob and the second boy. There was a roar of laughter from the crowd as the much-enduring Nigger trotted into the ring with five small boys on his back.

Bob recked nothing of laughter. Nigger could manage it, he knew: he should manage it, anyhow, and he stirred him with his heel and spoke to him—“C’m up, Nigger, old chap!”

Nigger did not like it. Two, or even three, riders were no new thing, but never before had he been draped with boys from neck to tail. It annoyed him; it excited him; and old as he was, the fire of youth came back to him and he would gladly have “pig-jumped” and rid himself swiftly of so unreasonable a burden. But with all the will in the world, it is difficult to pig-jump with five riders, and Nigger found he could not do it. Still, the curbed longing had its effect, lending a vigour to his paces that fairly amazed Norman.

“I say, that’s a great pony!” said Ralph Stratton, a squatter’s son whom he knew slightly. “He goes as if he liked having five on his back!”

Norman was shaking with mirth.

“It’s just because he doesn’t like it,” he laughed. “He’s in a thundering bad temper, and he’ll get rid of them all if they don’t look out. Bob’s only hope is that the judging will be over quickly.”

“They’re calling them in,” said Ralph. “Look at the little beggar—he goes as if he were on springs!”

It was, indeed, with the energy of offended majesty that Nigger cantered across to the judge among the other ponies, and stood still to ponder on his next move. He had almost decided to lie down and roll, to get rid of his load, when his plans were checked by the judge, who came and stroked his neck while he talked in a friendly fashion to Bob and patted the head of the youngest jockey, who was by this time flattened almost out of human likeness, but still was bubbling with joy. They seemed interested in him, so Nigger decided to postpone lying down for a moment, until the judge had moved away. Then some one tied a piece of blue ribbon into his bridle and gave Bob a blue card, and a red one to the brown cob: and suddenly Bob’s heel roused him, and before he knew what was happening he was cantering round the ring again, with the brown cob behind him, and the three little girls on the bay pony behind the brown cob. There was cheering and laughter and clapping: sounds that put the finishing touch to Nigger’s irritation. Just as they completed their round of the course he paused, made a great effort, and flung his heels high in the air.

Four mothers shrieked as one: five small boys left their perch and shot skywards. But small boys are hard to kill. The five picked themselves up from the grass and bolted out of the ring, while the crowd rocked with laughter and the judge scratched his head and remarked to a steward that if that had happened three minutes earlier the blue ribbon would have gone elsewhere.

“I don’t know,” said the amused steward reflectively. “It’s a handy thing for a school-pony to be able to get rid of too many riders.”

“Possibly—but one doesn’t give him first prizes for it,” said the judge, with some bitterness. “However, it’s too late to worry now.”

Bob was well aware that it was too late, and there was nothing but triumph in his heart as he scrambled to his feet and ran after Nigger. That sage pony had trotted quietly out of the ring and was grazing peacefully in the outer ground, his annoyance forgotten. Indeed, he looked almost apologetically at Bob when he arrived, and stood in lamb-like fashion to be saddled. The four other riders clustered about them, drunk with joy, and recking little of the green grass-stains on their best suits; the crowd patted them all impartially on the back, chaffing them on their downfall. Norman, Kitty and Elsa arrived, excited and triumphant. Beyond doubt, it was a great day for the Balfours. In the midst of his glory Bob felt a sudden hunger for his mother, and he mounted and rode in search of her.

It was nearly five o’clock; already people who lived at a distance were preparing for departure. A long string of buggies and motors moved slowly towards the gate. At five the Shed closed to all save exhibitors, and the wire-nettings were taken down so that they might retrieve their possessions and claim the precious prize-cards that would long be treasured in many bush homes. The girls hurried to the Shed, to collect everything, while Norman went for the boxes. There, everything was hurry and bustle and interest, with much merriment and talk going on over the packing. Flowers, no longer needed by their exhibitors, were pressed on township women who had no gardens; cookery triumphs changed hands, Mrs. Brown bearing home Miss Smith’s sausage-rolls, while Miss Smith packed Mrs. Brown’s biscuits, to be eaten slowly and reflectively with a view to finding out the secrets of their composition. Miss Berrill paused for a moment beside Kitty, looking kindly at the flushed, pretty face.

“That is a beautiful sponge roll of yours, Kitty. I never get them like that—mine always crack dismally.”

“Do take it, Miss Berrill.” Kitty pressed it upon her, eagerly. “Please—I’d love you to have it.”

“Well, if I do, you must have my plum-cake. It didn’t win a prize, but it’s not a bad cake, if I do say it myself.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Kitty said. “A roll is nothing—but a big plum-cake like that, and such a beauty! It wouldn’t be fair.”

“But I’ve nothing else to exchange, and I do want your roll. Why, it’s a prize-winner, and my old cake wasn’t even mentioned! Rubbish, my dear—of course you must take it!” She packed it into Kitty’s basket decisively, smiling at her doubtful expression.

“I didn’t want any exchange, Miss Berrill.”

“I know you didn’t. We haven’t exchanged—we’ve given each other a present. And anyhow, I hate plum-cake!” She smiled at her very kindly. “Come and see me sometime and bring that nice brother and sister with you.”

Kitty flushed.

“I’d love to come,” she said. “But——”

“Oh, don’t talk ‘buts.’ I’ll arrange it some day soon.” She nodded good-bye and rolled off down the shed, her tall figure conspicuous in its smart tailor-made coat and skirt, her jolly voice constantly raised in friendly greetings. Other women were stopping to congratulate Kitty on her prizes: the school-teacher, the post-mistress, half a dozen farmers’ wives. Little Mrs. Green, whose husband ran the local newspaper, came up with a plate of cheese-straws of surpassing quality. “Pop them in—you’ve a long road home, and they’ll be nice to nibble,” said she. She was a tiny woman, with a heart as big as all outdoors: never too busy to help, never too hurried to be kind. Norman, arriving at the moment, shouted gleefully.

“Good business!—and I’m driving! Nobody makes cheese-straws like you, Mrs. Green. Where’s your car? I want to put some of these vegetables in it.” He brushed aside her protestations, striding off with his arms full, and Mrs. Green relieved her feelings by helping Kitty to pack jams—contriving to slip into the box some of her own pickles, for she was a mighty housewife.

“There seems more there than there ought to be,” said Kitty, surveying the box with a doubtful air.

“And if there is?” said Mrs. Green loftily. “Here, Norman—this is ready.” She saw him carry it off, and disappeared with a laughing “Good-bye—more luck next year!”

It was all over at last, and they were in the buggy and through the press at the gate. Ahead on their ponies were Elsa and Bob; to them the final touch of ecstasy lay in the fact that Cicero had been sold, so that it would not be necessary to drive him home, crawling at a foot’s pace behind him when every nerve was urging them to gallop. They raced ahead with a dozen other excited youngsters—you would have said that old Nigger was fully aware of the blue ribbon knotted into his bridle.

“Well, it’s all over for another year,” said Kitty, with a long sigh. The thought of the drab home life ahead smote at her suddenly, but she put it from her with resolution.

“All over,” said Norman. “And to-morrow I clean out the pigsty. But hasn’t it been a day!”