Chapter XVI: The Twins Take a Holiday

‟REX, it’s a perfectly dreadful copy!”

Rex shuffled his feet uneasily.

“Well, I can’t make it any better.”

“That’s just nonsense,” Jean said. “It’s almost the last page in your copy-book, and it’s quite the worst copy you’ve done. You just haven’t tried.”

“Did try,” said Rex sullenly.

“I don’t see how you expect me to believe that.”

“Don’t care if you don’t believe it!” said Rex, under his breath: not so low, however, but Jean caught the words. She looked at him steadily, and the small boy had the grace to redden.

“That’s impertinence,” she said. “You mustn’t think that you can speak to me like that, or that you can show me that sort of copy. Write the next one, please.” She pushed the hair from her forehead with a tired gesture. “Now, Billy—let me see yours.”

Billy was laboriously finishing, the end of a very pink tongue appearing at the corner of his mouth as he made his way along the last line. He completed the final word, and, seizing his blotting-paper, banged it down on his copy, smudging it hopelessly. The bang brought an angry growl from Rex.

“Can’t you keep from jolting? How d’you expect a fellow to write a copy?”

“Oh—Billy!” Jean said.

What could be seen of Billy’s copy showed that it was rather worse than Rex’s. It was scrawled carelessly throughout, with an easy disregard of the finer flights of penmanship provided by the copy-book maker.

“Well, I couldn’t help smudging it, could I?”

“Yes, of course you could if you’d tried,” Jean said. “But it wasn’t decently written before you smudged it. You haven’t even looked at the copy after the first line.”

“Yes, I did. What else would I look at?”

“Why, you’ve looked at your own disgraceful writing. You’ve spelt ‘glitters’ with one ‘t’ in the second line, and copied it throughout, with every other mistake. I believe you boys have just been larking while I was out of the room. I won’t trust you again.”

This was bitter, and the sulkiness deepened on each rebellious face.

“Write another,” Jean said. “I won’t pass work like that. And this time I must watch you.”

Under this infliction both boys wrote with deliberate slovenliness, and the second copies were rather worse than the first. Billy had recorded that “All is not gold that gliters” in the first; now he stated “Honistey is the best pollicy,” and stuck to the assertion throughout five lines; while Rex scrawled his quickly, and, having made a huge blot in the middle of the page, devoted himself to turning it into a fat-bodied spider by the addition of sundry hairy legs. Jean flushed as she took the books.

“I suppose you’re both seeing how far you can go,” she said. “I don’t know what has come to you both; as a rule you don’t seem to want to behave like little pigs. Well, you’ll write another copy after school. Get the geography books, Billy.”

It was a sultry morning in March, and from the first the day had begun badly. The twins’ alarum-clock had failed to do its duty, and instead of jumping up at five they had slumbered peacefully until Sarah, outwardly amazed, but inwardly rather pleased, had brought tea to their bedsides at half-past six. Sarah considered that they got up far too early, and worked far too much; she chuckled to herself because they had had an extra allowance of sleep with, in the end, tea in bed—as she would willingly have brought it to them every morning. But the twins were horrified at the failure of their programme. For once their cheerfulness failed them, and they may be said to have got out of bed on the wrong side.

Possibly the weather had something to do with it. February had closed in a blaze of still heat, and March showed no signs of bringing better weather. Not in the memory of man had such steady heat been known in the district; the men talked of it when they met in Barrabri, and shook their heads over the near approach of ruin to many. It was “sticky” weather; humid sultriness, not like their usual dry heat; people longed for a breeze, even a hot wind, rather than these endless days when even the lightest of clothing seemed to cling to the prickly skin, and perspiration made it almost impossible to handle a pen or to use a needle.

“I never remember such a season,” Evan Holmes said. “We’re used to decent, clean hot weather here, that nobody minds; but this is like living in a perpetual vapour-bath. Everybody’s temper is getting on edge!”

The nights were not much better. Often, at sundown, clouds rolled up, and growls of thunder were heard, bringing hopes of rain: then it would all disperse, and the still, clammy heat would do its best to make sleep an impossibility. The twins, generally asleep five minutes after they were in bed, found themselves, to their disgust, tossing and turning in unaccustomed wakefulness. It was small wonder if they overslept themselves when the alarum-clock failed to act.

