Chapter XV: Sunday Afternoon

‟JUST as close a shave as anything could be,” John Weston said. “It came into our paddock and burned about a chain of fencing: and then the wind changed. It had been chopping about a bit, they said: not much of it: but suddenly it blew steadily from the west. And so we’ve still got our grass, Mary girl!”

“Thank goodness!” she said. “And thanks to every one who worked for us!”

“Yes, indeed,” said her husband. “Half the district seemed to be there when I got out; it’s queer how the news of a fire will travel quickly in some directions. Some one passing in a motor saw it in Moncrieff’s, and sent the word along. That big fellow Conlan—Jo’s friend—was there, working like a tiger. Was Billy very done?”

“Yes, absolutely. The man who brought him home said he had almost to hold him on his pony: he was just dead with sleep and fatigue. He drank two cups of hot milk and was asleep before he had fairly swallowed the second. I undressed him and put him to bed without even washing his dear old dirty face; and he’s asleep yet.”

“Poor little chap!” The man’s voice was very tender. “They said he worked splendidly, galloping from place to place to beat out fires from flying embers: they wouldn’t let him beat near the main fire, much to his disgust. Mary, how on earth those kiddies managed to get the cattle out beats me! Moncrieff said it seemed no time after they went after them that Billy was back, saying all the bullocks were out.”

“As far as I can gather from Rex they just got them on the run and kept them running,” Mrs. Weston said. “Rex mentioned that they both yelled like fury: and certainly he has no voice left to-day. You must be very tired, John.”

“I’m not: I’m too thankful,” he said.

It was noon, and he had just ridden in, after having spent the night at the fire: for although the most acute danger was over, trees were still blazing in Moncrieff’s paddock, and a change of wind might have carried sparks into the dry grass on Emu Plains. It would be necessary to watch until the last tree was burned out.

“I thought the twins might go out and keep guard this afternoon, while I have a sleep,” he went on. “They would like to be in it: and there’s no hard work required, only watchfulness. I’ll go out again to-night. Conlan’s chopping down two of the worst trees.”

“What—is he still working?” Mrs. Weston asked.

“Can’t hunt him away. He says he has nothing particular to do—he has a farm of his own, you know, and does odd work occasionally for Harrison. I believe the poor chap thinks he’s working off a bit of his debt to Jo. As things stand, Mary, it’s a very lucky fire for us. It means that we have a big break of burned country between us and further danger. It has done Moncrieff good, too—cleared up a very dirty paddock, all over fallen trees and rubbish—a harbour for rabbits. He had no stock there, so he’s lost nothing except a little fencing. Moncrieff is jubilant.”

“Perhaps the luck is turning,” his wife said, smiling.

John Weston sighed.

“It’s taken a long time to turn,” he said; “and there’s no sign yet. Half the district will be ruined if rain doesn’t come while there’s still warmth enough to bring on the grass. It’s over a year since we had a good rain. Do you know, I almost thought it was coming this morning: it was very cloudy, and there was a sort of feel of rain in the air. But it blew over, as it’s done hundreds of times.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Weston. “I was up at daylight, looking out for you: and I was almost hopeful. But my toe wasn’t aching!”

Her husband laughed.

“Your old toe!”

“But it always ached for rain, John!”

“Then it’s had such a long spell it must have forgotten to ache,” said he. “For which you should be thankful.”

“I’m not,” she replied. “It’s better to have my toe aching because of rain coming than the whole of me—mind and body—aching because rain doesn’t come. You’ll see me dancing with joy if my toe ever aches again.”

Mrs. Weston’s private barometer was a standing joke to her family. As a girl, her toe had been broken in an accident: and ever since, when rain was coming, it ached, more or less. Now, however, it had not manifested itself for over a year, and its queer warnings had been almost forgotten.

“May I see the dance soon!” said her husband, almost solemnly. “By the way, that fellow Conlan was giving me a chance of buying sheep last night.”

“And feed with them?” Mrs. Weston queried, drily.

