stolidly, and went on,--

    "But now we're here, why, de money doesn't grow,
    And we ain't got nuffin' but de old banjo:
    So we rove the streets if de wedder's wet or dry,
    Till my heart most breaks and der's water in your eye.
            Oho you and de banjo."

"Most pathetic," said Miss Chase, with a twinkle in her dark eyes.
"I think I begin to see where Mr. Cochrane gets his revolutionary
sentiments from."

    "Then in sleep at night de nigger dreams ob home,
    Where de sun really shines and de frosts nebber come,
    Where we'd plenty to eat, and a little hut of logs,
    And we hadn't got to beg for our bread like de dogs.
            Oho you and de banjo."

Bob's voice became more and more plaintive; he sat in a drooping
attitude with his head on one side as he finished,--

    "But it ain't no good all dis singin' out of tune,
    For we can't get warm, tho' they say it's hot for June;
    It's certain for darkies dis is not de place,
    Where eben de sun am ashamed to show his face.
            Oho you and de banjo."

"So that is your opinion of England, is it?" asked Miss Chase.
"Well, I am not surprised you don't want to come, then."

"But of course it is all stuff, and nothing but a silly old darkie
song," said Eustace.

"You wait till you get there, young man," said Bob, still with an
air of mock gloom about him; "you'll remember my warning then. It
is so cold in England the natives have their windows glued in to
keep out the air, and they have front doors as thick as walls, all
studded with nails and brass knockers."

"But what are the brass knockers for?" asked Nesta. "They wouldn't
keep you warm."

"Certainly not," was the answer; "the brass knockers are for the
purpose of waking the people inside the house, who are always
asleep with the cold--like dormice."

"Mother," demanded Eustace, "do you think he ought to have any tea
after that? He hasn't done penance, and he isn't a bit sorry. He is
making it worse and worse."

"I think, darling, as he is a guest he must have his tea," Mrs.
Orban said; "but I will send a note by him to his mother to say he
has not been good."

"I'm not going home to-night--so there," said Bob complacently;
"I'm going to sleep in a hammock on the veranda."

"Oh, jolly!" exclaimed every one, and there was a chorus of, "We
can stay up late, can't we, just for to-night--Aunt Dorothy's first
night?"

But Aunt Dorothy did not allow the compliment to deceive her. Not
for her but for Bob Cochrane did the young people want to stay up
later. He was certainly a great favourite.

CHAPTER IX.

A RIDERLESS HORSE.

It was a delightfully merry evening. Bob had to re-do his
punishment and sing several songs, and then he struck.

"I am quite sure Miss Chase sings," he declared. "It's her turn
now. Witches ought to be punished even more severely than
traitors."

She made no demur, but sat down to the piano and began to sing. But
in the middle of her song such a noise began over her head that she
dropped her hands laughingly, and exclaimed,--

"How can I sing with that wretched electric bell going on all the
time?"

"Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r," sounded shrilly through the room,
louder and louder.

"Electric bell?" exclaimed the children with blank faces.

"Oh, you dear new chum," said Mr. Orban, bursting into peals of
laughter, accompanied by Bob, "that isn't an electric bell; it's a
cicada."

"A cicada!" repeated Miss Chase.

"Yes; a kind of grasshopper, or cricket, you know," Mrs. Orban
explained, looking much amused. "He is up there in the roof. I am
afraid you will have to stop, for as long as you go on so will
he."

"How very ill-mannered of him," said Miss Chase.

"Let's play something instead," said Peter, who was getting sleepy,
but would not own it.

He was not really fond of music--Bob's comic songs excepted.

The game was begun, and going merrily, when suddenly there rose on
the night air such an appalling howl that Miss Chase started and
turned pale. To her astonishment, when she looked round the table,
she found that no one but herself was at all disturbed by the
sound.

"You to play, I believe, Miss Chase," said Bob, who sat opposite
her.

She put down her card, and at that moment the agonized cry came
again, apparently from immediately under the veranda. Dorothy
gripped her hands tightly together, and again looked round on the
unmoved faces. Again the cry resounded.

"Surely," she said, looking appealingly at Bob, "there is something
or some one in dreadful pain outside."

Bob laughed.

"I thought you seemed upset, but I didn't like to mention it," he
said. "That's nothing but a dingo howling. There'll be a whole pack
of them at it presently, I dare say. I'll go out and disperse them
as soon as the game is over."

"What is a dingo?" inquired Miss Chase.

"Don't you know that, Aunt Dorothy?" asked Peter in tones of
contemptuous astonishment. "Well, it's the commonest thing here."

"Peter," said Bob gravely, "do you know what a top hat and a frock
coat are like?"

Peter shook his head in bewilderment.

"Don't you?" said Bob, mimicking the small boy's tone. "Well,
they're the commonest things in England. I am surprised at your
ignorance!"

Peter reddened.

"But I've never seen them," he said.

"Nor has Miss Chase ever seen a dingo," said Bob calmly.--"It is
the wild dog of the Bush, Miss Chase. They come prowling round the
house at night, looking for food."

The howling grew worse and worse. Bob quietly sauntered out on to
the veranda. There were a few shots, and the noise changed to yelps
as the dingoes scurried in terror down the hill.

"Don't be worried if you hear them in the distance most of the
night," said Mrs. Orban. "I am afraid it will take you some time to
get used to our noisy hours of darkness."

When Miss Chase tried to settle down to sleep she remembered these
words, and it seemed superfluous to her that she should have been
wished "good-night" by every one. A good night was impossible. The
dingoes howled persistently in the woods below, and quite close
there was the incessant "croak-croak-croak-croak" of tree-frogs,
together with many other inexplicable and weird noises.

Nesta slept placidly through it all; but not till there came a lull
just an hour or so before dawn did the weary stranger drop into
oblivion.

It did not seem to her she had been asleep five minutes, and there
was only the faintest glimmer of light in her room, when she was
awakened by something new. Just under her window there was a
strident laugh.

"Ha-ha-ha!" Then another, "Ha-ha-ha!"

Miss Chase listened in bewilderment.

"What extraordinary people," she thought, glancing enviously at the
undisturbed Nesta. "Who on earth can be out at this time?"

She supposed that it must be some of the plantation hands prowling
about outside; but she wondered at her brother-in-law allowing them
to behave in such a tiresome way when people were wanting to sleep.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha!" jeered the voice outside, as if mocking at her
annoyance. Then followed a chorus of chuckles, and Miss Chase sat
up in bed, and strained her ears to catch the joke, if possible.
But no words reached her. There was a little pause as if some one
might be speaking, and then another burst of delighted chuckles, so
very funny that they were quite infectious, and Miss Chase smiled
in spite of herself.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha! ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the voices. Now certainly
there were more than one.

"This is too ridiculous," thought Miss Chase, beginning to chuckle
softly to herself. "What can they be saying or doing out there?"

At last the hilarity became so boisterous that her curiosity got
the better of her, and slipping on a wrapper she opened the window
and crept out on to the veranda.

To her surprise there was no one to be seen--not a soul was about
either on the veranda or below, though she leant right over, and
strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of these queer people.

It was comparatively deliciously cool outside, the grayness before
dawn a pleasant contrast to the tropical glare that was positively
hurtful to the new-comer's eyes. Going to the corner of the
veranda, she gazed away and away towards the now deep gray sea,
lying like a bath of mist beyond the dense black of the trees in
the valley.

"What a queer, unreal world it seems," she was thinking, "and yet
to little Peter this is all reality, and England nothing but a
dream."

"Ha-ha!" said a voice from immediately below, so loudly as to sound
almost insulting.

Miss Chase jumped, looked about in astonishment--and saw no one.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!" repeated the mocker.

"I wonder if he sees me, and is laughing at me now?" thought the
girl.

She gave a little shiver. It was not a very pleasant sensation to
feel herself spied upon by an unseen watcher, and she began to beat
a hasty retreat towards her own window again.

"Ha-ha!" laughed the unseen one, with such a note of triumph that
now she was certain the humour was at her expense. It annoyed her,
and at the same time it rather frightened her. Was it possibly a
madman?--for assuredly the chuckles became madder and madder as
they increased. Besides which, what sane person would be out of bed
and giggling at such an hour? The thought of a lunatic or two at
large lurking round the house was discomforting indeed. In England,
with fast-barred doors and windows that are supposed to be
unassailable, it would not be pleasant; but here--where what might
be called the "front door" was nothing but the flimsiest of French
windows, the windows themselves utterly powerless to keep any one
out--the English girl found this new suspicion particularly
disagreeable. She wondered whether she ought not to go and rouse
Mr. Orban. Perhaps he ought to be warned, she reflected, so as to
be ready in case these maniacs burst into the house, intent on the
mischief they were so evidently gloating over in anticipation.

"I wish I knew what to do," she thought in great agitation.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha-ha-ha!" responded the laughers with maniacal glee.

"Why, Aunt Dorothy," exclaimed Nesta, as Miss Chase entered the
room in a hurry, "what have you been doing?"

Nesta was sitting up in bed. She had evidently awakened, and
discovering her aunt's absence, was wondering about it. It
comforted Miss Chase to have some one to speak to; but, determined
not to frighten the child, she said as steadily as she could,--

"I was only trying to find out what those people are laughing at
out there. It seems such a strange time to be so amused. I suppose
they must be some of the coolies going to work."

"People!" repeated Nesta blankly.

"Yes--listen!" said Miss Chase; and as another burst of thick-toned
mirth reached them, "There--don't you hear that?"

Nesta rolled down into her pillow, and fairly shouted into it.

"What is the matter with the child?" asked Miss Chase in
bewilderment.

