My Brilliant Career (16 page)

“The schemes of youngsters are very transparent,” said Uncle Jay-Jay and Miss Augusta, smiling significantly at us. I feigned to be dense, but Harold smiled as though the insinuation was not only known, but also agreeable to him.

Uncle was inexorable, so home I had to go. It was sweet to me to hear from the lips of my grandmother and aunt that my absence had been felt.

As a confidante Aunt Helen was the pink of perfection—tactful and sympathetic. My featherbrained chatter must often have bored her, but she apparently was ever interested in it.

I told her long yarns of how I had spent my time at the Beechams'; of the deafening ducts Harold and I had played on the piano; and how he would persist in dancing with me, and he being so tall and broad, and I so small, it was like being stretched on a hay rack, and very fatiguing. I gave a graphic account of the arguments—tough ones they were too—that Miss Augusta had with the overseer on religion, and many other subjects; of one jackeroo who gabbed never-endingly about his great relations at home; another who incessantly clattered about spurs, whips, horses, and sport; and the third one—Joe Archer—who talked literature and trash with me.

“What was Harry doing all this time?” asked Auntie. “What did he say?”

Harold had been present all the while, yet I could not call to mind one thing he had said. I cannot remember him ever holding forth on a subject or cause, as most people do at one time or another.

In pursuance of his duty, a government mail contractor passed Caddagat every Monday, dropping the Bossier mail as he went. On Thursday we also got the post, but had to depend partly on our own exertions.

A selector at Dogtrap, on the Wyambeet run, at a point of the compass ten miles down the road from Caddagat, kept a hooded van. Every Thursday he ran this to and from Gool-Gool for the purpose of taking to market vegetables and other farm produce. He also took parcels and passengers, both ways, if called upon to do so. Caddagat and Five-Bob gave him a great deal of carrying, and he brought the mail for these and two or three other places. It was one of my duties, or rather privileges, to ride thither on Thursday afternoon for the post, a leather bag slung round my shoulders for the purpose. I always had a splendid mount, and the weather being beautifully hot, it was a jaunt which I never failed to enjoy. Frank Hawden went with me once or twice—not because Grannie or I thought his escort necessary. The idea was his own; but I gave him such a time that he was forced to relinquish accompanying me as a bad job.

Harold Beecham kept a snivelling little Queensland black boy as a sort of black-your-boots, odd-jobs slavey or factotum, and he came to Dogtrap for the mail, but after I started to ride for it Harold came regularly for his mail himself. Our homeward way lay together for two miles, but he always came with me till nearly in sight of home. Some days we raced till our horses were white with lather; and once or twice mine was in such a state that we dismounted, and Harold unsaddled him and wiped the sweat off with his towel saddle cloth to remove
the evidence of hard riding, so that I would not get into a scrape with Uncle Jay-Jay. Other times we dawdled, so that when we parted the last rays of sunset would be laughing at us between the white trunks of the tall gum trees, the kookaburras would be making the echoes ring with their mocking good-night, and scores of wild duck would be flying quickly roostward. As I passed through the angle formed by the creek and the river, about half a mile from home, there came to my ears the cheery
clink-clink
of hobble chains, the jangle of horse bells, and the gleam of a dozen campfires. The shearing was done out in Riverina now, and the men were all going home. Day after day dozens of them passed along the long white road, bound for Monaro and the cool country beyond the blue peaks to the southeast, where the shearing was about to begin. When I had come to Caddagat the last of them had gone “down” with horses poor; now they were traveling “up” with their horses—some of them thoroughbreds—rolling fat, and a cheque for their weeks of backbending labor in their pockets. But whether coming or going they always made to Caddagat to camp. That camping ground was renowned as the best from Monaro to Riverina. It was a well-watered and sheltered nook, and the ground was so rich that there was always a mouthful of grass to be had there. It was a rare thing to see it without a fire; and the empty jam tins, bottles, bits of bag, paper, tent pegs, and fish tins to be found there would have loaded a dozen wagons.

Thursday evening was always spent in going to Dogtrap, and all the other days had their pleasant tasks and were full of wholesome enjoyment. The blue senna flowers along the river gave place to the white bloom of the tea tree. Grannie, Uncle, and Aunt Helen filled the house with girl visitors for my pleasure. In the late afternoon, as the weather got hot, we went for bogeys in a part of the river two miles distant. Some of the girls from neighboring runs brought their saddles, others from town had to be provided therewith, which produced a dearth in sidesaddles, and it was necessary for me to take a man's. With a rollicking gallop and a bogey ahead, that did not trouble me. Aunt Helen always accompanied us on our bathing expeditions to keep us in check. She was the only one who bothered with a
bathing dress. The rest of us reefed off our clothing, in our hurry sending buttons in all directions, and plunged into the pleasant water. Then—such water-fights, frolic, laughter, shouting and roaring fun as a dozen strong, healthy girls can make when enjoying themselves. Aunt Helen generally called time before we were half inclined to leave. We would linger too long, then there would be a great scramble for clothes, next for horses, and with wet hair streaming on our towels, we would go home full belt, twelve sets of galloping hoofs making a royal clatter on the hard, dusty road. Grannie made a rule that when we arrived late we had to unsaddle our horses ourselves, and not disturb the working men from their meal for our pleasure. We mostly were late, and so there would be a tight race to see who would arrive at table first. A dozen heated horses were turned out unceremoniously, a dozen saddles and bridles dumped down anywhere anyhow, and their occupants, with wet dishevelled hair and clothing in glorious disarray, would appear at table averring that they were starving.

