Читать книгу Billabong's Daughter - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 5

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IT was a dry autumn, following a long, hot summer, and for miles the country lay bare and brown. Billabong itself fared better in time of drought than most places, for it was well watered naturally, and David Linton had irrigated much of the land near the creeks and the river: but the upper plains were parched, and the cattle had drawn further and further back into the low ranges that formed the northern boundary of the station. Here there was at least a picking of the sparse native grasses, and so long as the creeks ran the cattle would not starve. Other landholders were worse off, and the smaller settlers looked gloomier and gloomier as week followed week and still the long-expected autumn rains did not come. Tanks and dams dried up; there were reports everywhere of water being carted for household purposes. Busy mothers, already overtaxed with the ceaseless round of country duties, bewailed the shortage of water that meant a new unpleasantness added to their burdens.

The Rainhams’ holding lay along the bank of a good creek, and Bob Rainham and his sister Tommy often blessed their luck in having had David Linton’s advice to buy it. They had held it for over a year, and already had improved it considerably. Even the bad luck, which had seemed so crushing, of having been burned out during their first few months, had turned to good fortune, for the countryside had learned to like and respect the dogged young Englishman and his sister, and had come to their aid in a series of “working-bees” that had more than repaired the damage. Creek Cottage, which Bob and Tommy regarded privately as the finest edifice in Australia, had risen from the ashes of the old house, and was certainly a curiosity in house-building, since the Lintons, the Rainhams, and Wally had all been free to work out their own ideas in its architecture. It represented all that was to be known of labour-saving and common-sense. Brownie had been heard to declare that if Fate did not intend her to die at Billabong she hoped it would be in a little place the very moral of Miss Tommy’s.

The paddocks around Creek Cottage were bare enough, but there was plenty of green about the cottage itself, and Tommy’s garden flamed with dahlias and asters. A windmill brought water from the creek, so that the garden was never parched. The trees that had been scorched by the fire had not been killed; the flames, carried in a rush through the long, dry grass, had only burned the leaves, so quick had been their passage. Jim Linton had cut them all back, and next spring they had broken out into masses of exquisite young growth. Tommy and Bob were riotously proud of their home. Wally declared that on any moonlit night they might be found walking round it, purring loudly.

To-day Tommy expected the Linton family to afternoon tea. Early in the afternoon they had called on their way into Cunjee in the car, asking her to go with them. But Tommy had just finished compounding something new and unusual in the way of cakes, and it had been popped into the oven for the hour’s baking which the recipe demanded. She shook her fair head.

“I couldn’t leave the cake, truly,” she said. “And it would only be gadabouting if I went, for I’ve nothing to do in Cunjee—Bob and I were in yesterday. But I’ll tell you what—hurry up and finish your business, and come back here for some tea; the cake will be out then, and you can sample it. You know you love hot cakes, Wally!”

“I do,” said Wally, who was at the wheel. “Hot cakes appeal to all that is finest in my nature. Say we may come back, Norah!”

“Of course we’ll come,” Norah said. “We haven’t much to do, so we won’t be long. Don’t you dare spoil it in the baking, Tommy.”

“I’m going to brood over it like an old hen!” returned Tommy. She stood watching the big car as it slid noiselessly down the track, and hurried in to make certain that her little sitting-room was in its usual exquisite order. There was never anything that was not dainty in Tommy’s house; but when the Billabong family came to see her she liked things to be extra-perfect—being a house-proud little person.

She had fussed over the sitting-room, changed into a fresh linen frock, and ascertained with joy that the cake was progressing successfully through the first stages of its existence in the oven, when Sarah appeared in the kitchen. Sarah and Bill were the “married couple” who helped in the work of the Creek Farm. They inhabited a little two-roomed cottage across the garden. Their baby girl was also supposed to inhabit this abode, but as she and Tommy adored each other she was more often to be found in the main building.

“Yes, I thought I’d find you ’ere, me lady,” said Sarah triumphantly, swooping upon her daughter, who was placidly licking out the mixing-bowl, under the kitchen table.