Everything seemed to go wrong that morning—partly because they tried to carry out the programme in full, not realizing that a lost hour and a half takes too much catching. Older people would have shrugged and let some things go, for once; the twins, being young and stiff-necked, refused to do so, would not take time to eat a reasonable breakfast, and, by the time lessons began, were thoroughly on edge.

The boys, too, had had an unfortunate morning. They had been late, and had rushed the cows up to the milking-shed—bringing a sharp word of reproof from Mr. Weston. Then old Strawberry, infuriated by the clustering flies, had kicked just as Rex had almost finished milking her, and had knocked over half a bucket of milk, most of which bespattered Rex. Billy had unfeelingly howled with laughter, and even Mr. Weston had smiled, though he was annoyed at the loss of the milk—milk was getting scarce as the lucerne crop shrank and the remnant of feed in the paddock dwindled. Rex himself had been astonished at the wave of hot anger that swept over him, and at the dull resentment that followed it. He did not generally feel like that, even if things did go awry. Certainly the clerk of the weather was responsible for much that morning.

Billy’s troubles had come to him after breakfast, when he was sent to clean his father’s brown boots, and absent-mindedly began operations with the tin containing blacking. Mr. Weston had found him gazing at the ruin in a dreamy fashion, which lent the final spark to his father’s just wrath. He lost his temper—in itself an occurrence so rare as to be amazing, and Billy departed hurriedly from the scene, tingling both in mind and body.

It was clearly an unlucky day, and the boys were in no mood for lessons, especially when they found that Jean was busy cleaning the lamps and was only too glad to leave them to write copies alone. The pens were unruly, and stuck to their moist hands; it was ever so much pleasanter to make paper darts and throw them, than laboriously to inscribe obvious truths like “All is not gold that glitters.” As if people didn’t know that! And then Jean had been “snarly,” and it was horribly easy, this morning, to be snarly in response.

The geography lesson fared little better. It was rather a dull lesson—or possibly Jean, being oppressed by unusual dignity, did not feel equal to making it bright. The boys were frankly bored, and Rex remarked, in an audible undertone, that it was just like Miss Green’s sort of lesson! Somehow, the remark stung Jean more than open rudeness. She found tears very near her eyes.

Mother came in quietly, looking at the flushed, resentful faces, but apparently noticing nothing. She brought with her, as always, a sense of restfulness. No one would have guessed that she had been sitting on the verandah, listening to the stumbling feet on the path of knowledge—waiting for the exact moment to interfere. It was near Jo’s time for taking over the schoolroom; and Jo, she knew, was polishing linoleum, having resisted any suggestion to leave it until another day: rubbing hard, with one eye on the clock, and with a red spot on otherwise white cheeks.

“Father wants a telegram sent, Jean,” she said. “And he wants the afternoon mail brought out. I think you and Jo had better ride into Barrabri, and have lunch at the Bank or at the Lawrences’; they have been asking you a long while. Then you can get the mail, and ride out when it is cooler. I’ll take over the boys.”

“Sure you want to. Mother? Jo could go by herself.” But Jean had flushed with anticipation. The prospect of a holiday was very tempting.

“Oh, I’d rather you went together. And the boys and I will quite enjoy ourselves.” She looked at them with a little smile. “You won’t give me a bad time, will you, boys?”

Both urchins flushed.

“We’ve been rather brutes this morning,” Rex said frankly. “Haven’t we, Billy?”

“Perfect swine!” agreed Billy. “I’m blessed if I know why. I say, Jean, I’m sorry!”

“So’m I, Jean,” from Rex. “An’ I’ll do that extra copy my very best.”

“Oh, bother the extra copy!” Jean said. “I expect I was cross, too. Every one’s cross but you, Mother, and you’re a miracle! Have you told Jo?”

“No—get her yourself. Be off, both of you!” And Jean was gone like a flash.

Mrs. Weston looked hard at the two boys.

“I want you two to remember,” she said, “that Jean and Jo aren’t very old; not so tremendously older than you two. But they are responsible for your lessons, and it isn’t quite playing the game for you to make lesson-time hard for them. Please don’t.” She smiled at the downcast little faces. “Now come along: this room is really too hot. We’ll go out on the south verandah, and you two can cut up French beans for dinner, and I’ll read you a history story. Run and get the beans from Sarah.”