“Feed? Well, yes, as it happens. It would be rather a chance, if one had ready money—and pluck. A cousin of his named Murphy, a queer old chap, has just been left a property in Ireland, and he’s anxious to clear out at once and go back to take possession of it. He rents a place ten miles away, on Reedy Creek, where he runs sheep. His lease has only a couple of months to run, and he’s willing to forfeit that, or to give it in to any one who’ll buy his sheep. Dirt cheap, too, they are. But, of course, no one’s buying stock now, especially for ready money, which is what old Murphy wants. In two months’ time this country will be like the Sahara, unless we get rain.”

“What a chance—if rain should come!” said his wife.

“Rather. But it would be simply a gamble: of course the sheep are as poor as crows, Conlan says. They can scratch up a sort of a living, but they couldn’t travel. That’s the sort of gamble a man can face if he has a good fat balance in the Bank: not unless. Conlan was very sorry. He brought me the offer first.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Told him I guessed he had as much ready money as I had, just now. He grinned at that, and said, ‘Well, indeed, I bought a pair of Injinrubber ducks for the Missus last week, but it took some scratching up to raise the cash!’ I told him to go to Holmes about Murphy’s sheep. But I don’t suppose even Evan Holmes has any spare cash now.”

He rose, yawning.

“Well, I must see to some things,” he said. “I’ll lie down after dinner, and have a sleep. I don’t suppose Sarah has enough wood to go on with for the kitchen stove.”

“Oh, yes, she has,” his wife answered, with a smile. “The twins got it. They chopped mightily. Jean remarked that she hoped you wouldn’t notice any logs, or you would certainly think a dog had gnawed them off! And they milked.”

“Did they, indeed?” her husband said. “Good old twinses! I quite forgot that the little chaps were still asleep.”

“Oh, Rex isn’t. But he was late: the twins wouldn’t call him. He was very disgusted to find that they had done the outside work, and at once went and chopped another barrow-load of wood! I think he would have liked to milk again, but Jean pointed out that the cows wouldn’t have been of the same opinion!”

A quaint figure came round the corner of the verandah: Billy, in his pyjamas, with his ruddy curls ruffled all over his head, and with his face startlingly dirty. He came towards his father, rubbing blackened fists into his sleepy eyes.

“Is the fire out?” he asked.

“All that matters is out,” John Weston said.

“Did we get burned out, Father?”

“No, we didn’t. And I’m proud of you, old son.” John Weston sat down, drawing the boy into his arms; and Billy snuggled down on his knee, cuddling his sleepy head into his father’s neck. Over the rumpled curls the father and mother smiled at each other.

Round the corner came the twins, with Rex between them.

“Father! Is everything all right?”

“Quite all right,” Mr. Weston said. He held out his hand to Rex.

“I’ve got to thank you, old chap. You and Billy did men’s work yesterday.”

Rex flushed to the roots of his fair hair.

“Indeed, it wasn’t me, Mr. Weston. It was all Billy!”

“Bosh!” said Billy briefly, without raising his head.

“No, it wasn’t all Billy—though I’ll admit Billy did his share. Billy couldn’t have moved those cattle single-handed. I’m blessed if I know how you got them out as it is.”

“I didn’t think we had any chance myself,” said Billy, sitting up suddenly, “with no dogs, and no stock-whips, nor nothing. So we just went mad ’n’ yelled. And then the jolly old bullocks went mad, too, an’ put their tails in the air an’ galloped. So we got ’em out quite easy. It was no end of fun, if we hadn’t been anxious about the grass.”

“You’re good kids,” said Mr. Weston, laughing. “I must say I’d like to have seen that muster. Billy, my son, have you any idea how dirty your face is?”

“No, really, is it?” Billy asked, greatly surprised. He caught sight of his blackened hands. “Why—look!” He held them out for his family’s benefit. The family shouted with laughter.

“Your face matches them, sonnie,” said his mother. “Go and look at yourself; and then be off to the bathroom as fast as you can. Dinner will be ready as soon as you are.”

At dinner it transpired that Mrs. Weston would like to see the scene of the fire, and that the boys were much aggrieved at the idea of not going out: so it was decided to give the ponies a rest, and Jo drove the whole party out in the big express-waggon, leaving Mr. Weston to sleep in the silent house, in charge of Sarah. They offered to take Sarah too, but the gaunt handmaiden received the invitation with a snort.