“She is all right, truly, Sarah,” said Tommy, laughing. “See, I put on her feeder. And the cake is not a rich one—besides, I am too stingy to leave much in the bowl!”

“Just as well for ’erself,” said Sarah, hugging the sticky mite—a proceeding which made Tommy shudder inwardly. However much she adored the baby, she generally managed to wash her before she kissed her. “I say, Miss Tommy, Bill’s just come in—’e’s finished ’is job of fencing. It’s such a lovely afternoon; would you be nervis if we went over to Billabong? I ain’t seen Mrs. Brown for a month of Sundays. Mr. Bob told Bill he’d be in quite early.”

Tommy hesitated for a moment. Bob made a rule of never leaving her alone; if by any chance no one were with her he always left his dog, a powerful sheep-dog with a rooted dislike to strangers. But this afternoon she knew that Bingo had gone with his master. Still, Bob might be back at any moment, and the Billabong car was certain to arrive very soon. So she smiled back cheerfully at Sarah.

“Yes, of course, Sarah. I’ll be quite safe. Miss Norah and the others are coming to tea with me presently.”

“Oh, I ain’t goin’ out if you’re goin’ to have people to tea,” exclaimed Sarah, her good-natured face falling. “Not me. I’ll stay and get things ready.”

“But, indeed, you will not,” said Tommy. “Miss Norah will help me—and what is it, to set a tea-tray? There is Bill to be considered, and I am not going to disappoint Bill when he wishes to take out his wife and daughter. Run away, Sarah, and be sure you put Myrtle’s blue frock on—the one that is the colour of her eyes.”

“Well, I don’t like leaving yous,” murmured Sarah, giving in. “But it is a lovely day, ain’t it now, Miss Tommy—an’ Bill’s that anxious to go. All right, Myrtle—drop the spoon, now, like a pretty. Oh, well then, keep it, an’ we’ll take the bowl over ’ome an’ wash ’em up there. I’ll bring ’em back this evening, Miss Tommy.” She smiled at Tommy, knowing that if she left them the greasy bowl and spoon would certainly be washed up before the visitors arrived. Then she hurried off, and in a surprisingly short space of time Tommy saw them driving off, Myrtle, resplendent in the blue frock, sitting proudly between them.

Tommy prepared her tea-tray, cutting the dainty rolled bread-and-butter that she knew Mr. Linton liked. The cake proclaimed itself done, on being investigated with a broom-straw, and was left to air on a wire stand; and Tommy went out to the verandah to watch for the motor, taking with her some of the fine embroidery that had been part of her training in France, where most of her childhood had been spent. So intent upon it did she become that she did not hear a horse’s hoofs on the grass, and only looked up when a man rode past the garden fence.

She gave him a swift glance. He was a young man, dirty and shabby-looking, with a sullen, lowering face; and her first thought was that the horse he was riding looked far too good for him. Her next was a sudden wish that either Bob or Bingo were at home.

The stranger got off at the gate of the back-yard and came up the path to the kitchen door. Tommy decided that she would rather meet him in the ope—unpleasantly aware that her heart was beating rather quickly. This, she reflected, would not do, for a soldier’s sister and an Englishwoman. So she held her little head high as she walked round by way of the verandah.

“Good afternoon,” she said gravely. “You wanted my brother?” There was always in Tommy’s speech the little hint of her French upbringing, and the man stared at her curiously.

“Yes,” he said.

“He will be in in a few minutes. Will you sit on the bench there, and wait?” Immediately she was very angry with herself. Why had she been so foolish as to let him know that Bob was out?

“Afraid I haven’t got time to wait, thanks,” said the man. “Can you let us have a bit of tucker?”

“Certainly.” She hesitated, feeling that she did not wish to go into the house, leaving this evil-looking man where she could not see him. Yet no one in the bush ever refused food to a stranger—that had been taught her from her first week in Australia. She temporized, knowing that it was permissible to ask for work in exchange. “Will you cut some wood for me?” she asked, pointing to the wood-heap.

The man gave a short laugh.

“I’m lookin’ for tucker, not work,” he said. He felt sure of his ground now: there was evidently no one in the place but this little pink-and-white girl, who was certainly not an Australian. “Hurry up—I’ve no time to waste. An’ I want some money too, so hand over what you’ve got.”