Billy hesitated.

“Mother, could we get the ponies ready first for the girls?”

Mrs. Weston patted his head.

“Yes—good idea. But hurry up.”

So when Jean and Jo came out presently, dressed for riding, they found Mrs. Weston in a rocking-chair on the verandah. A table near her bore a tray of glasses and a tall jug full of cool lemonade; and close at hand, under a pepper-tree, Pilot and Punch awaited them, groomed and saddled, and each in charge of a small boy.

“Oh, you little bricks!” Jean said. “That _is_ a let-off—I was looking forward to a blazing walk down the paddock after the ponies. Bless you!” They drank their lemonade thankfully, and set off, while Mrs. Weston and the boys established themselves on the verandah, and the preparation of beans went on contentedly to the accompaniment of “Westward Ho!”

To be on a horse was always a tonic for either Jean or Jo. Even in the blaze of noonday they enjoyed the ride to Barrabri. It was a journey they always liked to make on horseback, since it was then possible to go across country for most of the way, cutting through the corner of the Emu Plains run, and then crossing a wide tract of rough country known as the Barrabri Common. There were gullies in the Common, up and down which it was necessary to scramble, following narrow cattle-tracks; and there were logs to jump, and, in ordinary seasons, watercourses, so that a gallop there presented something between a steeple-chase and an obstacle-race, and was tremendous fun. Now, alas! the watercourses were dry and the galloping ground, instead of being well-grassed, was bare, dusty earth; but still the Common was shady, and more interesting than the long, straight roads, where passing motors made conditions anything but pleasant for other folk.

They reached the township in good time, finding it wrapped in mid-day calm; and, having sent their telegram, made their way to the doctor’s house, where Eva and Maisie Lawrence greeted them with delight, mingled with amazement at their heroism in taking a long ride on such a hot day.

“But it’s always hot now,” Jo said; “so if we didn’t go out in heat we should never go out at all. And anyhow, I believe you’ve been playing tennis!” She glanced at the girl’s rubber-soled shoes.

“Well, we have, though we know it’s mad,” Maisie said, laughing. “Tom Holmes was over, and he never thinks it’s too hot to play, so he fairly dragged us out. He wouldn’t stay to lunch, though. He heard about this escaped prisoner, and he thought he’d do a bit of detective work.”

“But who is the escaped prisoner?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? He was being moved from one gaol to another, and he gave the slip to the policeman who was in charge of him. I forget what he was; a burglar or something—nothing so thrilling as a murderer! He got away two stations up the line, and he’s supposed to have been seen making across country this way. A whole lot of policemen are after him.”

“Why, how exciting!” exclaimed Jo. “Poor wretch—I wonder if he’s got a wife and children?”

Eva Lawrence laughed.

“You are a funny old soul, Jo,” she said; “you always think of queer, sentimental things. All the more shame for him to be a criminal if he _has_ got a wife and children. But I believe he’s quite a young man.”

“Who’s that? the runaway?” Dr. Lawrence asked, coming in. “Why, how are you, twins? did you actually ride in, on such a day! Well, I have to go out, to earn my living, but otherwise I would sit in a bath all day and drink iced things! Yes, the prisoner’s quite a young man. He was a bank clerk, and managed to get away with about £5,000, and he’s got a pretty long sentence to serve. He’ll get more when they catch him.”

“Perhaps they won’t get him,” Jean said.

“Oh, there’s very little chance of that. Nowadays an escaped criminal can be so easily tracked in the country; it’s all so opened-up, and the telegraph and telephone are everywhere. If ever people find out that you’re a criminal, Jean, and you want to escape, hide in a big city; don’t try a district like this, where every strange face is noticed.”

“I’ll remember,” Jean said, twinkling. “But couldn’t he get into the ranges, Doctor? It’s lonely and rough enough in the country back of our place.”

“But how would a man live? There’s mighty little game there, even if he dared carry a gun; and scarcely any houses. And criminals have such appetites, you know!”

Jean laughed.

“Yes, I suppose that would be the difficulty, unless he had friends,” she said.