"People!" gasped Nesta, as soon as she had any voice to speak with.
"Those aren't people; they're birds!"

"Birds!" said Miss Chase. "Impossible. You must be asleep still, or
you didn't hear what I said."

"Yes, I did," Nesta replied. "You mean those funny fat chuckles and
ha-ha's? Well, those are birds--the laughing jackasses. I can show
them to you in a minute."

Out they both went on to the veranda, and in the fast-increasing
light Nesta pointed out some trees below, on which sat groups of
brightly-hued birds, not unlike kingfishers in appearance, but very
much larger. They had without doubt the funniest faces Miss Chase
had ever seen. Not only did they laugh aloud--they positively
grinned, so comic was the expression of their wide beaks. She
laughed herself till the tears ran down her cheeks, and Nesta put
her head down on the veranda railing and wept with laughter too.

The sun was up now, there being practically no twilight either
before sunrise or after sunset in North Queensland. The glory of
the scene sobered Miss Chase, and she stood watching.

The glee of the birds was explained. They sat and laughed as they
watched for their prey, then pounced down upon the unwary locusts
or lizards they had marked, and returning to the tree, sat
chuckling triumphantly over the capture before eating.

"It is really rather horrid of them, isn't it?" said Miss Chase.

But Nesta did not sympathize.

"Nobody minds," she said, "especially about locusts being
eaten--nasty things. When there is a plague of them it means ruin
to father; they destroy every blade of sugar-cane."

Over the tree-tops in the valley below appeared a cloud of
shimmering whiteness, moving swiftly round the base of the hill.

"What is that?" asked Miss Chase curiously.

"White cockatoos," said Nesta, with a yawn; "they're changing their
feeding-ground--white cockatoos with bright yellow crests. But, I
say, don't you think you had better go back to bed? You're looking
awfully tired."

"Is that one for me and two for yourself?" said Miss Chase lightly.
"Personally, I would rather dress and go for a walk in the wood
down there."

"I don't think you had better," Nesta said, shaking her head
doubtfully. "We aren't allowed to go there alone. It is awfully
easy to get lost; and then there are snakes and things. You might
get into a mangrove swamp too--or you might meet black-fellows."

"Well, really," laughed Miss Chase, leading the way back to bed,
"you don't give a very flattering description. Why, at home I'm
often up at sunrise, out all by myself in the woods. You don't even
meet poachers, for they take good care not to be seen."

"I think England must be splendid," sighed Nesta.

"I wonder if you would really think so," Miss Chase responded. "Mr.
Cochrane gave you a very dismal picture of it, remember."

"Oh, but Bob has never been there. Besides, he was only
exaggerating, because he doesn't want us to go, you know."

Miss Chase gave such a graphic account at breakfast of her early
morning experiences that every one at the table shouted with
laughter. The jackasses were alluded to ever after as Aunt
Dorothy's lunatics.

"To talk of serious things," said Mr. Orban, half way through the
meal, "we shall have to be fearfully careful with the water. The
second tank is almost empty, and I doubt its lasting till the rains
come."

"That's bad," said Bob.

"Things are bad," said Mr. Orban. "I hope the rains will hurry up,
or we shall have the cane catching fire. We should lose every bit
of the crop if that happened."

"Dear me," said Miss Chase, "you seem to have fearful difficulties
to contend with. Nesta was talking about locusts only this
morning."

"Locusts will destroy the young crop," said Mr. Orban. "If it
escapes them, fire may destroy the old. Too much rain and too
little do equal damage. We've had a good many unprosperous years,
with one thing and another."

"It looks grand burning," said Eustace.

"A sheet of flame, and your heart in the middle of it, never seems
very grand to the man whose year's work and hope is being burnt
under his very nose," said Mr. Orban.

The children had seldom seen their father look as worried as he did
then. It seemed to Eustace there was trouble in the air.

"Can't you put out a fire in the cane once it begins?" asked Miss
Chase with interest.

"No," was the answer; "you can only try to stop it spreading by
cutting as wide a path as possible between the burning part and the
sound. It takes all hands to do it, though, and some of the coolies
can't be got to work for love or money. It is a nasty business when
it happens."

Bob started off home early; not quite so early as he had meant to,
because when his horse was brought round ready saddled, he found it
had lamed itself somehow in the stable. He therefore borrowed a
horse from Mr. Orban, and left his own to rest for a day or two.

Generally when Bob took his departure after a particularly jolly
time there was a good deal of depression about. But to-day, with
the arrival of Aunt Dorothy's boxes up the hill, low spirits
disappeared as if by magic.

The contents of those boxes kept every one occupied the whole day.
What with the excitement and curiosity over the many presents--the
clothes, useful things, and games stowed quaintly into the
packing-cases together; what with every one's amusement over Miss
Chase's frequent astonishment at the commonest things of their
everyday life, time slipped cheerily away towards evening. The
children never remembered such happiness in their quiet existence
before, and Miss Chase felt half inclined to weep when she saw what
simple things were joys to them.

"Herbert and Brenda would laugh at them if they saw them," she
thought gravely.

Brenda's photograph was very much admired. She was a beautiful girl
indeed, with a proudly-carried head, and just the suspicion of a
scornful curve to her lips.

Nesta suppressed a sigh as she looked at her cousin's clothes, for
Nesta loved pretty things. She let out little bursts of admiration
that amused her aunt considerably.

"She looks a regular angel," Nesta said. "I never saw any one so
lovely. Isn't she simply perfect, Aunt Dorothy?"

"She is a very nice girl," was all Miss Chase could be brought to
admit.

"And she goes to school," murmured Nesta, gazing lingeringly at the
lucky girl, who seemed to have everything heart could desire. "I
just want to see her more than everything in the world."

"Perhaps you will some day," said Miss Chase, wondering silently
how much of the compliment Brenda would return could she see a
photograph of this rough-headed, ill-dressed little cousin of hers;
for Brenda was particular--at least over her friends at school.

Eustace gazed silently at the portrait of Herbert. He had no word
to say about the immaculately-dressed English boy, photographed in
his best suit, his highest collar, and pet tie. At least he made no
public comment; but when Nesta bothered him later for an opinion,
he said shortly,--

"He looks an ass."

"Oh, he doesn't," Nesta said warmly, ready to admire everything
English.

"I think so," Eustace said imperturbably.

"Then you're a silly, jealous boy," said Nesta in fiery
championship.

"Who wants to have clothes like Brenda?" was the instant retort,
"and go to school like Brenda, and be just like Brenda? But I'm
certain I don't want to look like Herbert anyway. He looks a
stuck-up ass."

"He--he looks like a gentleman," spluttered Nesta.

"Oh, shut up," said Eustace. "Can't a gentleman look an ass? Who is
that riding up the hill?"

His quick ears had caught the sound of hoofs, and glad of a pretext
to change the subject he went and leant over the balcony.

Nesta was at his side with a pounce.

"Hulloa!" he shouted a few seconds later; "here is something
queer."

"What is it, Eustace?" called his mother from within; and soon
every one was on the veranda, staring eagerly down the hill.

Coming up at a leisurely trot was a riderless horse--saddled,
bridled, but alone.

The watchful party waited in breathless astonishment till it was
close to the house. Then Eustace said sharply,--

"Mother, it's the horse Bob went away on this morning! There's been
some accident."

CHAPTER X.

A VOICE FROM THE SCRUB.

There could be no doubt about it, and every one stared blankly
after the beautiful big creature as it passed on, round the house
towards its own stable.

"What can have happened?" Mrs. Orban exclaimed. "Bob is such a
splendid rider."

"Oh, he can't have been thrown, of course," Eustace said, with an
emphasis meant to impress Aunt Dorothy.

"Perhaps it's black-fellows," said Nesta shakily.

"Stupid," said Eustace sharply, "Bob can shoot straighter than any
one I know."

"Instead of wrangling over possibilities, we ought to be doing
something," said Mrs. Orban. "Eustace, you had better fetch that
horse and ride down to father at once. Perhaps he will guess what
it means."

Eustace was off like an arrow from a bow, and presently appeared
below the veranda, sitting erect and fearless, riding the returned
horse.

He looked such a scrap perched up there that Miss Chase had a
sudden qualm as to his safety.

"Will he be all right going down alone?" she asked.

"All right?" questioned Mrs. Orban, looking puzzled.

"Yes; I mean, isn't it rather a risk for him?"

"Oh goody, no!" Nesta answered with a laugh. "Why, Eustace can ride
anything; he has ridden ever since he was six."

"Father will want to see the horse," Mrs. Orban said. "Perhaps it
has only run away from the Highlands before it was stabled. But I
can't think what it has been doing in the interval, or why Bob has
not sent over to inquire. He ought to have got home by nine at
latest."

Mr. Orban was as puzzled as every one else when he saw the horse.
He examined it carefully.

"Well, so far as I can see, Bolter has not been running away," he
said thoughtfully. "He has not been overheated, and he is as fresh
as paint. I should say he has had some quiet hours of grazing. But
where Bob is remains a mystery. I must ride over to the Highlands
at once and find out if he is there."

"O father, can I come too?" Eustace cried eagerly. "I could ride
Bolter, and I shall never be happy till I know Bob is all right."

Mr. Orban eyed the boy kindly.

"Yes, you can come," he said. "It will scare Mrs. Cochrane less
perhaps, and look more casual if I have you with me."

Away they went at a quick trot along the rough road leading to the
wood known as Palm Tree Scrub. Eustace knew every inch of the way,
and generally loved to get into the cool and shade under the
feathery palms. But to-day he glanced left and right, looking for
he knew not what with sickening anxiety.

The road, nothing but a cart-track, skirted a mangrove swamp
awhile.