The Caddagat folk were enthusiastic anglers. Fishing was a favorite and often-enjoyed amusement of the household. In the afternoon a tinful of worms would be dug out of one of the water races, tackle collected, horses saddled, and Grannie, Uncle, Aunt, Frank Hawden, myself, and anyone else who had happened to drop in, would repair to the fish holes three miles distant. I hate fishing. Ugh! The hideous barbarity of shoving a hook through a living worm, and the cruelty of taking the fish off the hook! Uncle allowed no idlers at the river—all had to manipulate a rod and line. Indulging in pleasant air castles, I generally forgot my cork till the rod would be jerked in my hand, when I would pull—too late!—the fish would be gone. Uncle would lecture me for being a jackdaw, so next time I would glare at the cork unwinkingly, and pull at the first signs of it bobbing—too soon!—the fish would escape again, and I would again be in disgrace. After a little experience I found it was a good plan to be civil to Frank Hawden when the prospect of fishing hung around, and then he would attend to my line as well as his own, while I read a book which I smuggled with me. The fish hole was such a shrub-hidden nook that, though the
main road passed within two hundred yards, neither we nor our horses could be seen by the travelers thereon. I lay on the soft moss and leaves and drank deeply of the beauties of nature. The soft rush of the river, the scent of the shrubs, the golden sunset, occasionally the musical clatter of hooves on the road, the gentle noises of the fishers fishing, the
plop
,
plop
of a platypus disporting itself midstream, came to me as sweetest elixir in my ideal, dream-of-a-poet nook among the pink-based, gray-topped, moss-carpeted rocks.

I was a creature of joy in those days. Life is made up of little things. It was a small thing to have a little pocket money to spend on anything that took my fancy—a very small thing, and yet how much pleasure it gave me. Though eating is not one of the great aims of my life, yet it was nice to have enough of any delicacy one fancied. Not that we ever went hungry at home, but when one has nothing to eat in the hot weather but bread and beef it gives them tendency to dream of fruit and cool dainties. When one thinks of the countless army of one's fellows who are daily selling their very souls for the barest necessaries of life, I suppose we—irresponsible beings—should be thankful to God for allowing us, by scratching and scraping all our lives, to keep a crust in our mouth and a rag on our back. I am not thankful, I have been guilty of what Pa would term a “digresshion”—I started about going for the mail at Dogtrap. Harold Beecham never once missed taking me home on Thursdays, even when his shearing was in full swing and he must have been very busy. He never once uttered a word of love to me—not so much as one of the soft nothings in which young people of opposite sexes often deal without any particular significance. Whether he went to all the bother and waste of time accruing from escorting me home out of gentlemanliness alone, was a mystery to me. I desired to find out, and resolved to drive instead of ride to Dogtrap one day to see what he would say.

Grannie assented to the project. Of course I could drive for once if I didn't feel able to ride, but the horses had been spelling for a long time and were very frisky. I must take Frank with me or I might get my neck broken.

I flatly opposed the idea of Frank Hawden going with me. He
would make a mull of the whole thing. It was no use arguing with Grannie and impressing upon her the fact that I was not the least nervous concerning the horses, I could take Frank with me in the buggy, ride, or stay at home. I preferred driving. Accordingly the fat horses were harnessed to the buggy, and with many injunctions to be careful and not forget the parcels, we set out. Frank Hawden's presence spoilt it all, but I determined to soon make short work of him.

There was one gate to go through, about four miles from the house. Frank Hawden got out to open it. I drove through, and while he was pushing it to, laid the whip on the horses and went off full tilt. He ran after me shouting all manner of things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy. One horse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove at a good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in the distance. The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the
chirr! chirr!
of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from Grannie for my conduct.

It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap Homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower garden, was Harold Beecham's favorite, great, black, saddle horse, Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached. His master appeared on the veranda, raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never! You're not by yourself, are you?”

“I am. Would you please tell Mrs. Butler to bring out Grannie's parcels and post at once. I'm afraid to dawdle, it's getting late.”

He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute.

“Mr. Beecham, please would you examine Barney's harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.”

Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said, “It looks as though you've been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he's putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?”

“I'm not frightened,” I replied.

“I see you're not. You'd be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you're not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won't let you go back by yourself.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“I can.”

“You can't.”

“I can.”

“You can't.”

“I can.”

“How?”

“I'm going with you,” he said.

“You're not.”

“I am.”

“You're not.”

“I am.”

“You
ar-r-re
not.”

“I am.”

“You are,
ar-r-re
not.”

“We'll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement.

“But, Mr. Beecham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.”

Mrs. Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy.

“You'd better come in an' 'ave a drop of tay-warter, miss. The kittle's bilin'; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Butler. I can't possibly stay today, it's
getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr. Beecham.”

I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping oil. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse's bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver's seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs. Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off.