“Oh, given friends, a man could hide in the ranges well enough, unless they brought the black-trackers up,” the doctor said. “Very few people know much about that part of the district; the only men who ever go there are odd station-hands, looking for lost cattle. Anyhow, this man comes from the other side of Melbourne, so he’s not likely to try the ranges. I’d give him, at the outside, two days’ run; then they’ll find him under a culvert or a haystack, or he’ll have sense enough to come in and give himself up.”

“Wouldn’t you just hate to do that!” Jo ejaculated. “It would make you feel so small!”

“Well, I don’t know. There’s a certain amount of dignity in it; more, anyway, than in being dragged by the heels from under a haystack. No one can look dignified with straws in his hair! Poor wretch, I expect he’s feeling sorry for himself now. Liberty must look pretty good to you when you see a sudden chance of escaping from a constable; but I’ll guarantee he doesn’t know what to do with his liberty now he’s got it. Rather like Dead Sea apples—rosy enough on the outside, but dust and ashes when you bite them. However, there’s lunch, and I’m glad I’m not an escaped gaol-bird, especially if it’s been in the ice-chest—come along, girls!”

Lunch _had_ been in the ice-chest; the twins, enjoying crisp salad and firm, quivering jelly, openly envied the township opportunities of combating the hot weather.

“You just don’t know how lucky you are!” Jo said. “We have all sorts of bush dodges, of course; Coolgardie drip-safes and holes in the ground, and all that sort of thing; but, especially since this horrible sticky weather began, nothing seems to make much difference. The butter’s always oil, and everything else is warm and flabby. I’d love to take a pat of this butter home to Mother! Her appetite has gone to simply nothing.”

“You can have the butter!” said Mrs. Lawrence, laughing. “But why not send your mother in to us for a week? We should love to have her, and we’d take great care of her.”

“She wouldn’t leave home, I’m afraid,” Jo said. “Father wants her to go down to the Harlands’, at the Lakes’ Entrance, but she won’t go. I expect it’s because she doesn’t like to leave Father, when he’s so worried over the drought.”

“She’d be wiser to go,” said the doctor, gravely. “No one knows how long this drought is going to hold out. And your mother has had a long spell of it now.”

They lounged in the darkened drawing-room after lunch: Maisie and Eva played snatches from the new musical comedy, and there were English illustrated papers to look at, full of pictures of snow and ice, which seemed like a fairy-tale in the throbbing heat. Afternoon tea came in early, to suit the twins; and when it was over they said good-bye, and walked down to the post-office to get the mail before going to the stables for the ponies. As they came out of the post-office, the Barrabri policeman detached himself from a knot of men and came to meet them. He wore a look of unusual importance.

“Good afternoon, Miss Weston.” He looked straight between them, a method of greeting with which the twins were familiar among those who were puzzled by their uncanny resemblance. “You came in this morning, didn’t you? Did you happen to see any unusual character about?”

“No,” said the twins. “We didn’t notice anyone.”

“Not a man, for instance?”

“No one we didn’t know,” Jean answered. “Is it the escaped prisoner, Mr. Ransome?”

The constable nodded.

“Oh, he won’t be escaped long, Miss Weston. There’s some very smart men lookin’ for him. Of course there’ll be a search out your way, but I was just wondering if you’d seen anyone suspicious. Well, not as he looks suspicious; I believe he’s rather a nice-lookin’ young feller. P’raps, if he’d looked more like a criminal the chap in charge of him would ’a’ been more suspicious himself, instead of bein’ caught nappin’. I bet he’s pretty sorry now. Well, it’s a lesson to us!”

“I suppose so,” said Jo, feeling rather sorry for future “prisoners and captives.” “Have you any idea which way he went?”

“Well, he’s given us the slip altogether at present,” admitted the policeman. “Oh, we’ll get him, right enough. Well, you keep your eyes open, Miss Weston—a delicate-lookin’ feller in a grey suit. Did you come by the road this morning?”

“No—through the paddocks, and across the Common.”

“You’d ’a’ been more likely to see him there—he won’t be troublin’ the highroads much,” said the constable. “Oh, well, good afternoon, Miss Weston.” He smiled between them and strode off, his chest well out, and his step martial; and the twins, themselves feeling a little important, went in search of their ponies, and rode out of the township.