"He can't have got in there," said Eustace, with a nod towards the
thickly growing stems of ti-trees rearing up from long coarse
grass.

There was a mysterious darkness in the depths of the woods that
somehow chilled the boy to-day.

"What should he get into a rank place like that for?" said Mr.
Orban bracingly.

At the same time he whipped up his horse and hurried forward. He
was regretting having brought Eustace. A mangrove swamp is an
unhealthy spot at the best of times, productive of a great deal of
malarial fever; it would be nightfall, he reflected, before they
got back, and the mist would be rising.

Away and away out into the open the pair galloped, and came to the
side of the creek--the bend in the river through which the horses
had to wade. The water was low just now. There were times when such
floods roared over this spot that the man carrying the mails had
been known to be swept away, horse and all, and was never heard of
again.

At the other side the horses plunged into grass as high as their
flanks--a flat, uninteresting tract of land, bare of trees except
where here and there a single palm tree arose. But beyond that the
ground rose suddenly from the banks of this bend of the river. On
the summit of a high bank, luxuriantly surrounded by tropical
foliage of all sorts, was Bob Cochrane's home.

It was a relief to Mr. Orban to find only Mr. Cochrane on the lower
veranda. He was a short, broad, sandy-haired man with a rough
appearance, and as kind a heart as could be found in the colony,
which is saying a great deal.

"Good-evening, Cochrane," said Mr. Orban casually, as he reined in
his horse. "Is Bob at home?"

Eustace listened for the answer with a thumping heart, and he saw a
slight look of surprise flit across Mr. Cochrane's face as he
replied slowly,--

"Bob? No. I thought he was over at your place. He hasn't turned up
here to-day."

"Well, he was with us," Mr. Orban said, trying hard to keep up the
careless tone, "but he started off this morning--I thought for
home."

"Not he," said Mr. Cochrane; "at least he hasn't arrived. Perhaps
he had to come round by somewhere else--Gairloch or one of those
places. Come in, won't you, and wait for him, if you want to see
him."

"Afraid I can't do that," Mr. Orban said, speaking low so that only
Mr. Cochrane, now by his horse's head, should hear. "Fact is, I'm
rather worried. Bob's horse went lame, and he borrowed one of mine.
He should have been here at about nine, but the horse--this one
Eustace is on--appeared back at my place an hour ago."

Mr. Cochrane stared blankly.

"Without Bob?" he questioned in a dazed way.

"Yes. Don't say anything about it to your wife--it might frighten
her unnecessarily," Mr. Orban said. "He may have gone round by
Gairloch, and the beast ran away from there. We can just say I came
over on business, and then you had better come right off with me to
see if Bob is all right."

"I'll do that," said the Scotsman, and hurried off to get his
horse.

"Now look here, Eustace," Mr. Orban said, "I'm going to leave you
here for to-night, whatever happens. Mother would not thank me for
bringing you through that mangrove swamp and risking fever. But
you'll have to keep a quiet tongue in your head and say nothing
about Bob's leaving our house to-day. If you say nothing, Mrs.
Cochrane and Trix will only fancy he is staying with us."

"O father," Eustace said pleadingly, "need I stay really?"

The prospect frightened him, for he was terrified lest he should
let the cat out of the bag. Keeping a secret was not one of his
accomplishments.

"Yes, my lad," was the answer, however; "there is to be no question
about it, and you are to behave like a man. Anxiety is much worse
to bear than any bodily hurt, and a man should protect a woman from
it as he would save her from being tortured. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," Eustace said, with a sinking heart.

"It isn't a little thing to do," Mr. Orban went on; "it is one of
the big things, for it means self-sacrifice. It is always
comforting to oneself to talk things out. You'll have plenty of
things to say without mentioning Bob. Tell them about Aunt Dorothy
and her queer mistakes--the boxes you have unpacked--Ah, Mrs.
Cochrane," he broke off suddenly, looking up to a figure that
appeared on the upper veranda, "how do you do? I've just come over
to steal your husband for a bit. I hope you won't mind."

Eustace was amazed at the change in his father's tone; it was
brisk, cheery, and impossible to suspect.

"But won't you come in?" asked Mrs. Cochrane, who in appearance was
something like a little brown robin. "You must be hot and tired."

"Not a bit," Mr. Orban said; "and I'm in such a hurry I must ask
you to forgive the rudeness. I want you to do me a favour too, if
you will. Keep Eustace the night. I never thought how late I might
be going home when I brought him; I want to go back by Gairloch."

"Certainly, I'll keep the dear laddie with pleasure," was the
cordial answer, and the kindly look that beamed on Eustace
positively hurt him. She looked so happy, and oh, what awful news
was there in store for her!

"I may even keep your husband all night," Mr. Orban added. "You
won't be scared if he doesn't turn up in good time for bed?"

"Not I," said Mrs. Cochrane. "I know my dear belongings are always
safe with you."

Eustace could have cried at the words. "Safe!" and where was Bob
whom she pictured so safely at this very minute in the Orbans'
house? Mr. Orban did not look up as he said,--

"Don't expect Bob either. Eustace will tell you all about what a
merry household we have suddenly become. We've got a witch into it,
as Bob calls her. Here comes Cochrane. I hope he won't want an hour
to say farewell."

"Not I," said Mr. Cochrane bravely. "Orban has made his apologies,
I suppose?"

He ran up the steps, said good-bye, and in a few minutes the two
men were gone, leaving Eustace to face a terrible ordeal.

He took his father's suggestion and talked much of Miss Chase. It
was made easy for him by the kindly curiosity of both Mrs. Cochrane
and Trixy.

Beatrix was a jolly girl, rather like Bob both in looks and ways.
She was older for her age than Nesta, perhaps because she had no
companions of her own standing to keep her back. Eustace and she
always got on well together, and to-night he was grateful to her
for being such a chatterbox. The story of Aunt Dorothy's lunatics
made Mrs. Cochrane and Trix both laugh till the tears ran down
their cheeks. It was harder to tell them about the evening before,
for that was all so full of Bob.

It struck Mrs. Cochrane after a time that Eustace looked singularly
pale, and that the boy was talking rather fast and excitedly,
unlike his usual self.

"Do you know," she said, "I believe you are very tired, Eustace.
What do you say to going to bed?"

"Oh, I should love it," he said, with such eagerness that Mrs.
Cochrane was startled, and eyeing him critically she discovered he
was now crimson.

"I just hope he has not got a touch of the sun," was her thought.

But she said nothing of her fear.

Eustace was put into Bob's room, and everything he looked at in it
made him more miserable. But he was thankful to get away by himself
at last and give up the wretched pretence of good spirits. He felt
he was getting to the end of his powers, that in another minute the
truth would tumble out in spite of him. All the time he was talking
he was also listening--listening--listening for the sound of hoofs
that never came.

He went on listening long after he got into bed, for he could not
sleep, he was so certain there must be bad news, as neither Mr.
Cochrane nor his father returned.

He must have dozed fitfully through the night, but it seemed a
terribly long one. Every time he opened his eyes he was wide awake
in a minute to the remembrance of what had happened. When he awoke
at last to find the sun rising, he could lie still no longer, he
was haunted by such restless thoughts. He dressed and went
downstairs into the open air.

"Supposing Bob had gone off the track for some reason, and lost his
way," ran his thoughts. "Supposing he was wandering about seeking
it all night up to this very minute! Supposing he had been waylaid
and surrounded by black-fellows!--Sinkum Fung had declared they
were camping in the neighbourhood. No, Eustace would not think of
that--one white man against a tribe of blacks: it was too terrible!
And yet supposing he had been, and no one found out!" Thoughts are
sometimes dreadfully uncontrollable things.

"I believe I will go for a ride," he said to himself. "I might just
go down to the creek--I won't cross it--but just as far as there,
to see if they are in sight. I can do that easily, and be in to
breakfast."

He found a man near the stables whom he got to saddle Bolter, then
off he started down the slope across the river, and away over the
uninteresting stretch of flatness till he again reached the river
bank. There he paused, staring towards the mangrove swamp with the
same chilled feeling he had experienced the day before. It was the
terrible dread that the depths of the woods might hold something
ghastly--Bob living, but in awful distress of mind or body; Bob
dead!

There were no signs of his father or Mr. Cochrane; no sounds but
those of nature. They certainly could not have found Bob at
Gairloch. The only alternative seemed the scrub.

Suddenly Eustace threw back his head, and in a shrill treble gave
vent to a prolonged Australian "coo-ee."

"If he is there," argued the boy, "of course he will answer. How
silly of me not to think of that before."

He could hardly believe his ears for joy, but there was instantly
an answer--so faint that he only caught a bit of it; still he heard
it.

In wild excitement he coo-eed again, his very loudest this time;
and again came the reply, scarcely more distinct, and more like a
cry than a coo-ee.

"It comes from the scrub," thought Eustace. "He must be there, but
awfully far off or ill, for that isn't like his voice. What shall I
do? I can't go back and fetch any one, because father said I was
not to tell. I daren't wait till father comes, for fear I lose it.
It might get fainter and fainter. Oh, I must do something when Bob
is calling out for help! If I could find him, if--if I could save
him, it would be splendid!"

Just once again he sent out his piercing coo-ee, and this time the
answer was distinct enough for him to decide its exact position.
Without another moment for reflection, he urged Bolter on, waded
through the river, and dashed helter-skelter towards the wood. He
thought nothing of the possibility of himself being lost, nothing
of the danger of meeting black-fellows. He was going to Bob--that
was the central idea. Bob was in danger and called for help. It was
the fulfilment of the greatest wish of Eustace's life to serve
Bob.

CHAPTER XI.

BLACK-FELLOWS.

