Читать книгу Billabong's Luck - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 11

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BILL BLAKE arrived at Cunjee Station two days later; travelling, as was his custom, as a privileged passenger in the guard’s van. Relatives might—and did—purchase him a ticket, but Bill and the guard were old allies, and the hospitality of the van was always his. Part of the joy of coming to Billabong was the long journey up, sharing the work at each station, and yarning sociably to the guard in the intervals. Bill possessed a knowledge of the inside working of a railway that is denied to most boys of twelve: a circumstance that made him an object of interest and envy to his form at school. The engine-driver was also a friend, and on more than one glorious occasion he had travelled on the engine for part of the way. He had actually been allowed to drive: but only Jim knew this. For Bill was a person of loyalty, and he knew that it was not a matter to be made public. He had made an exception in Jim’s case because with regard to such an achievement it was necessary to have at least one confidant—or burst.

Bill swung out of the van in truly professional style before the train stopped. He bade a manly farewell to the guard, and cast a glance up and down the platform, expecting to see Jim’s long figure.

“We’re ahead of time,” said the guard. “He’ll be along presently. Here’s your things, mate. See you when you’re goin’ back.”

Bill collected his lighter luggage, leaving his trunk to take care of itself, and hurried up the platform. The stationmaster greeted him cheerfully.

“Hullo, young man! I thought it was about time for you to turn up again.”

Bill grinned happily. At first sight no one could have called him good-looking, since a snub nose, innumerable freckles, and violently red hair do not make for beauty. It was when he smiled that people suddenly decided that they liked Bill.

“I’ve been thinking it was about time for a long while,” he agreed. “Are they here, Mr. West?”

“Haven’t seen ’em—and you’re apt to see them if they’re anywhere near, aren’t you?” said the stationmaster. “I expect they’ll turn up any minute.” He waved the train away and possessed himself of Bill’s ticket. “Stow your things on that seat and have a look if they’re in sight.”

Bill went off, his eager feet breaking into a run. Outside the station, the road that led to the township was empty of all traffic save for a dilapidated buggy waiting for the mail-bags. He sat on the fence, watching for the cloud of dust that would herald the Billabong car. One rose presently, and he jumped down expectantly; but it was only a battered Ford truck laden with milk-cans that jangled furiously as the truck bumped by. Bill returned to the fence and whistled a tune to convince himself that he didn’t mind.

Half an hour passed slowly. Then the stationmaster appeared.

“I say—no sign of ’em? Wonder what’s up. P’raps they’ve had a breakdown.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” said Bill, gloomily. “They never were late before.”

“Tell you what—we’ll telephone,” said the stationmaster, brilliantly. “I can get on to Billabong from here.”

Several minutes’ agitation with the telephone produced no result. Then, as Bill was beginning to decide that Billabong must have been burned down, with all inhabitants, West’s harassed face relaxed.

“Here you are, son—got ’em at last. It’s old Mrs. Brown. Catch hold.”

“Hullo, Brownie!” said Bill. “It’s me.”

“Who’s ‘me’?” demanded a flustered voice. The telephone, as Bill knew, always had a disorganizing effect on Brownie.

“Me—Bill. Nobody’s here.”

“It’s never Master Bill!” said a far-off squeak.

“Yes, it is, then,” stated Bill, beginning to feel annoyed.

“But where are you?”

“Why, at Cunjee, of course.”

“Cunjee!” The squeak had become a wail. “But why didn’t you say you were coming?”

“I did,” protested Bill. “Telegraphed yesterday. Didn’t you get it?”

“Never a sign of it. Oh, won’t Mr. Jim be wild! An’ they’re all over at Mr. Bob’s. Went off early to spend the day.”

“I say!” uttered Bill, feeling suddenly cold. “What’ll I do, Brownie?”

“There’s not a man about,” said the troubled old voice. “Only me an’ the girls; all the rest are out on the run somewhere. You let me think a minute, dearie.” There was a pause. “Listen, Master Bill—you go down to the hotel an’ get them to bring you out in their car. Tell ’em it’s for Mr. Linton—they’ll know you.”