At first they were on the alert to scan every unfamiliar face—not that unfamiliar faces were plentiful in Barrabri, where the twins knew everybody. They were like a person who, having encountered a snake, sees one in every bush. Twice they turned down cross-roads in pursuit of a suspicious figure: the first turning out to be a grizzled rabbiter, and the second, Tom Holmes, who, covered with dust, was returning from a long afternoon spent fruitlessly as a sleuth-hound. Tom’s return to school had been delayed, owing to an untimely attack of chicken-pox; an undignified disease, which had caused him bitter shame. His period of quarantine had almost expired, and he was off on Monday, he explained; it would have been some set-off to a fool complaint like chicken-pox if he could have captured a criminal off his own bat!

“But I had my usual luck,” he said wrathfully. “Never saw a sign of him all the afternoon, and finished up by letting my horse get a box-thorn in his fetlock! He’s dead lame, and I’ve had to leave him at the stables. Tried to get a horse in the township, and couldn’t, so I’ve got to walk home!”

“Teach you to let poor prisoners alone!” said Jean unsympathetically. “Why do you want to hunt the poor fellow down?”

Tom stared.

“Why ever not?” he demanded.

“Well, he’s got plenty of people after him.”

“He ought to have kept his hands off other people’s money.”

“Oh, well, that’s not our business,” Jean said.

“But, good gracious!” ejaculated Tom, “you said you came down this road because you thought I was him! What did you mean to do if I had been?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jean said, laughing. “Look at him, I suppose. Criminals don’t come our way every day, you know!”

“We certainly wouldn’t have laid violent hands on him, remarking, ‘Come and be killed!’ anyhow!” said Jo.

“Well, I should say you wouldn’t—kids like you! But you’d have gone in for Ransome, I suppose?”

“Oh, that’s the last thing we’d have thought of doing!” Jean assured him.

“Well, girls are beyond me!” said Tom heavily. He said good-bye, evidently considering them unworthy of his further attention; and set off on his dusty tramp home.

Their excursions and discussions had made the twins late, and they abandoned further ideas of chasing suspicious characters for purposes of inspection, and cantered briskly across the Common. The thunderous clouds, so usual now towards evening, were rolling up over the western sky, and the heat was breathless; when, in pity for the ponies, they reined in to a walk, they almost gasped in the still, heavy air. They were thankful when at length the roofs of the Emu Plains homestead showed through the trees.

The paddock through which they were riding was next to the homestead block. A creek ran through one corner, its banks thickly fringed with scrub; and in a little nook near the dividing fence there was an old hut, built long ago by men on a timber-felling contract. It was half in ruins now, held together by the sarsaparilla and clematis that festooned it; the children used it sometimes as a place to picnic. Something moving near it caught Jean’s eye, and she brought Punch to a standstill.

“Do you see anything there, Jo? Down by the old hut?”

Jo looked.

“No,” she said. “There couldn’t be anything. Oh, you are an old duffer, Jeanie; you’ve got that escaped man on the brain!”

“Well, I did see something,” Jean persisted. “And there are no sheep or cattle in this paddock at all, so it couldn’t have been a beast. Let’s ride down and see, Jo.”

“I think it’s mad,” said Jo. “You really couldn’t have seen anything.”

“Well, it won’t take us more than three minutes to go and see,” Jean said. “Come on, old girl.”

She turned Punch from the gate and cantered towards the creek, followed by her twin—who, however she might protest, never thought of not joining in. They drew up near the hut.

There was no sign of anything there, and everything was very quiet. Jean was just about to turn her pony when something caught her eye—a freshly broken stalk of bracken.

“That didn’t break itself, Jo,” she said, pointing to it. “Hold Punch a moment: I’m going to have a peep in.”

“You’re not to get off,” Jo said quickly.

“Well, I’ll peep in, anyhow.” She rode up to the doorway of the hut. The pony shied violently.

“Jo!—there’s a man there. He’s lying down.”

“Then you come away,” said Jo decidedly.

“He looks queer: I think he’s sick.”

“Drunk, more likely. Don’t be a donkey, Jean—you know Father would be wild with us if——” She stopped uncertainly, looking at her twin. A low moan had come from the hut. There was something very pitiful in the sound.

“I say,” Jean called clearly: “are you ill?”

There was no answer, but presently the low sound came again. The twins rode to the doorway, controlling their frightened ponies, and looked in.