In the exultation of the thought Eustace plunged into the scrub and
rode on and on unheedingly, lost in dreams of the adventure before
him. Always he found Bob, always he rescued him, sometimes with the
most thrilling hair-breadth escapes.

The wood was not dark but densely shady, with black distances. It
presently began to worry Eustace that it was impossible to keep a
straight line for the direction whence the answering cry had come;
it was often necessary to wind in and out of the close-growing tree
stems to find a passage for himself and Bolter. There was no road,
path, or even track to follow.

"This will get muddling," he thought, when he had been twisting and
turning, doubling back on his route, for about half an hour. "I
guess I ought to have marked the trees with notches as I came
along. I'll go back and start again."

He pulled Bolter up, sat back on his saddle, and looked round for
the gleam of light through the trunks of the trees that would guide
him back to the open; but there was none--nothing but an even
monotony of dense distance, no matter where he turned.

The boy's heart stood still in the unpleasant shock of surprise.
Which way had he come? He had not the slightest notion, for each
way looked so exactly the same as the other. He realized with
sickening intensity that he had lost his bearings.

"But I must find my way out, of course," he said, addressing
Bolter's glossy ears. "I'll try each way in turn till I see the
light. There is nothing to be scared about."

He felt quite angry with himself for his momentary panic; it was
stupid and babyish. Of course fellows had been lost in the Bush,
but they couldn't have been such a short way in as he must be by
now. True, he had heard a story of a chap who had gone round and
round like a squirrel in a cage not a mile from the outskirts of
the scrub. He was "bushed," and found dead.

The boy shuddered, then literally shook himself as he urged Bolter
on again to begin investigations.

"I won't think about it," he said, setting his teeth. "I must get
out, and begin again; I must."

In and out of the trees he wound, trying his utmost to retrace his
steps; but he had noticed nothing on the way in, and he had no
landmarks to guide him. This went on so long that, fight as he
would with the fear at his heart, it began to master him.

"Seems to me I am always coming back to the place I start from," he
thought, with a desperate sense of helplessness; "but there isn't a
bit of difference between these hateful trees. I'll mark one and
try."

He cut a deep gash in the bark of the nearest to him, and went on.
But though he watched most carefully, he never came on that tree
again.

"As I'm not getting out," he reflected, "I must be getting deeper
and deeper into the scrub. Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?
What a silly fool I have been! I might have remembered father's
warnings. Bob said one ought to learn to think out all sides of a
question. I didn't; and now if father goes back I shan't be there
to tell him I heard the coo-ee. Oh dear, oh dear!"

He gave a gasping sigh, almost a sob. To have been so near saving
Bob, and not to have done it after all--only to die "bushed"! It
was enough to break a man's nerve, let alone a child's.

He went back in thought to the river bank, picturing how it would
have been if he had only patiently waited, giving a coo-ee now and
again to keep in touch with the answerer.

"Why, how silly I am!" he exclaimed. "If I coo-ee now he will
answer me, and I can follow that."

The thought cheered him instantly, and making a hollow mouthpiece
with his hands to increase the sound, he gave the loudest coo-ee he
had ever given in his life.

There was not the faintest response.

Again and again he repeated it, straining his ears to hear if there
came a reply. More and more agonized grew his cries; so intense his
silences between that he even stopped his breathing to listen. But
there was nothing to hear. He got hot and cold by turns; he felt
sick and queer. It was now hours since his departure from the
Highlands, and he had had no food since the very poor supper he
managed to eat the night before. The effort of shouting did not
improve matters, and he was so hoarse at last he could call no
more.

Then he completely lost his head, and began riding with desperate
inconsequence as straight ahead as the trees would allow. Stay
still he could not; the inaction terrified him. He argued that he
must get somewhere by going on long enough--somewhere "through to
the other side," as he expressed it.

"Why doesn't Bob answer?" that was the most troublesome thought.
"Have I got out of earshot?"

Presently Eustace was beyond thinking; he went on dully because he
felt he must keep on the move; but hunger, exhaustion, and the heat
of the now well-advanced day were beginning to tell on him. The
apathy threatened to become so settled that it was a mercy when
Bolter presently stumbled so badly that Eustace had to rouse
himself to hold on. Then it was that he noticed straight before him
at last a wide gleam of light amongst the stems of the trees.

The sight put such life and spirit into him that he whipped up the
now drooping Bolter, who also had just cause to reflect on no
breakfast and general ill-usage, and they covered the ground as
fast as possible, considering how unequal it was, how thick the
undergrowth in parts.

A disappointment and a great surprise awaited the pair when they
emerged into this open space--it was nothing but a clearing in the
wood after all, dotted about with queer-shaped huts scarcely as
tall as a man, and all made of pliable branches of trees
interwoven with grass for walls.

Eustace pulled up short in breathless dismay, for a few paces away
there arose from among these untidy "humpies" some twenty
natives--erect, alert, all with poised boomerangs or spears ready
to fling. It was a sinister reception for one small boy on a spent
horse. Of course the keen-eared black-fellows had heard him coming
from miles away, and were ready.

It was small wonder, considering his condition, that after one
wild, appealing glance at the line of fierce, dark faces Eustace
fell forward on Bolter's neck in a dead faint. He did not see the
weapons lowered, or the gleam of something like grim amusement on
the chief's face as he realized for what it was they had been so
elaborately prepared.

Out of the huts crept stealthy figures of women and children. When
Eustace opened his eyes he found himself lying flat on his back
with these people crowding inquisitively around. He looked up into
their repulsively heavy faces with a horror of realization. For
some moments he was too paralyzed to stir. No more awful fate could
have befallen him than this--it was the sort of thing that might
come to one in a nightmare. But he knew it was no dream. There
stood Bolter a few paces away, grazing thankfully, and in no way
perturbed.

The harsh guttural language these people spoke was unintelligible
to the boy, but he could guess they were intensely curious about
him from the way they pointed and stared. It seemed to him that
some of them could never have seen a white child before, they were
so excited, especially the children, who looked half terrified.
Were they cannibals these people? he wondered, with a sinking
heart.

He forced himself to his feet, and stood shaking a second, then
dropped on his knees. The performance seemed to amuse the gaping
group--the younger men and women laughed, the children clapped
their hands.

Eustace was wondering drearily how long they would stand staring at
him, when the chief strode up to him and said something with many
gesticulations; but not a thing could the boy understand.

The chief was much more decorated than any one else--covered from
head to heels with stripes and devices in white, blue, and red
paint. There were feathers in his crisp dark hair, and slung over
his shoulder a strange shaped club.

Eustace proceeded, by means of much waving, pointing, and the
patter talked on the plantation by the coolies, to try and explain
how he had come there, and how very much he only wanted to get away
and find the way home. But it was useless--the men shook their
heads and looked perplexed.

Seeing that no one seemed inclined to molest him, but that every
one merely watched him as if he were a monkey in a cage at the Zoo,
he resolved on a desperate step. With a supreme effort he stood
again, staggered over to Bolter, and attempted to mount.

But this was not allowed. With two strides the chief was upon him,
flinging him back on the ground as a big boy might fling a kitten
from him. Then the great man plainly intimated that this creature
he considered his; no one should touch it. Eustace was not to dare
to approach it. The chief's attitude was menacing; it was well to
be seen he felt he had acquired a prize.

"But what is going to happen to me?" thought Eustace, quaking with
fear. "What will they do with me?"

No one seemed to have any intention of doing anything with him at
the moment; he was only stared at. The men, for the most part, were
now more interested in Bolter, particularly his saddle and bridle.
Little by little the women dropped off, as if they had work to
attend to, and a smell of cooking arose that made the boy sick with
longing as he sat huddled up and half silly with starvation and
fatigue. The apathy that had been upon him before he was cheered by
the gleam of light crept over him again; fear faded from his mind;
nothing seemed to matter any more.

He sat so still that presently the children crept closer, and began
to finger his clothes, as if they puzzled them. What drew them away
from him he did not realize till something was thrust under his
very nose, and the smell told him it was food.

He had just enough sense left to try and eat; but before he had
swallowed five mouthfuls he rolled over and fell sound asleep.
Nothing could have kept him awake--neither a thunderstorm nor an
earthquake.

When he awoke again to a consciousness of his surroundings the sun
was rising. He had come through the night in safety--that was his
first thought; and it both surprised and encouraged him. Surely, he
argued, if they wanted to kill him he would not have been spared so
long.

The scarcely-touched food was still beside him. Refreshed by the
much-needed sleep, he was able to eat it now, and began to feel
more like himself again, though stiff and still weary. He was
sufficiently rested for his brain to be active once more, and his
whole thoughts were bent upon what was to become of him next.

Bolter was tethered at the other side of the open space, well
guarded, as if the chief thought he might try to inveigle the horse
away by some magic means, then mount and ride off. It was very
evident that if he meant to get away it would have to be on
foot--the chief would not part with Bolter. The question was: Did
they mean to detain Eustace as prisoner? At present, except that
they stared inquisitively at him, every one seemed fairly
indifferent to his presence. However, he decided that it would be
foolish to put the matter to the test in broad daylight; he must
wait till nightfall, and under cover of the intense darkness make
his escape. He set himself to wait as patiently as he could,
pretending to be as drowsy and inert as a well-fed snake; but his
mind was very active. He had never thought so many thoughts in all
his life before. What, he wondered, could Mrs. Cochrane have
thought of his disappearance? Had his father returned to the
Highlands and discovered it? Were they keeping his loss from his
mother as they had kept Bob's from Mrs. Cochrane? Was it possible
Bob had got safe and sound home again? And oh! were they looking
for him?

There came an answer both to this and to the question as to the
black-fellows' intentions respecting him that very morning.