“Sure it’s all right? It’ll cost an awful lot, won’t it?” piped Bill.

“Never you mind that. It’s the only thing to do. You hurry along. Master Bill, my dear, an’ I’ll be lookin’ out for you.”

Bill replaced the receiver and explained matters to West.

“Well, that’ll be the best way,” agreed that official. “Off you go, son; your things’ll be all right.”

At the hotel, however, help was not forthcoming. The only car was away, out at a sale in the country; so, indeed were most of the men of the little township.

“Won’t be back till all hours, neither,” said the landlady, much concerned. “We’ll have to put you up here for the night—unless they send in from Billabong after they get home. I guess they’ll do that.”

Bill pondered the matter, trying to feel cheerful.

“I would walk it before dark,” he said. “That’s the best plan, I think.”

The landlady gasped.

“Walk! Why, it’s fourteen miles!”

“Oh, I’ll get a lift part of the way, most likely. There’s always someone on that road.”

“It’s a mad idea, if you ask me,” asserted the landlady. “You just wait here, like a good boy.”

There was an obstinate streak in Bill, and it was uppermost at the moment. To his disappointed mind anything was better than hanging about the little township. Also, there was a flavour of adventure in setting out by himself; and you never knew where an adventure might lead you. He set his jaw stubbornly.

“No, I won’t wait, thanks. I’ll like walking. And I’m sure to get a lift.” He cut short the woman’s protests by raising his cap and walking off.

He decided that it was rather a jolly adventure as he went briskly along the gravelled road that led out towards Billabong. After the long hours in the train his legs wanted stretching; and the coolness of the spring afternoon made walking very pleasant. There was no one on the road, nor did he want anyone—yet. Later on, he admitted to himself, he would be glad of a lift. He felt independent, nearly grown-up. This was what Jim would have done if he had been left stranded—run his own show, without bothering anybody. And Bill’s deepest ambition was to do the sort of thing Jim would have done.

He was a good walker, and the first three or four miles went by easily. There had been a time in Bill’s life—it was part of a bad time to which he did not care to look back—when the sights and sounds of the country had meant nothing to him. Billabong and its people had taught him to see and hear; now he was alive to every bird, every animal, that came within his range. It was glorious to be out in the open spaces that he loved, picking up the familiar landmarks; knowing that each moment brought him nearer Billabong.

He was well out of Cunjee before it occurred to him that he should have telephoned again to Brownie. She would be expecting him in the hotel car: perhaps worrying. He hesitated, glancing back. The township looked a long way off.

“Oh, Brownie’s got sense,” he muttered. “She’ll think the car’s had a puncture or something. I’ll chance it.” So he strode on.

The gravelled road came to an end, merging into the familiar bush track of hard-beaten earth. For a car it would have been worse going, for there were many ruts and pot-holes; but it was softer walking, and Bill welcomed it: he could avoid ruts that a car would have taken heavily. It meant, too, that another stage of the journey was over. The dust settled on his boots and on his blue suit. Even that was welcome to him—you didn’t get dusty in Melbourne, he reflected happily. Melbourne, and the trimness it demanded of a boy, seemed like a page that he had firmly closed down. He whistled as he went.

Far ahead, a slow-moving cloud of dust resolved itself into a bullock-team; a dray piled high with wood, drawn by a team of a dozen bullocks, plodding heavily along, their driver walking beside them, flicking occasionally with his long whip. Bill welcomed the sight delightedly, taking to the grass by the wayside to let them go by.

The driver looked at him with some amazement; one did not often meet in the bush a well-turned-out boy, wearing the cap of a Melbourne school. Bullock-drivers are leisurely folk: he halted his team to exchange a word with the traveller.

“G’d day, son. Goin’ far?”

“Out to Billabong,” said Bill.

“Billabong! Not walkin’?”

“Yes, I am. They didn’t know I was coming.”

“Well, you’re a tough ’un,” said the driver. “Reckon you’ll have had enough by the time you get there. Havin’ holidays?”