Possibly, had he whined or begged, Tommy’s tender heart would have been moved to compassion, and she might have given in. But the stranger had his own reasons for haste, and he saw no need for tact. Tommy’s head went up at his tone of rough authority.

“You are rude,” she said quietly. “I shall give you nothing—certainly not money.” She drew back, longing to get round to the side of the house where she could watch the track whence help might come. But she had scarcely turned the corner when he sprang after her, seizing her by the wrist.

“Let me go!” she panted.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he said hurriedly. “I ain’t goin’ to hurt you—I wouldn’t ’a’ laid a finger on you if you’d done as you was asked. But I got to have money and tucker, an’ I can’t wait. Hand ’em over, or I’ll jolly well go an’ help myself!”

“You can go,” Tommy told him loftily. Fear suddenly left her as she became aware, in some curious manner, that this man himself was afraid. “I will give you nothing. And I warn you that my brother—yes, and Mr. Linton—will be here at any moment.”

He released her wrist at that, flinging it from him with a rough exclamation; and turning, ran into the house: and with dismay Tommy remembered that in Bob’s room was a sum of money unusually large for them to have in the house, drawn from the Bank the day before. She caught her breath with a little sob. Oh, if only he did not find it!

A cheery whistle fell on her ear—never had there been such music!—and she turned to see Jim Linton walking across the grass towards the garden. He looked huge enough to deal with a regiment of young men with weak and shifty faces. With a little cry of relief Tommy fled to meet him. Unfortunately, the burglar heard the cry, and realized that it boded him no good. One glance from a window revealed to him that prudence demanded immediate flight, and he dashed from the kitchen towards his horse.

“Why, Tommy, what is it?” Jim’s whistle died away as the distracted figure opened the garden gate.

“Jim—there’s a burglar! Catch him—Bob’s money!”

Jim gave a roar like a lion and sprang towards the house, just as the man emerged from the back door. But the odds were all in favour of the burglar, whose horse was only a few yards from him. He scrambled into the saddle, urging the horse into a gallop before Jim could turn the corner of the garden fence. Nor did he stop for the gate of the paddock; instead, he put the horse at the fence and cleared it easily, disappearing over a rise. They watched him for a moment, bewildered. Then Jim swung round to Tommy.

“Tommy—he didn’t hurt you?”

“No, but he frightened me very badly,” said Tommy. “And I do not like being frightened—it makes me feel so—so vulgar!” Whereat Jim suddenly shouted with laughter. “But yes—it does. Gentlewomen are not cowards, and I was very badly a coward then. Oh, do come, Jim, and see if he has found Bob’s money!”

He had not; and Tommy drew a great sigh of relief.

“Nothing else seems to have gone—ah, yes, my little purse, which lay on that table. It had only five shillings inside, so it will not help him much. See, Jim, he has not touched my silver things, or my jewellery: they are all safe.”

“He only wanted cash,” said Jim. “We heard of this beggar in the township, you know, Tommy; he’s the first criminal who has been in the district for years, so they are quite excited about him. He ‘stuck-up’ a bank in Borrodaile, and hurt a young bank-clerk pretty badly; the boy managed to defend the money until help came, but he got laid out for his pluck. Then the swine stole a horse belonging to George Atkinson, and was seen heading this way; I expect that his idea is to get up into New South Wales. That’s Atkinson’s horse he was riding, of course; a big bay with a white blaze. It’s one of the best horses in the district.”

“I thought the horse was too good for the man, when he first rode up,” Tommy observed.

“You never made a truer guess,” Jim said grimly. “Now, tell me just what he did here, and how you came to be alone.”

Tommy told her story, ending by demanding to know how Jim had contrived to drop from the clouds just as he was wanted.

“That was quite simple,” Jim said. “The car picked up old Mrs. Harkness in Cunjee; she was tired of waiting for her husband, so we gave her a lift out. And it struck me, as I passed your gate, that I might as well come in and help you get tea, and tell you the others would be here presently.”