Eustace had been furtively watching the dark figures moving to and
fro. Apparently some of the men went off to hunt. Except when they
were preparing food, the women seemed to do nothing. The children
squabbled and tumbled about, or slept like tired brown kittens in
casual places. There was a great hush over everything, when
suddenly across the silence came a sound that set every pulse in
the boy's body astir, so that the beating of his heart almost
choked him. It was a distant but long, clear coo-ee.

Wild with joy Eustace sprang to his feet, but before he could make
a sound he found himself surrounded by a dozen menacing figures,
clubs in hand, ready to fell him if he dared to reply.

Some of the tribes are very secretive and stealthy in their
movements. It was well to be seen that this one did not wish to
have its camping ground divulged.

With a thrill of horror Eustace understood that he was powerless.
To cry out would mean certain death. It might be their intention to
kill him at any rate, but in the postponement lay a chance of
escape. He must meet stealth by stealth.

Again the coo-ee cut through the air, but Eustace covered his face
with his hands and dropped dejectedly back on the ground.

It was a bitter moment. Could anything have been worse than to know
help was at hand, and to be unable to take it?

That a search-party was now out he felt certain; it was probably
his father's voice, and he dared not answer. He had the sense to
see how useless it would be to give one cry, and die for it. But
oh! it was hard--cruelly hard.

It seemed to him those coo-ees went on for hours, each with a long
listening pause after it, sometimes nearer, gradually fading away
and away till they were no louder than the answer he had received
on the banks of the creek.

In addition to the keenness of the disappointment and the terror
that he was losing his last chance of ever getting home again came
the speculation as to what these wild-faced people meant to do with
him, and there leaped to his mind a new and very terrible question.
Was it possible that Bob had come this way? Had they met him with
spears and boomerangs, and dispatched him before he had time to
whip out his revolver? But no. There was still that answering
coo-ee to be accounted for. Perhaps they had only bound him and
made him prisoner till then, undecided what to do with him. It was
possible that on hearing Eustace's coo-ee he had dared the blacks,
and attempted those three faint answers. If so, they had cost him
his life, and the ultimate silence was explained.

Eustace lay shuddering over the thought. He could only keep his
teeth from chattering by holding his jaw tightly in both hands.

How long he lay lost in those miserable thoughts he did not know.
He was roused from his lethargy by a soft kick, and, starting up,
he found the woman who fed him the day before beside him offering
him food again. She seemed to treat him as if he were a white pig
that had strayed amongst them. He was probably a less intelligible
creature in her eyes, but she knew that he must at least eat to
live.

It was a messy preparation, but he managed to eat some; and all the
driest portions of it he could extract unnoticed he slipped into
his pockets, laying in provision for possible starvation next day.
Then he lay down again and feigned sleep.

He looked through half-closed lids with longing eyes at the
peaceful Bolter. Eustace wondered whether he too had heard those
tantalizing coo-ees and ached to respond. What would be poor
Bolter's fate here? The blacks make the women of the tribes into
their beasts of burden when shifting camp; they do not habitually
use horses. The chief was perhaps only keeping Bolter as a valuable
addition to the larder when provisions ran short.

Every thought that came to the boy was horrid. He wished he did not
have to think, and as dusk fell set his mind to the task of keeping
awake after his captors had settled down for the night. It would be
fatal to sleep as he had done the night before.

The chief had been away all day, and was not yet come back. It was
possible judgment on the prisoner was suspended till his return.
When the great man heard of the coo-ees and Eustace's attempt to
answer, probably the boy's fate would be sealed. Escape must be now
or never.

Eustace made up his mind that he would start off in the direction
whence the coo-ees had come. It was the only guide he had, and a
very poor one, as had already been proved by the first cry he had
so unfortunately tried to follow.

He waited just as long as he could bear, after silence fell on the
camp. There was no question of taking Bolter. He was guarded as on
the night before; besides, he would have made too much noise.
Eustace dared not get up and walk himself, or even crawl. He had
invented a silent, gliding movement as he lay scheming--by means of
strong tufts of grass he meant to gradually pull his body,
snakewise, little by little away from the open into the wood.

As soon as he dared he began his weird progress, quaking at every
sound he made lest it should rouse those keen-eared sleepers so
close around him. The soft "frou-frou" of the dry grass beneath him
sounded to his excited fancy like the sudden rushing of a torrent.
He was almost overwhelmed by the fear of pulling himself
inadvertently up against one of those dark forms, for he did not
know where every one was lying. One false move now, and it would
mean the end of all things for him.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SECRET OF THE THICKET.

The night was close and still with the silence that intensifies
sound tenfold. Eustace thought he could not have had worse luck.
His temptation was to hurry; common sense bade him hold himself in
check. Panic urged him to risk everything, and make a bolt for it.
But Bob's precept was ringing in his mind--there were two sides to
the question; he might bolt, but where to in the dark? It was
useless to dash headlong into trees and make for nowhere in
particular. The plan was to get as far away as possible in the
dark, unheard, so that by daylight he would be out of sight, and
able to quicken his pace to some purpose.

Gliding, halting, scarcely breathing, he pulled himself along, and
great beads of perspiration started on his forehead and trickled
down into his eyes.

The darkness was useful in one way, but it had its disadvantages.
He had no idea what progress he was making, and it seemed ages
before his hand came against what he thankfully realized was the
bark of a tree. Almost simultaneously there was a blinding flash of
lightning, so vivid that for a full moment the sleeping camp lay
revealed, and Eustace had time to grasp the fact that he was well
within the outskirts of the wood. The crash of thunder almost
overhead brought him to his feet. Now was the time to make some
pace, in the dense darkness, under cover of that merciful noise.
Eustace was not the least afraid of thunder and lightning; he was
used to tremendous storms, and loved nothing better than to stand
out on the veranda to watch one raging round among the hills or out
at sea. Now it was a positive blessing. Every flash showed him
where he was, and he took care to have a tree trunk between himself
and the camp. Then during the thunder bursts he made his way
swiftly forward, groping cautiously like a blind man. His spirits
rose with the excitement, and all his courage came back to him.

By the time the storm had grumbled itself away into the distance he
knew he was well out of sight of the camp, and he dared to sit down
to wait for dawn. Without the aid of the lightning it was folly to
plunge farther into the scrub.

In spite of a stern resolve not even to let himself doze, the tired
boy must have slept awhile, sitting with his back against a tree.
There was just a first glimmer of light penetrating the thick
foliage above when he opened his eyes with a sudden definite
feeling of something having roused him.

Very much on the alert, instantly he raised his head, and sat
listening with held breath. He was beginning to think he must have
been mistaken, when there came a sound that made his hair stand on
end and his blood run cold. He got up swiftly but softly, and
stood, still backed by the tree, staring into the gloom. The sound
seemed to come from what looked like a dense thicket not very far
to the right, but as yet it was not light enough to distinguish
objects from each other.

"Is it some animal, or a native, or what can it be?" Eustace
questioned, feeling most horribly shaky.

There was a long pause, and then the silence was once more broken
by a deep, heavy groan--something like a long sobbing sigh.

The boy was paralyzed with horror. Besides which, to have moved, to
have gone forward, would have been useless in this half light. He
could have done nothing, seen nothing. There was nothing for it but
to wait till daybreak. He could not bring himself to sit down
again; there is always a feeling of being ready for anything when
one is standing.

There was another long interval, and then this awful sound came
once more--slow, laboured, intensely painful. There could be no
doubt that something or some one was suffering inexpressibly not
twenty yards away. The voice was like the voice of a man having a
nightmare, and trying to call some one to help him. The third time
the sound came Eustace almost fancied it contained a word--"Help."

Five times he heard it, and every time it was exactly the same in
tone and duration. Each time he became more persuaded that it was a
muffled cry for help.

The light was coming at last. Soon he would be able to venture
forward and find out what horrible secret the thicket held.

The boy sank down on his knees and prayed with all his might for
strength to face whatever it might be for at the thought of the
ordeal before him he could have turned and fled. He stood up again
as white as a sheet, but resolute, and ashamed of the temptation.

"Who is there?" he demanded in a hoarse, shaky voice unlike his
own.

His throat was parched, his lips dry. He had not spoken a word for
two nights and a day; it was scarcely wonderful speech was
difficult.

There was no answer for a full minute, and then came that same
groaning cry again, not as in answer to the question, but at its
own regular interval.

Following the curve of the thicket a little way, behind a thick
group of trees Eustace came to a sudden standstill with a cry of
dismay; for there, standing almost upright in the thickest of the
scrub, was the figure of a man, his bare head bowed down upon his
breast so that his face was invisible, his arms hanging down at his
sides.

It struck Eustace at once as strange that he should be standing
making this terrible sound. It would not have surprised the boy
nearly so much to have found him lying down--indeed, that he had
expected. Bracing himself to the task, Eustace went closer.

"I say," he said in a loud voice, "what's up?"

The man made neither sign nor movement. Could he be tied there to a
stake? the boy wondered. Was he deaf and blind?

"I say," Eustace said, almost shouting now, "can't you see me?"

Fighting down his own horror of the situation, he pressed a little
closer, to find the man's shirt torn to shreds, his arms pinioned
down to his sides by something that looked like small cords.

"It's the 'wait-a-bit' cane!" Eustace exclaimed aloud, shrinking
back sharply with a quick horror of being entrapped by it himself.

Here was an awful state of affairs. A wretched wayfarer caught and
held like a fly in a spider's web, and not a soul at hand to help.

To go back to the natives was out of the question. With their
reputation for cruelty and hatred of white men it would be worse
than useless to appeal to them. What was to be done? What would Bob
have done under the circumstances?