Bill nodded.

“ ’Twouldn’t be my idea of a holiday to tramp this track. I do it too often. Give me Melbun,” said the driver. “I’ll get down there for the Show if I’m lucky. See lots of your chaps out there always. One of ’em was ridin’ a pony over the jumps last year; he could ride, too.”

“Yes, I know him,” said Bill. “He’s in my form. Those are nice bullocks of yours.”

“Not too bad. Not a better pair in the district than them leaders. They know as much as I do. Well, I suppose you want to be gettin’ along—you ain’t got too much time if you want to strike Billabong before dark. So-long, son.”

“So-long.” The driver shouted and cracked his whip—“C’up, Bawley! Darkey!” The team rolled off, the dust rising again.

Bill went on, feeling that he had talked as man to man. That was one of the jolly things about the country; everyone was sociable and friendly. You didn’t have to wait to be introduced; and people talked about sensible things. He was glad he had said that about the bullocks; the man had liked it.

He fell to thinking of Jim as he plodded on. That was one of the ideas that Jim had put into his head in their long talks, riding slowly after cattle: that it was rather decent to say things that people liked.

Jim had been careful over it. “You don’t want to be sloppy. A man’s a fool who goes about paying silly compliments. There’s only one bigger fool—the fellow who goes round saying things that hurt. Between the two is the man who goes a shade out of his way to say something that gives pleasure. It isn’t a hard knack to acquire. Queer thing is, too, that when you do it you find all sorts of jolly things you didn’t expect. So it greases the wheels all round.”

Bill could hear the deep slow voice; the short, clipped sentences had stuck in his memory. He did not know that Jim had planned the advice deliberately for a boy who had thought all the world unfriendly. If anyone else had said it Bill would have thought it “all rot.” But because Jim had said it, it could not be anything but sense. He trusted Jim absolutely. So he had tried the plan, awkwardly enough at first; and he had found that it worked. People were really friendly, when you came to know them—they even said nice things to him, Bill Blake, who used to go through the world in the attitude of expecting a blow. Yes—it paid.

A horse’s slow trot sounded behind him. He glanced round. A boy on a grey pony was coming—evidently he was a butcher’s boy, for he carried a big basket, from which protruded the shank of a leg of mutton. He grinned at Bill, dropping into a walk beside him.

“That chap with the bullicks said you was walkin’ out to Billabong. Some walk, ain’t it? ’Spose you wouldn’t like a lift?”

“Wouldn’t I!” rejoined Bill. “But you’ve got that basket.”

“Oh, we could manage it. This pony’s pretty steady. I’m only goin’ three miles, but it ’ud be better than nothin’.”

“Rather!” Bill said, gleefully.

“Well, I’ll bring her up to that log an’ you hop on. Can you ride?” asked the boy, as an afterthought.

“Oh, yes. At least, I’m all right by myself—I never tried double-banking.”

“Well, all you got to do is to sit on her,” said his new friend, practically. He edged the little mare beside the log, and Bill got on behind the saddle. It was a large saddle for a pony, so that it did not leave him much to sit on; and what there was could not have been called comfortable, being much too wide for his legs. To Bill, however, the mere feel of a horse was joy. Even with his nose close to a very greasy shirt, and with the sharp corner of the basket afflicting his leg, he was happy.

The pony was less cheerful. She sidled off uneasily. It was evident that she considered that one boy and a meat-basket was as much as she ought to be asked to endure.

“Hope she don’t root,” said the boy, cheerfully. “Better hang on to me—not too hard, ’cause I’m ticklish. Get along, Daisy, you old ass.”

Daisy “got along,” but without enjoyment. Her hindquarters moved uneasily under Bill. Then she decided that to show her indignation would be more wearing than to go quietly, and she fell into her usual “butcher’s jog.” Bill found that he bumped far more than he liked. Occasionally he had to clutch the boy in a way that made that benefactor squirm violently. The greasy masses of meat in the basket, imperfectly wrapped in gory scraps of newspaper, sent up an odour that would have offended sensitive nostrils, had there been any about. The boys did not notice it.