A short, broad-shouldered figure, accompanied by a dog, came in sight near the stock-yard.

“There’s Bob!” exclaimed Tommy. “Now we shall see how cross he will get!”

Bob Rainham was indeed cross when he heard of his sister’s peril.

“You had no business to let Sarah go,” he said. “Oh, yes, I know it was a lovely afternoon—another time, just you remember that it is on lovely afternoons that unpleasant callers come!” He put his arm through Tommy’s—the ruddy colour had faded from his face. “It makes me sick to think of your being here alone—and that brute——!” Words failed him. He held her arm very tightly.

The motor arrived, and the story had to be told again—at which Tommy suddenly broke down, and, being whisked into her bedroom by Norah, cried a little, her head on her friend’s shoulder.

“You must telephone to the police at once, Bob,” Mr. Linton said. “Headed north, did he? Tell them to warn all the places in that direction. They ought to catch him easily enough: a man who doesn’t know the ranges would find it very difficult to get across them, especially if he hadn’t food.”

“He’s got a rattling good horse, Dad,” remarked Jim.

“That will help him, but even a good horse isn’t much when the telephone and telegraph get busy. Oh, they’ll get him. I suppose Tommy can describe him accurately—or did you get a good view of him, Jim?”

“Well, I’d know him again, I think,” Jim said; “but I couldn’t give a detailed description of him. We’ll ask Tommy—poor little soul, she’s had a rough time. I wouldn’t have had it happen for a hundred pounds,”—and Jim’s cheery face was dark as he went in search of the girls.

Tommy had got hold of herself, and was brewing tea in the kitchen, aided by Norah. She was able to describe her assailant minutely, even to a large wart on the side of his nose—a facial adornment which, being detailed through the telephone to the police-sergeant in Cunjee, drew from that official a pleased grunt.

“That’s the man!” he said delightedly. “Our description from Borrodaile says a large wart on left side of nose. No, nose, not hose. No, nose. Are you there? Shake your telephone, please, Mr. Rainham!” The telephone gave a long whirr and the voice of the sergeant came in a far-away whisper. “Did you say a wart? No, hang it! Central, don’t cut me off—the matter is important, I tell you. Put me on to Mr. Rainham again—I don’t know his number.”

“Are you there?” said Central in an aggrieved voice in Bob’s ear. “Don’t go away again, please.”

“I never went,” said Bob resignedly, hopelessly aware of the uselessness of trying to argue with Central.

“Are you there, Mr. Rainham?” The voice of the sergeant came, crisp with impatience. “You were saying the accused has a wart?”

“Yes,” said Bob. “He still has it.”

“On the left side?”

“Of his nose,” said Bob. “Nose, not hose.”

“That’s the man all right,” said the sergeant. “We’ll warn all the stations near—not that I suppose he’ll have the pluck to go near another house.”

“So far as we can tell, he has no food,” Bob said.

“That may bring him to heel. Good-bye, Mr. Rainham. One of our men will be out at your place presently.” The telephone was abruptly silent, and Bob hung up the receiver and went to join the others. Tea was in progress on the verandah, where Tommy, looking rather white, was installed in a long chair while Norah and Wally plied her with food.

“Telephones are exhausting things,” said the owner of the house, sitting down limply. “And sergeants of police are so impatient! Thanks ever so, Norah; I’m dying for tea.” He took his cup, with a grateful glance. “The sergeant’s ever so happy over your wart, Tommy!”

“My wart!” said the justly incensed Tommy. “But indeed, I have never had a wart!”

“Oh, I don’t mean you, but the one you saw on your burglar. It appears to be the mark of the beast, so be sure you don’t forget just where you saw it—on the left side, you said.”

“I will not forget,” said Tommy placidly. “I saw it on the left side while I was wondering about Wally’s cake.”

“My cake?” asked Wally.

“The hot cake, I mean. I had told him he could go and look for himself, and I was immediately so sad because I knew he must find the hot cake I had left on the table. I was sad for you and for myself, for I had wanted to taste it. One does not waste new recipes upon a burglar—if one can help it.”

“It would have been a tragedy if you had,” said Wally. “It’s a poem of a cake!”