With a gasping cry Eustace crept closer again, and bending low he
strained to catch a glimpse of the man's face without going too
perilously deep into the thicket.

"Bob," whispered the boy, "Bob, is it you? Oh, speak to me--is it
you?"

Little fool that he had been not to think of it before. But somehow
these last hours of terror, centred only upon himself and his own
means of escape, had blunted his intelligence to everything
else--even to the remembrance of Bob. He was mad with himself for
it now--so mad that all thought of personal danger fell away from
him. He had room for nothing but the realization that this must be
Bob indeed standing here helpless and dying of privation.

Oh the folly of having waited for the light! But Eustace stayed for
nothing more now--not even to look at the two sides of the
question. He dashed against the bushes like a little mad thing,
recklessly fighting his way towards the imprisoned man.

"Bob, Bob!" he said in a voice choked with sobs.

It was difficult to grasp that this huddled, helpless figure was
Bob, the big, the strong. But when at last Eustace saw the white,
drawn face he knew there was no mistake about it.

There came that awful groan again, but this time Eustace did not
shrink back.

"It's all right, Bob," he said huskily. "I've come now. I'm going
to help you all I can. You shan't die--you shan't--you shan't."

He spoke the last words through set teeth, for he had taken out his
clasp-knife, and was hacking at the cruel bonds with all his might.

It needed no explanation to tell Eustace how Bob had got there. The
thing was as plain as daylight. He must have been riding fast, and
inadvertently struck against some "wait-a-bit," which rebounded
like a bit of twisted elastic, and caught him in such a grip that
he was powerless to free himself. Bolter passed on from beneath,
and the more he fought and struggled the tighter he became
entangled. Had his arms been free it would have been different; but
the strength of the cane was marvellous--moreover, it was covered
with vicious thorns. That Bob had fought desperately for his life
was to be seen by the condition of his shirt and his deeply-scored
skin. He was now in a state of more than semi-unconsciousness from
exhaustion and starvation; still, at intervals, he half roused
himself to call for help, as he must have been doing for days.

It was no easy matter to saw through the cane, which was wound
again and again round him. But bit by bit Eustace worked at it,
with a ferocity that was bound to tell. He was mad with fear for
Bob, and madness is said to increase strength extraordinarily.

More by good luck than good guidance the boy was not caught in the
meshes himself, for he took no care.

As the last coils were cut, and Bob was bereft of his main support,
he fell gradually to the ground, lying in the pathway Eustace had
made to reach him, and from there the boy could not move him an
inch. Perhaps owing to the change of position Bob had stopped
groaning at last; but though Eustace called him, and implored him
to speak, if only a word, he made no sign.

"I suppose it is faintness," Eustace thought in deep trouble, for
this was something so terribly new in Bob. He did not seem the sort
of fellow who could ever be ill.

Something ought to be done for him, and that quickly; this much
Eustace knew. At home he would have rushed for water; but here
where there was none--where there was nothing--what was he to do?
If only he were a man, and carried a brandy flask, as his father
always did! A sudden brilliant idea struck him--perhaps Bob carried
a flask himself!

It was the work of but a few seconds to search him, and to the
boy's joy he found a little flask full of spirit. It was not very
long since Eustace had had a practical demonstration of what to do
with some one in a faint. He remembered Mrs. Robertson's treatment
of his mother the night of their fright about Becky.

So first he moistened the dry blue lips, then put a few drops
between them. Oh, it was a tedious, terrifying business--too long
to describe; and nothing scared Eustace more than the choking and
gasping with which Bob came to himself at last. But it was the
turning-point and saving of his life.

It took Bob a long time to pull himself sufficiently together to
make a sign to Eustace that he knew him. He was far too weak to
speak at first; but after a long, dazed study of the boy's white,
miserable face, Bob's lips parted in a pitiful attempt at a smile.

To his own after-annoyance and shame, whenever he remembered it,
Eustace flung himself face downwards on the ground and fairly
sobbed. What fear for his own safety and all the horrors he had
gone through had no power to do, the relaxation of this tension of
anxiety about Bob did.

"Say, old chap," came in a far-away whisper to his ears, "don't!"

It pulled him up short. Bob's eyes were closed, and he looked so
like fainting again that Eustace gave him more brandy.

It had a good effect; but later, not even when he had regained his
full consciousness, could Bob move hand or foot; he was as stiff as
a log. Just as he had been bound rigidly upright, so he remained
now lying at full length.

"Guess I'm pretty helpless," he said in a thin, weak voice. "I
shall have to be oiled before I can move." Then, after a little
while, when he had been lying staring at his companion meditatively
some minutes, he said, "Just explain what you are doing here, will
you?"

From the very beginning--the return of Bolter--Eustace told the
story of the last few days, and Bob listened with growing eagerness
in his eyes.

"So you lost yourself finding me," he said at the end. "And there
isn't a doubt you've saved my life, old boy."

But even this assertion did not cheer Eustace.

"I'm afraid I haven't, though," he said miserably, "because you see
we are lost."

"Not a bit of it," Bob said. "If I had any legs I could walk you
out of the wood in two hours. I know the way perfectly."

"Do you?" Eustace exclaimed. "Then what did you come here for?"

"Merely to see if it was true there were any natives in the
neighbourhood," was the answer. "I never got as far as the camp,
but my shouts brought a whole lot of them gibbering round me. It
seemed to amuse them to see me there; but they threatened to kill
me if I went on shouting, so I had to shut up and hope for the
best. They have come each day in little batches and watched me
awhile, then slipped away. At last I began to feel so bad that I
rather wished they would come and finish me off, to put me out of
my misery; so I began calling again. But I suppose my voice was too
weak to matter; they knew I couldn't be heard. Anyhow, the beggars
didn't touch me. I dare say they'll come again to-day."

Eustace looked scared.

"Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "I hope they won't. They'll take us
prisoners, and goodness knows what they'll do to us. We must get
away from here before they come."

"You must," said Bob, "but I can't. You'll have to take my compass,
and keep going due west with it all the time. You'll know where you
are the minute you get out into the open."

Eustace stared at him blankly.

"But I couldn't go and leave you," he exclaimed.

"Why not?" asked Bob with a smile.

"How could I," Eustace said warmly, "and you in danger? I just
won't go. Nothing shall make me."

There was a curious light in Bob's eyes as they rested on the slip
of a lad kneeling beside him.

"Good old man," he said, "you can't do me any good by staying. For
both our sakes you must go, and as fast as you can."

"But suppose while I am away--" began Eustace desperately.

"We've got to chance that," said Bob bravely. "You couldn't save my
life if you stayed; you could only die too, and what would be the
good of that?"

"I would rather," said Eustace chokily.

"Well, I wouldn't," Bob said firmly. "We mustn't think about
ourselves in it at all. You've got to go home and set the dear
home-folks' minds at rest about us. They'll know no peace till they
hear, one way or another. Then, of course, they'll set out to fetch
me. You'll guide them. If I am here, well and good. If I am not,
don't you forget I wouldn't let you stay. You did the only thing
you could for me by obeying orders."

Eustace hid his face in his hands because his lips were trembling
so; he felt sick, and shaky all over.

"O Bob," he said, "must I?"

"For my sake, laddie," said Bob softly.

Eustace stood up, but kept his head turned away that Bob should
still not see his face.

"I do wish," said Bob lightly, "that you could give me a nice slice
of beef before you go; I'm so hungry."

It was a little bit of chaff to help the boy to pull himself
together. It worked quite a miracle, for Eustace's face cleared
instantly.

"Why, how stupid of me!" he said. "I can give you something to eat.
It was what I couldn't finish of my own."

Out of his pockets he pulled the unappetizing lumps of food he had
secreted, and kneeling again, he began feeding the helpless man as
if he had been a baby.

"Upon my word, you are a magician," said Bob, keeping up a cheery
tone, although he could little more than whisper. "But eat some
yourself; turn and turn about."

"I don't want any," said the boy.

"Obey," said Bob briskly, with his kind smile.

So they made their strange meal together. It was a small one, but
quite enough for Bob after his long starvation.

"I ate every leaf and berry within my reach," he told Eustace, "or
I don't think I should be alive to tell the tale. Lucky for me,
they were none of them poisonous. When they were done I started on
chewing twigs, but they didn't go far."

At last Eustace had no excuse to linger. Very unwillingly he rose
to do Bob's behest. He had never heard of anything so awful as
leaving him like this to his fate. It seemed the worst kind of
desertion--something that he would be ashamed of all the days of
his life.

Bob made him take his watch and chain with the compass on it.

"Keep the compass afterwards if you like," Bob said, "and give my
love to every one."

Eustace turned sharply away; he could stand no more.

"Good-bye," he said thickly; "I feel a beast."

He took two quick strides forward, and walked right into some one.
It was the great native chief.

CHAPTER XIII.

A GREAT SURPRISE.

Eustace thought he had never seen anything so wicked as the
chief's grin when he looked down into his astonished face. The
black-fellow's teeth gleamed like a wolf's. His whole expression
seemed to say, "Ha, ha! so I've caught you in the very act. You
don't escape me so easily, you see." He evidently felt an exultant
satisfaction in frustrating his departure, or he was rejoicing over
having found him again.

With an overwhelming consciousness of Bob's helplessness, Eustace
moved back quickly to the prostrate figure, as if to shelter it.

"What's up, old man?" questioned Bob, who from his position could
see nothing. "You're not shirking, are you?"

The chief came rapidly within range of the sick man's eyes, and
Bob's face fell most unmistakably. There was disappointment in
every line of it.

"Phew!" he whistled, "we've lost our chance this time."