They exchanged names and other minor confidences as they jogged along. The butcher boy’s name was Ernie, and his life’s ambition was to become a circus-rider. Practising for this had already cost him one job, but this incident had failed to shake his determination. Bill gathered that Daisy was used for exercises in a way that would have horrified her owner, had he known anything about it. The description made him resolve privately to imitate them on a Billabong pony.

Thus the time passed pleasantly until a gate came in sight.

“That’s where I turn in,” Ernie said, regretfully. “Sorry I can’t take you any farther.”

“That’s all right,” returned Bill. “It’s been a jolly good lift. I’m——”

A motor-cycle whizzed round a bend in the track, with a lank youth crouching over the handlebars. Daisy sprang aside with a snort of horror. Bill kicked her violently in his effort to retain his balance, and the combination of evils was too much for Daisy. She “pig-rooted” vindictively, flinging her heels higher at each attempt, trying to get her head down to buck in earnest.

The leg of mutton was first to go. It shot into the air, followed in quick succession by the other parcels of meat. One caught Daisy on the head, increasing her wrath. Bill had not thought she could become more active, but she did. He tried to dig in his knees, clutching Ernie desperately. Then the basket went. Ernie clung to it as long as he could, until the torment of its assault on his leg became too great to bear any longer. Then he cast it from him, and Daisy promptly put her foot in it.

There was a crunching of stout wicker-work and a dismayed howl from Ernie. Daisy plunged madly; her hindquarters shot up, and Bill, losing his grip, shot with them. He sailed into the air, described a neat curve, and came down, luckily for himself, in a thick patch of ragwort. Scrambling into a sitting position, he beheld the saddle turn. Ernie kicked his feet free of the stirrups just in time, and landed on his back on the grass.

He was up in a moment, still gripping the rein. Daisy had stopped, looking as foolish as a pony may, with one foot still in a basket. Ernie caught her leg and hauled it up, releasing her. He groaned.

“Made a nice mess of it, the old cow! New basket too, it was. I’ll catch it all right, when the boss sees it. You hurt, Bill?”

“Not me!” said Bill—and broke into a shout of laughter. Ernie stared at him for a moment and followed suit, in a high cackle. They laughed until they could laugh no more.

“Must ’a looked funny, an’ no error,” said Ernie. “My word, look at the meat! It’s pretty well scattered. You fix the saddle, an’ I’ll pick up the bits.”

He did so, rubbing grass and dirt from them with his shirt-sleeve.

“They’ll cook all right, I guess. But the basket’s a worse job. Just my luck to meet that feller on the bike. That’s Joe Wicks—he lives eighteen mile out, an’ they say his bike only touches the ground three times on the way in, when he’s in a hurry!”

“He was in a hurry to-day right enough,” said Bill. “I say, Ernie, I’ve got five bob. You have it, ’cause of the basket.”

Ernie stared at him.

“Well, you’re a good sort. You can’t spare all that, can you?”

“Yes, I can. You take it.”

The boy hesitated, flushing.

“Well, I don’t like takin’ it off you, but I’m stone-broke meself. Had me wages stopped last week, ’cause I let the flies into the meat-house. Boss said he’d sack me next time I did a fool thing.”

“Well, here you are,” said Bill, awkwardly. Two half-crowns changed hands—both boys shy and embarrassed.

“Tell you what,” said Ernie, suddenly. “I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb—not that that old leg ever came off any lamb!” he added, professionally. “I’ll stick the basket inside the gate—it’ll be all right there—and I’ll take you a bit further along. We can make the pace without the basket, an’ it’ll teach Daisy a lesson.”

“By Jove!” said Bill. “You’re a brick!”

They were on the pony’s back in a moment. Daisy was subdued by her exertions: she made no protest when Ernie urged her into a hard canter. They made the most of every yard of level going for another three miles. Then, at a creek, beyond which rose a long hill, Ernie pulled up.