“What ’ud I do, picnickin’ on a burnt log? An’ no one to look after the master if he wanted anything. No, thanks. You’d better boil the billy out there; if there’s men workin’ they’d be glad of a drink of tea. I’ll fix it—you go on an’ get ready.” And when the iron-greys were harnessed, she came out with a huge billy and a package of food almost as huge. She held the gate open as they drove through—tall, erect, and bony, in her stiffly-starched print dress, her hair screwed back from her knobby forehead.

“Good-bye, Sarah, old girl!” sang out Billy. “Wish you were coming!”

“I know when I’m well orf!” responded Sarah, loftily. But her eyes were very tender.

There was no buggy track across the paddock: the express-waggon bumped and rattled over the bare, uneven ground, and the water splashed from under the lid of the billy with such persistence that it seemed as if there would be very little left to boil by the time they reached their journey’s end. The cattle were all back in their feeding-ground—the gate into the next paddock tied back, in case a fire should spring up. They looked sleepily at the rattling buggy, failing to recognize, in the small boys sitting in the back, with dangling legs, the two demons who, only yesterday, had chased them through the timber with horrid yells.

Moncrieff’s paddock stretched away to the east, blackened and bare. Smoke rose lazily from the charred timber on the ground, but only one burning tree still stood erect. There was a steady sound of chopping near its base, where could be seen a man, whose axe rose and fell with machine-like regularity. As Jo pulled up the horses, a warning crack came from the tree, and he stepped quickly backwards, looking up. Slowly the tree swayed to one side, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then toppled lazily over, coming to earth with a crash. It broke into three pieces, showers of sparks and burning fragments rising from it. The greys leaped beneath Jo’s restraining hand; and then, deciding that they had made a mistake, settled to calmness again.

“That’s Mr. Conlan,” Jo said. “Isn’t he a brick, working here like this—and on Sunday, too! And there’s Mr. Moncrieff. We must send them home—if they’ll go. Come on, Jean, and we’ll get the horses out.”

They unharnessed the greys and tied them in a patch of shade, while Billy and Rex hunted for sticks to boil the billy. Moncrieff came riding towards them as they returned to the buggy.

“Good-day, Mrs. Weston. Nice and hot, as usual, isn’t it?”

“It was hotter for you, yesterday, Mr. Moncrieff, I believe,” Mrs. Weston answered, laughing. “You have had a great burn.”

“Yes, thoroughly satisfactory, since it didn’t finish by getting the Emu Plains grass,” said Moncrieff, a burly man with a keen, rugged face. “I certainly was afraid that it was going to. It has done me hundreds of pounds worth of good, in clearing up my paddock.”

“We’ve come to relieve you, Mr. Moncrieff,” Jean said. “Father sent us out. We’re to stay until he comes, so you mustn’t wait, after you’ve had a cup of tea.”

“I won’t wait for that, then, if you don’t mind, Miss Jean,” Moncrieff said. “I’ll not be sorry to get a sleep, for I’ve been on the go for two nights now. My wife will have tea for me when I get home.” He yawned openly, looking at them with tired blue eyes, inflamed from the smoke. “Great kid you’ve got there,” he said, nodding towards Billy, busily gathering sticks a little way off. “I never saw anything quicker than he was last night. Well, I’ll be going.” He lifted his hat—they saw a long red burn across his hand as he did so—and, wheeling his pony, rode away.

“Run and tell Mr. Conlan to come for some tea, Billy,” Jean called presently. “The billy’s boiling.”

Tim Conlan was busy with the tree he had felled, piling the lighter pieces about the heavier, that all might burn quickly. He came in a few moments greeting them all cheerfully, with a special smile for Jo.

“You’re to bathe your eyes before you have tea, Mr. Conlan,” Mrs. Weston said. She produced a bottle of boracic lotion and an eye-bath, and showed him how to use it.

“Smarts like fury, but it makes ’em better, don’t it?” said the big man, with tears streaming down his cheeks, making curious patterns in the smoky dust that covered his face. “If you don’t mind, I’ll slip over to the river for a wash: I’ll feel more comfortable-like.”

“Have one cup of tea first, Mr. Conlan,” suggested Jo, handing him a brimming cup. “Then you can really have tea when you come back!”

The big man grinned, and obeyed her.

“That’s too big a temptation for a thirsty man to resist, Miss Weston. My word, it’s good!” He drained it at a draught, and then went off with great strides to the river: returning presently much freshened.