Exactly how crestfallen the pair was it would be impossible to
describe. Not that Bob had harboured any hope for himself. He knew
the natives would come to him before Eustace could possibly get
back with assistance, and finding him no longer an amusing
spectacle, would probably dispatch him. But he had been bent on
saving the boy's life and sending his message home.

The native chief said something in his rapid, unintelligible
language, then turned, made a strange call, and began gesticulating
violently.

Eustace dropped on his knees and hid his face on Bob's tattered
shirt.

"Buck up, old chap," Bob said softly; "one can only die once. Let's
show these black-fellows how a Christian and an Englishman can do
it. You'll get the strength right enough; I'm not a bit afraid of
your funking."

There was an advancing tramp, a crashing of branches: the chief's
summons was being rapidly obeyed. With a long shuddering sigh
Eustace raised himself and knelt upright, gazing down on his hero.

"That's right," said Bob steadily, with his own genial smile
lighting up his whole face, "keep your eyes on mine; hold on to me
if you like. I shan't think you a muff, because I know you aren't
one."

But the boy did not touch him; he kept his hands clasped tightly
together in a supreme effort to be worthy of Bob's belief in him.
He heard the new-comers halt. The native spoke and moved aside.
Then--

"Both of them!" exclaimed a familiar voice. "Thank God for that."

Eustace sank back in a heap on the ground and stared up.

"Father!" cried Bob in astonishment.

It was Mr. Cochrane indeed, and with him Mr. Orban--as haggard a
pair as could be met with in a long day's march.

It seemed little short of a miracle that they should appear at such
a juncture, yet the explanation proved simple enough. The native
chief had fetched them straight to the spot. There was no sort of
nobility in the act: the man knew enough of white men's ways to
expect a big reward. Bob he did not know; but when Eustace appeared
on the scene he recognized the boy as belonging to the master of
the neighbouring plantation, whom he had seen many times from a
distance as he rode through the Bush. Mr. Orban was out with Mr.
Cochrane making a frantic search of the entire neighbourhood when
the chief arrived, and he would communicate his business to no one
else. Not that it is likely any one else would have understood him
or followed him as Mr. Orban did the moment he arrived home. The
language was unintelligible to both men; but putting two and two
together in their great anxiety, they made out that the chief could
lead them where they would find something of interest to
themselves. They had not dared to hope he knew the whereabouts of
both their sons, or to speculate which they should find; they did
not even know whether they were being taken to the living or the
dead.

"I'm afraid you'll have a bit of bother getting me home," said Bob;
"I'm as stiff as a board, and can't move hand or foot."

Then he told his story, and how Eustace had found him, and to all
intents and purposes saved his life.

"And you, Eustace," said Mr. Orban--"how did you come here?"

When Eustace came to the description of the answering coo-ee on the
banks of the creek, Mr. Orban interrupted him.

"That was only an echo. I knew there was one there, but I never
thought of telling you."

"Thank God you didn't," said Mr. Cochrane, "and that he made the
mistake. We should never have found Bob but for that."

"Father," Eustace said anxiously, "you won't forget poor old
Bolter, will you? This black-fellow has got him in the camp over
there."

"I had quite forgotten him," Mr. Orban said; "and we shall need him
too."

Their own horses were quietly waiting a little distance back. By
means of much gesticulation--pointing towards the horses, and then
in the direction of the camp--the chief was made to understand what
was wanted; and after a little demur he went away to fetch Bolter,
but certainly most grudgingly.

The journey back to the plantation was one that none of the party
could ever forget. The difficulty of conveying the helpless Bob,
the suffering he so bravely tried to endure, and the terrible time
it took, were indescribable.

It had of course been necessary to tell both mothers of the loss of
their sons. Mrs. Cochrane and Trixy had gone immediately to the
Orbans' house as more central for obtaining news.

Mr. Orban dispatched one coolie from the plantation for the doctor,
who lived fifteen miles away. Another man he sent up the hill as
fast as he could go with a note preparing his wife for their
arrival, and the whole white-faced party was out waiting for it as
the slow procession--Bob on a stretcher in the midst--wound its way
to the house.

The joy of the meeting was lost sight of in the anxiety, for Bob
was by this time delirious with pain, Eustace so weak that he was
nearly fainting.

For the next ten days the house was no better than a hospital--its
central interest the condition of the two patients within its
walls; but the first day Bob and Eustace were brought out on to the
veranda--two white-faced shadows of themselves--Bob laughingly
called it the convalescent home.

Up to that point everything was, as Nesta expressed it, horrid; but
when Bob was about again, even if his voice was weaker, his laugh a
ghost of itself, matters at once began to improve.

They were all sitting together enjoying the cool of the evening.

"What I can't understand," said Nesta meditatively, breaking a long
pause, "is why the black-fellows wouldn't let Eustace answer
father's coo-ee."

"It is quite simple," said Mr. Orban. "The chief had evidently
given strict orders he was not to be allowed to go in his absence,
and they were afraid we should come and take him away. Then the
chief would have got no reward."

"What I can't understand," said Peter, who never remained long in
the background, "is why the black-fellows didn't cut Bob down. It
was wicked of them."

"That's what I think," said Nesta. "If they left him because they
thought it funny, I wish they could be tortured."

"Nesta, Nesta, my darling!" said Mrs. Orban warningly.

"I suppose," said Miss Chase softly, "the poor things have no
knowledge of mercy."

"None," said Mr. Cochrane, who was over spending the evening; "and
they wouldn't understand it if you showed them any, either."

"No heathens ever do," said Mrs. Orban, "and how should they? They
have no Great Example to follow as we have. It is the people who
have the chance of knowing better, and still are cruel and
heartless, that I would have tortured--if any one."

Mr. Orban gave a soft laugh.

"If any one, indeed, wife," he said. "You know as well as I do that
you wouldn't have a spider hurt for torturing a fly."

Every one laughed with him except Mrs. Orban herself. Her tender
heart was as good as a fable in the household. But she said quite
gravely,--

"You have chosen a bad example for once, Jack. A spider is as
ignorant as a heathen. It has only its own nature to follow."

"Got the worst of it there, Mr. Orban," said Bob in an amused tone.

"Talking of cruelty," remarked Miss Chase, "what do you do to your
unfortunate cows here at night? I never heard such a dismal noise
as they make."

"Cows!" exclaimed every one in astonishment.

"Yes, cows," was the answer. "If you listen you can hear them now."

There was an instant hush, followed by renewed peals of laughter.

"Those aren't cows I advise you to go and sympathize with, Miss
Chase," said Bob. "We call them alligators hereabouts, and at the
present minute they are lying on the banks of the creek wishing a
nice, tasty supper would come strolling along."

"There are alligators in the river, and yet Nesta says you boat on
it and bathe in it!" exclaimed Miss Chase. "What extraordinary
people you are!"

"There are alligators one side of the bar and sharks the other, and
one often upsets going over it in rough weather," said Bob
cheerfully.

"How horrible!" said Miss Chase.

"When Aunt Dorothy saw a tarantula strolling round the table
towards her the other day she nearly had a fit," said Peter.

"Don't tell tales out of school, Peter Perky," said Aunt Dorothy.
"A poor, ignorant Englishwoman isn't expected to be brave when she
sees a spider as big as a penny bun, with furry legs in proportion,
trying to sit on her knee."

"Then, so far, Miss Chase," said Bob, with a twinkle in his eyes,
"you are not infatuated with our Bush life?"

"Have you and Eustace given me much chance to be?" she asked. "You
must confess you did not give me a very good first impression by
both running away and losing yourselves. We don't think that sort
of thing necessary for the entertainment of our friends in England.
Spiders are spiders there, too, not animated penny buns, and our
cows don't want to eat us."

"Oh, of course," said Bob, "everything is perfect in England--isn't
it, Nesta?"

"It has some advantages," said Mrs. Orban. "I think the absence of
these excitements is amongst them."

She was looking very worn out after her recent experiences.

"Well, it's my opinion, my dear," said Mr. Orban, "that with your
little family you would have excitements wherever you went. It has
seemed fated to give you one shock after another."

"Only just lately, Jack," was the gentle response, for Mrs. Orban
caught a contrite expression in Eustace's eyes.

"It was the coming of the witch that did it," said Bob. "As soon as
she started for Queensland queer things began happening over here.
She wanted to make you out of conceit with life here, so that she
could more easily bewitch you over to England. That was her spell."

"And the queer thing is," said Mr. Orban quite gravely, "that it
has acted. She is going to take them all away from me when she
goes--wife, and sons, and daughters."

"Father," exclaimed Nesta, "what are you saying?"

"Is it a story, daddy?" demanded Peter.

"No, the solemn truth," said Mr. Orban.

"I don't understand," said Eustace blankly.

"How should you when so much nonsense is being talked?" said his
mother. "But the fact is, father thinks a change of air would do us
all a great deal of good; and as grannie wants us, and has sent us
our passage money--"

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Nesta, "don't go on, mummie. You make it sound
just as if it were real, and it _will_ be so disappointing to have
to _un_-fancy it again."

But Eustace said breathlessly,--

"Mother, _is_ it true?"

"Quite true," was the grave answer. "We sail the end of next month.
It is all settled."

"What did I say?" said Bob in mock despair. "She'll take you away,
and you'll never come back any more."

"Oh, there you are quite wrong, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "If Dorothy
is a witch, Jack is a wizard, and he will magic us all back again
in a year and a day at latest."

"Well, I simply can't believe it," said Nesta.

"It's the queerest thing I have ever heard," said Eustace.

But Peter set up such yells of delight he had to be repressed by
the early-to-bed threat--always a useful one when Peter became
rampageous, for he hated going to bed at any time.