“I don’t dare go any farther,” he said, regretfully. “Wish I could.”

“Don’t you worry,” responded Bill, slipping off. “This has been a ripping help. I say, Ernie, I don’t believe your boss would be wild if he knew you’d been helping anyone belonging to Mr. Linton. And I do belong, when I’m here. I’ll get Mr. Linton to speak to him, if you like. He could telephone.”

“Think he’d mind?”

“I’m jolly sure he wouldn’t.”

“Well, it ’ud smooth things. Thanks, Bill—you’re a white man.” They shook hands. “Glad I met you,” said Ernie. He wheeled the pony and went off at a gallop.

Bill went down to the creek for a drink. It occurred to him that a wash would also be an advantage—he was certainly no longer the comparatively clean person who had left the train at Cunjee. He sluiced his face and hands, beat his person severely to remove something of the dust that coated him, and went on his way, whistling.

Something of the spring had gone out of his step. Bill had not been on a horse for several months, and to ride behind the saddle on a rough pony is an exercise that does not improve suppleness. The miles ahead to Billabong began to look very long in his mind. He tried to calculate them, finding he could not make them fewer than five. Hunger, too, began to make itself felt: the sandwiches he had eaten in the train seemed far-off memories. He ceased to whistle, trudging on doggedly.

Jim and Norah had taught him that if things are difficult the best plan is to switch thought into another channel. The advice came back to the boy now.

“That’s what Norah calls the real Bill that lives inside me grinning at the outside Bill that’s getting tired,” he thought. “ ’Cause I’m counting up miles, and thinking they’re jolly long. Well, I’ll back him up. I’ll think of the next bend of the road and make believe there’s an adventure waiting round it.”

His imagination was one of Bill’s strongest points. He made the adventure one with tigers, picturing several man-eaters waiting for him behind a clump of dogwood round the bend. This meant, of course, that he had to equip himself with an imaginary gun, and he forgot his stiffness in loading it, in carrying it warily, ready for anything. The road slipped away insensibly; the inner Bill, heroic and alert, stole upon his waiting prey.

He had killed his tigers so many times in fancy—no one had ever re-loaded so swiftly as the Bill who was a hunter!—that when at length he rounded the bend and saw nothing but another long stretch of road, empty and dusty, he was not daunted. The matter adjusted itself; the inner Bill said promptly that some of the tigers were lying dead in the dogwood, while the largest of all had fled farther on, so that another stalk was necessary. He shouldered the imaginary gun and stepped out smartly. “I’ll come back for the skins after I’ve settled this chap!” said the inner Bill.

He had gone a mile when the swift thud of an engine came to him. He glanced round. A motor-bicycle was flying along the track in his wake.

“Why, that’s the chap that got us pitched off!” he ejaculated—no longer a tiger-hunter. “Golly, he does make her go!”

The cloud of dust rushed towards him. He moved off the track, staring with all his eyes at this wild rider who was supposed to do most of his travelling in aerial leaps. To his astonishment the engine-beats slowed. The rider stopped beside him: a tall fellow with a good-natured face.

“Hullo! Are you the chap who was riding with Ernie Moon?” he asked. “I met Ernie back there, an’ he told me I’d sent the pair of you sky-high. Well, now, I hadn’t an idea of it!”

“Well, you were about a mile away a second after we saw you!” grinned Bill.

“Something like that,” admitted the other. “I was in a bit of a hurry to catch the mail. Sorry, anyhow, kid. Sure you weren’t hurt?”

“Not a bit.” Bill’s grin widened. “It was awfully funny, you know. Ernie’s meat went in forty different directions before we did!”

“An’ the pony finished up in the basket!” Joe Wicks chuckled. “Wish I’d seen it. Well, it was my fault, so I’ve squared up with Ernie for the damage. This is yours.” He held out two half-crowns.

“Oh, I say!” Bill grew red. “I—I don’t want it back.”