The man lay quite near the doorway. There were tracks in the dust that seemed to show that he had crawled there, and had then collapsed. His face was partly turned towards them—a delicate face, begrimed with dust, but showing traces of refinement. It was very white under the dust, and his lips were bloodless.

“And he’s got a grey suit!” said Jo.

The lad—he seemed little more than a boy—opened his eyes slowly and looked out. At first his gaze saw only the ponies’ legs: then the eyes slowly travelled upwards until they rested on the two faces—and saw nothing but pity in them. He tried to speak, but only one word came clearly—“Water!”

“Oh, he’s thirsty, Jo!” Jean cried.

She was off her pony in a moment. There were old tins about the hut, relics of the contractors; not ideal vessels for a sick man’s use, but there was no choice. Jean fled down to the creek, where a little runnel of water yet trickled over mossy stones; she rinsed and filled the tin, and hurried back with it—to find Jo bending over the man in the grey suit.

“His head’s hurt, Jean, and I think his leg is too. I’ll help him—you hold the tin.”

Even with Jo’s help it was not easy to give him the drink he longed for; the tin was awkward, and they splashed a good deal of it over his face and neck. But they managed to get it to his craving lips at last, and he drank deeply. They laid him down again, and his eyes closed.

“He’s had an awful bump on the head, Jean—look!” Jo said. “And see—he’s been trying to get one boot off.” She touched his leg gingerly, and the lad winced.

“I believe we ought to get that boot off,” Jean said—and then started, for an unmistakable sound of acquiescence had come from their patient.

“We’ll do it,” Jean said, answering the sound. “I hope we shan’t hurt you much.”

That they hurt him was evident, for the ankle was cruelly swollen, and to draw the boot off was quite impossible. Neither twin had a knife, but it occurred to them that the patient might be better equipped, and they searched his pockets, with the result that an excellent knife came to light. With this they gradually cut the boot to pieces, and slit the sock. The ankle was puffed and swollen, and beginning to turn black.

“Now, I wonder if that’s broken!” Jo pondered. “They taught us in first-aid to waggle it, didn’t they?”

She “waggled” it, very badly afraid of damaging it further, and prodded it here and there, while its owner lay motionless, with set lips.

“I don’t believe it’s broken, Jean. There’s no sign of grating or anything. I fancy it’s just a very bad sprain.” She bathed it, using the torn sock as a sponge, and finally as a cold-water bandage, while Jean bathed his head with her handkerchief. It seemed to give him relief; something of the pain died out of his face.

“Whatever are we going to do with him?” Jo queried, when they had finished.

“We’ll have to tell Father,” Jean answered. “And if we do, Father will have to tell the police.”

There came from the half-conscious lad a sharp, protesting sound.

“It’s awful,” Jo said. “I simply couldn’t bear to let the police have him! He—he looks so young, and not really wicked. But Father is different; he’d be sterner. Besides, he’d get into bad trouble himself if he didn’t give him up.”

“But we can’t leave him here. He’s too ill.”

The patient made a great effort to speak.

“I’m all right. Don’t tell——” His voice became indistinct, but they caught the muttered word, “police.” The twins looked at each other.

“We might leave him until the morning,” Jean said—and there was an answering sound of gratitude from the patient. “After all, I don’t suppose he could be moved to-night, and it’s so hot he might as well be here as—as in gaol,” she finished, dropping her voice.

“I’m—not going—to gaol,” said the patient indistinctly.

“You don’t understand,” said Jean, speaking as one would to a baby. “They’re looking for you everywhere: I’m afraid we can’t hide you. But we won’t say anything to-night, if you’d like to stay here.”

The patient grunted.

“And we’ll bring you food early in the morning,” added Jo, who had been rapidly turning over ways and means in her mind. “Do you think there’s anything wrong with you besides your head and ankle?”

The grunt said “No.”

“Well, we’ll just leave you to-night, and if there’s any way we can help you in the morning, we’ll do it.”

They collected a few armfuls of bracken and put them against the wall of the hut for a bed, helping the lad to move there; Jean bathed his head again, and made a wet bandage for it of his other sock, and they put two full tins of water near him. Then they remembered that they were bringing home a surprise for Rex and Billy in the shape of two slabs of chocolate, and, with some regret, gave him these. He lay with closed eyes, but they felt that he was dimly conscious of all they did. Once he muttered something that sounded like “Thanks.”