“That’s more respectable—though I don’t think my old woman would think I looked respectable, if she could see me. Fire-fighting isn’t clean and tidy work,” he said, laughing. Suddenly his eye fell on Jean, who was proffering him a plate of scones: and then wavered to Jo, who was handing him tea. “Holy Ann!” he ejaculated. “I say, excuse me, but which of you is which?”

The twins, who were dressed alike in blue print frocks, chuckled.

“This is my sister!” they said, together, each indicating the other. The girls at school used to say that only twins could have made remarks with the absolute unanimity of Jean and Jo. It happened without any previous preparation, as though the two bodies were informed by one mind. Rex and Billy shouted with laughter.

“Well, I’ve met one of you—and good reason I have to know it,” said the bewildered man. “But I’m hanged if I can say which it is. Do _you_ know them apart, Mrs. Weston?”

“Well, nearly always,” said that lady. “I have my moments of uncertainty, but they seldom last long.”

“You’ve a right to brand them!” murmured Mr. Conlan, gazing distressfully.

“When they were smaller, I used to put different coloured ribbons on them,” Mrs. Weston said, laughing. “But I regret to say that they used to change the ribbons!”

“They look as if they might do that,” remarked Tim. “Take pity on me, and tell me which is the one I know!”

“Make a guess, Mr. Conlan!” sang out Billy delightedly. “I don’t believe you’re game!”

Thus adjured, Tim Conlan favoured each twin with a searching glance, and then, indicating Jo with an accusing forefinger, said, “You’re her!”

“Good guess!” said Billy approvingly.

“Well, ’tis no credit to me,” remarked Tim, at length accepting nourishment at the hands of the laughing twins. “’Tis only that I noticed she’d a scar on her hand, the day she was at my place: and, by good luck, I remembered to look for it!”

He ate a vast meal, punctuated by many cups of tea. Though he had been up all night, and working hard for twenty-four hours, he disclaimed any idea of being tired. He kept a wary eye on the smouldering fires, until the twins sent Billy and Rex to patrol them: then he allowed his long limbs to relax, lit his pipe, and “yarned” in the manner dear to the bushman. All the time he covertly watched Jean and Jo. They strolled across to the fires presently, and he watched them go, with a little smile.

“They’re wonderful alike,” he said. “But I’ve got ’em placed now. Their hair don’t grow quite the same way, an’ my Miss Jo has a tiny mole near her eye.” He ran over half a dozen other differences: some that Mrs. Weston herself could not remember noticing. “I’ll not mix them up again,” he finished. And he never did.

“I wish the Boss could have seen his way to buyin’ old man Murphy’s sheep,” he said, as he was preparing for his long ride home. “They’re dirt cheap, and no mistake: if only rain comes they’ll be easy money for the man who buys them.”

“Yes—but if rain does not come, Mr. Conlan?”

“Oh, rain’s sure to come some day,” said Tim, with the easy optimism of his Irish blood. “And there’s two months’ feed, of a sort, where they are. It’d be worth the risk, if a man only had the money. Murphy’s pretty near ready to give them away, for cash!”

“But cash is what no one has.”

“More’s the pity, for it’s a real bargain. I’d like Mr. Weston to have been the one to make a pile out of ’em. But of course no one’s buyin’ sheep now, nor cattle either, barrin’ the chaps down Gippsland way. He’d truck ’em there, only they’d never stand the trip.” He put his bridle over his horse’s head. “Well, I’ll say good-bye, Mrs. Weston.”

She put her hand into his.

“I can’t thank you enough for helping us.”

“I’ve done nothing,” he said. “Nothing that any neighbour wouldn’t be glad to do. An’ where Miss Jo’s concerned—well, you can guess it’s a relief to me to try an’ work off a bit of my debt.”

“There is no debt, Mr. Conlan. Jo would be the first to tell you so.”

“Isn’t there?” he said. “Well, I see it pretty plain every time I look at them little kids of mine.” He swung his long form to the saddle, and she watched him ride carefully over the burnt ground to say good-bye to the others; she noticed that, though he shouted cheerily to the boys from his horse, he dismounted when he spoke to the twins. Then he jumped the broken fence and cantered off, leaving them to patrol the dying fires.