“That’s bosh. Ernie told me you’d forked out, but it’s my job. Can’t let a kid pay for my smashes.” He dropped the coins into Bill’s pocket with a quick movement. “Now we’re all square.” He cut short Bill’s protests. “You’re legging it out to Billabong, I hear. I pass their gate—like a lift?”

“O-oh!” The boy’s eyes danced. “I never was on a motor-bike.”

“Well, it isn’t a comfortable seat, and I haven’t any cushion, but I guess you won’t mind that. I’ll go slow—if I can hold the old lady in.” He laughed. “She isn’t used to slow-going. I got her up to ninety-five once, and then the speedometer broke. Not bad, on these roads.”

“Rather not!” Bill peered eagerly at the speedometer. “Didn’t you get it mended?”

“No. Left it for a record—I mightn’t ever have got it as high again. You hop on now, and hang on to me as tight as you can.”

“There, I said it would!” broke out Bill delightedly.

“Said what?” Joe was mystified.

Bill looked confused.

“Oh, it was just a game I had with myself. I was getting a bit tired, so I pretended that an adventure would come round that last bend. And hasn’t it just!” He hopped on one foot joyfully.

“You don’t call me an adventure, do you?”

“Riding on a motor-bike is a gorgeous adventure when you haven’t ever done it,” Bill told him. “My word, I’m glad I said I’d walk out from Cunjee!”

“You certainly seem to get fun out of most things,” said Joe, eyeing him in friendly fashion. “Well, on you hop.”

Bill obeyed, quivering with excitement. The machine started easily and in a moment they were running gently along the winding road. Joe steered with care, avoiding pot-holes.

“Feel all right?” he asked presently.

“Rather!” said a pipe behind him. “I say—do you think we could go a bit faster?”

“She certainly can, if you can stick it. Grip my coat tight, and look out for bumps. Hang on a bit extra round the corners—this track wriggles like a snake for the next mile.”

Bill knew that well enough. Every turn of the Billabong track was familiar going. He clutched Joe’s coat tightly. Then the trees began to fly past him. There were bumps and jars, but he did not notice them. Every curve was a delirious swing of joy. Even when a pot-hole, its depth masked by dust, sent his nose violently against Joe’s back-bone; even the unsympathetic nature of the iron carrier on which he perched, could not mar the triumph of that first ride.

They took the last bend at an angle that would have struck horror into Bill’s unsuspecting parents. Ahead was straight going: they flashed up it, the wind singing past them, trees and fences a blur of green and grey. Only a moment, it seemed: and then Billabong’s gate showed clean and white, and the motor was chugging softly as Joe pulled up. Bill slipped off. He was panting, his face scarlet.

“Like it?” Joe grinned. “You look as if you did.”

“B—by Jove! It was ripping! I say, thanks ever so!”

“That’s all right. I’d take you up to the house, only I’m over an hour late for the cows as it is.” He shook hands; and as he did so, suddenly he listened. “I rather guess that’s the Billabong car—hear it?”

Bill stiffened to attention. Far away, hidden by the trees, was the faint sound of a motor.

“That’s their engine all right,” said Joe. “I’d know it anywhere. Well, you won’t have to walk up, after all. So long—see you again sometime.” He slipped in his clutch and flashed off.

Bill had forgotten him. With straining ears he stood, listening, holding his breath. It must be—this was the track by which they would come from the Creek. No other car had just that sound. The dust was rising above the trees near the bend: only a moment now, and they would be round the curve. There——!

He shouted, racing to the gate. It swung back under his eager hands: he held it, widely open, knowing himself hidden from the road as he peered through the three-rail fence with dancing eyes. The car came along, slowed: Jim at the wheel, Mr. Linton beside him: Norah and Wally in the back seat. He heard Jim’s voice, puzzled, and hugged himself.

“Hallo, the gate’s open! Who on earth——!”

The car turned in, and stopped dead in the gateway, as Jim caught sight of the sturdy, silent figure. Four voices came, in varying keys of amazement.

“Bill!” And then:

“How did you come?”

“Oh—walked out,” said Bill.

“Walked!” uttered the four voices.

“Well—bits of the way!” said Bill, grinning.