They left him at last, and cantered rapidly homewards, conscious that they were very late. No one seemed to mind, however; the breathless heat was sufficient excuse for anything. Even Sarah sat on the kitchen verandah, fanning herself with the milk-skimmer. The twins handed over the mail-bag and ran off to change for tea—not sorry for a chance to discuss their amazing find.

“You know, I don’t see what we really can do,” Jo said. “He couldn’t be hidden down there for more than a few days, even if we could get food to him.”

“I suppose not.” Jean looked perplexed. “Anyhow, let’s do our best, Jo. He looks so young and miserable. Perhaps, if he escaped, he might never steal again.”

“Why, I’d help him to escape, quick enough—if I could see how,” Jo said, with calm disregard of the law. “But that’s the trouble. And we mustn’t land Father in a hole—if we can help it, that is.”

“No,” agreed her twin. “Not if we can help it.”

It was distressingly clear that if the choice came between inconveniencing their father or the patient, Mr. Weston might have to go to the wall.

“Perhaps we could keep him fed for a few days, and then let him take his chance of escaping,” Jo pondered. “But we just couldn’t hand him over to the police, Jeanie.”

“And what if the police come out here and question us?”

This was a horrible possibility which had not occurred to Jo. She thought a moment.

“We’ll make for the bathing-pool!” said she.

“They can’t question us if we’re swimming round in bathing-suits!”

Mr. Weston had carried the mail-bag out to the verandah, where his wife lay back in a long chair. For once, her busy fingers were idle, and she was very pale.

“Two for you, Mary,” he said, sorting the letters. “The usual assortment of bills and agents’ circulars for me, I suppose.” He tore open an envelope, and fell silent, while Mrs. Weston became immersed in her own letters. Presently she heard him give a stifled exclamation. She looked up inquiringly. He was staring at the page in his hand, amazement on his face.

“What is it, John?” she asked.

“The most unexpected thing!” he answered, his voice shaking. “Ahearne has paid up!”

“Not the borrowed money!”

“Every penny. Poor old chap, he’s glad to be able to do it. He’s had a legacy; some old aunt in Sydney has died, leaving him enough to clear away his difficulties.” Mr. Weston held out a pink slip of paper. “There’s his cheque—we haven’t seen so much money for ages, Mary-girl!”

Mrs. Weston took the cheque and turned it over slowly, looking at the figures on it. It seemed an incredible thing.

“I’m glad for his sake, too,” she said. “He was unhappier about the money than we were, John.”

“I know he was. But I’ll never regret having lent it to him, even if it did land us in a hole. He’s a good friend.”

He stood up, straightening his shoulders as if a weight had fallen from them.

“Well, that clears away some difficulties,” he said. “I’ll put it in the Bank to-morrow. It won’t put us on our feet, of course, but it will help our credit; and we’ll want all the credit with the Bank that we can get, even if the drought does break.”

“I suppose we shall,” his wife said, slowly. Then she was silent; and all through the evening she said little, looking before her with brooding eyes. Her husband watched her anxiously. When the children had gone to bed, he spoke.

“Is anything wrong, Mary?”

“No,” she said—“there’s nothing wrong. But I want you to do something for me, John. I don’t want it put into the Bank—that money of Mr. Ahearne’s.”

“Not put into the Bank!” he said. “But why, Mary? What else do you want to do with it?”

“I want you to buy Murphy’s sheep,” she said.

“Murphy’s sheep!” He looked at her with amazed eyes. “But, Mary—it’s an utter gamble!”

“There’s a month’s grass with them yet. I met Tim Conlan on Saturday, and he told me they were not sold, and that Murphy would take even less for them. And, John—nothing but a gamble will put us on our feet now, even if the drought does break.”

“I know,” he said heavily: “I know. And of course, if it breaks, sheep will go up like sky-rockets—every one will be wanting to buy. But—look at it!” He swept his hand vaguely towards the hot darkness, seeing, as plainly as in daylight, the bare, scorched land. “How do we know it will break this year!”

Mrs. Weston looked at him, and a little whimsical smile came at the corners of her mouth.

“My toe is aching,” she said. “It has ached for three days!”