That evening no one could talk of anything but this trip to
England. No matter what subject was started, everything harked back
to this wonderful plan, which Mr. Orban had been thinking out for
some time, only confiding in his wife and Miss Chase as long as the
matter was undecided. Bob kept up the appearance of being utterly
woebegone, and Nesta and Peter seemed to have turned into machines
for asking questions.

Of the party only Eustace was silent, and presently Nesta noticed
the fact.

"Aren't you most awfully glad?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Eustace slowly.

"Goodness!" said Nesta in a bustling tone, "you've always said you
wanted to go."

"That was when I knew we couldn't," replied Eustace, scarcely
thinking what he was saying.

"What a funny thing to say," said Nesta. "But you _do_ still want
to go, don't you?"

"I don't know," said Eustace.

"Well, you are a queer boy," said Nesta in rather a disgusted tone.
"I call that silly."

"I think I know just what Eustace means," said Miss Chase quietly.
"He wants to get there without going--to be there without leaving
home. It is how I felt about coming here."

"I don't understand a bit," said Nesta, with a shake of her head.

"I do," said Bob. "One knows what one is leaving, but one doesn't
know what one is going to. It is a toss-up whether there is to be
any happiness in the venture. But I prophesy the witch will see to
it you don't want to come back in a hurry. You'll enjoy yourself no
end."

"Why, Bob," exclaimed Nesta in astonishment, "how you have changed!
That is all the opposite to what you have always said before."

"Is it?" said Bob lamely. "Well, I suppose I must be bewitched too.
What do you expect when you will import such things into the
country?"

CHAPTER XIV.

A MOONLIGHT DISTURBANCE.

"Aunt Dorothy's cows" became as great a family joke as "Aunt
Dorothy's lunatics;" indeed, scarcely a day passed that the
household was not amused by some quaint mistake of hers. Every one
chaffed her, especially Bob; and as the two patients rapidly
recovered, the house-party was a merry one. In spite of the thought
of parting with his family so soon, Mr. Orban was in much better
spirits; the cane had been safely cut, the good crop had been
spoiled neither by fire nor the rainy season coming too soon, and
the crushing was well in progress.

"Oh dear," exclaimed Nesta one morning at breakfast, "I am so sorry
you are getting well, Bob."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said Bob with deliberate politeness.
"One is always so glad of one's friends' good wishes."

Every one laughed except Nesta.

"Well, you know what I mean," she said. "Of course the minute you
are well you will go, and the house will be duller than ever
without you."

"Very prettily put for the rest of us, dear," said Miss Chase. "I
am sure we feel much complimented."

"I don't know what you mean," said Nesta in bewilderment. "I didn't
mean to compliment any one."

"You achieved it, however," said Bob. "You called them a pack of
dull dogs not fit to live with. Of course they feel charmed with
your opinion."

"Oh, I didn't," said Nesta.

"You inferred it," said Miss Chase. "However, we forgive you.
Fortunately we shan't be able to die of dullness entirely, because
there will be so much to be done preparing for the voyage."

"I vote Bob stays with us till we go," said Eustace.--"He would be
jolly useful, wouldn't he, mother?"

"Really, Eustace," remonstrated Mrs. Orban with a laugh, "I am
ashamed of you. Is that the way you treat your friends?"

Eustace reddened and looked uncomfortable as the laugh went round.
Glancing deprecatingly at Bob, he found that he was not even
smiling. It did seem a cheeky way of putting it.

"I beg your pardon," he began, when Bob interrupted quickly.

"No, don't. I was only thinking what a jolly thing you had said.
What are friends for if they are not to be made use of?"

"That is rather a dangerous theory to propound," said Mr. Orban.
"Supposing your friends take advantage of it--what then?"

"A real friend never would take advantage of it," said Bob with
certainty; "that is just how you can test him. The chap who will
take nothing from you, but only give, is a patronizing bounder; the
fellow who will give nothing to you, but only take, is a mean
beggar; the man who will give and take equally is your chum. Hold
on to him when you've got him."

"An excellent definition, Bob," said Mr. Orban, with a genial
smile. "We shall certainly never let you go."

There was a second's pause, then Bob said quietly,--

"Thank you, sir. I guess I shall hold on to all of you too."

It took Nesta to the end of breakfast to unravel the meaning of the
sudden gravity that had fallen over the party, and then she was not
sure of herself.

"Why, you silly," said Eustace, to whom she appealed in private,
"don't you see?--Father as good as said it--Bob is the right kind
of chap to have for a chum. And so he is. I guess I know that
better than any one."

"I don't see why you should," exclaimed Nesta jealously. "We all
know Bob; he isn't anybody's in particular. He said himself he
meant to hold on to _all_ of us, not just one person only."

Her tone was "snubby" in the extreme, but Eustace was utterly
silent for a moment.

Nesta did not know it; he would never know it himself; but there
was a big difference in Eustace nowadays. He had not gone through
great experiences untouched; some things in life leave an indelible
impression.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I'm glad he said that."

Nesta was so astonished at getting no response to her assertion
that she exclaimed,--

"Said what?"

"Why, that he will hold on to us," Eustace said.

"Well," Nesta remarked, again with a touch of superiority, "of
course we all knew that without his telling us."

Eustace eyed her with a quietness that somehow irritated the girl.
She could not understand him at all, and nothing annoyed Nesta so
much as to discover she was not understanding something that was
perfectly clear to somebody else.

"Didn't you know it?" she asked sharply.

"Of course," said Eustace dreamily.

"Then what do you mean?" Nesta demanded.

"I was thinking about going to England," was the seemingly
irrelevant reply.

"What has that got to do with it?" said Nesta.

"Everything," Eustace said. "If we had been going to stay here for
ever and ever I shouldn't have thought so much about it. As it is,
it means a lot that good old Bob won't forget us."

"Why, how stupid you are to-day," Nesta exclaimed. "Did you think
he might in 'a year and a day,' as mother calls it?"

"How do you know it will be only 'a year and a day'?" Eustace said
almost roughly. "How do you know we shall ever come back?"

"Eustace!" cried Nesta, staring at him as if she thought he must
have suddenly gone mad.

"Well?" he said briefly.

"But this is home--and father is staying here," the girl argued.
"We couldn't stay in England for ever."

"I don't know," said Eustace. "I've got an awfully queer feeling
about going ever since it was settled. And it seems to me Bob has
it too."

"Oh, stuff!" said Nesta bracingly. "Bob only says it to tease Aunt
Dorothy."

"He said just the same things before Aunt Dorothy came," was the
response. "That is nothing to go by."

"Well, neither are your queer feelings," said Nesta. "I haven't
any. I don't see why we should stay in England. What is to make
us?"

"Suppose we were left there to go to school?" suggested Eustace,
watching her narrowly.

Nesta stared at him blankly. It was evidently a new idea to her.

"Do you think we might be?" she said; then her expression broke,
and she smiled. "It would be just splendid, wouldn't it?" she
added.

Eustace was silent a moment.

"You wouldn't mind leaving Trixy?" he said.

"Well, I should come back again," Nesta answered, feeling somehow
annoyingly rebuked, "and I should have such loads and shoals of
things to tell her and show her. All about the girls and my
clothes, you know--"

"Oh," exclaimed Eustace in a tone of disgust, "that is all girls
care about--talking, and showing off."

"It isn't," Nesta said quickly. "I should like the learning."

"Well, I shouldn't," admitted Eustace frankly; "I hate learning. It
is only games that make school worth going to, and that isn't
enough to make up for other things."

"What other things?" asked Nesta curiously.

"Oh, never mind," said Eustace impatiently; "I don't want to talk
about it."

But Nesta did exceedingly; she wanted to talk of nothing else; till
at last Eustace went off in desperation down the hill to watch the
sugar crushing, saying something about, "It isn't as if people
could come back to Queensland for the holidays," and "Everything
would be different when they were all grown up."

"I don't know what is the matter with him," Nesta said to herself
in perplexity. "I do believe he doesn't want to go at all. And I'm
sure he is wrong about our staying there. No such luck!"

Bob did stay on after he was quite well and strong, and he entirely
justified Eustace's prophecy. He proved most useful; nothing
apparently could have been done without him. "But for Bob," said
Mrs. Orban, "I don't believe we should ever be ready in time."

It was he who saw to the soundness of the travelling boxes, to the
making of a packing case; he who had advice and assistance to give
to every one, and who was certainly the life and spirit of the
party in the evenings when other people seemed tired or out of
heart. Eustace was not at all in good form. Mrs. Orban was at times
inclined to have grave misgivings as to the wisdom of the step, and
of course felt leaving her husband. Mr. Orban himself, though he
insisted on the trip, was naturally a little sad at the prospect.
Even Aunt Dorothy--the witch--had her moments of sadness that her
visit should be drawing so rapidly to a close. Only to Nesta and
Peter did the time seem to drag and hang heavy, as if it would
never pass.

"You'll have to come back with them, Miss Chase," said Bob a few
evenings before the great departure.

"I wish I could," she said; "but I am quite sure mother and father
won't see the force of that."

"Well, I think you ought to--don't you, Mrs. Orban?" Bob said.
"Miss Chase hasn't had half enough Colonial experiences yet."

"The few you have given me have been sufficiently vivid to count
for a good many though," said the girl merrily. "I don't know that
I really want any more."

"One doesn't always want what is good for one," said Bob. "Besides,
there is another way of looking at it--isn't there, Nesta? It has
been proved you are a witch. You ought to be brought back by main
force to be punished for whisking these good people all off to
England with you."

"So she ought," said Nesta gleefully. "She must be burned at the
stake. We'll make you come."

"We will, Aunt Dorothy," cried Peter, ready for the fray; "and if
you won't, we'll get Bob to come and fetch you."

"Will you really, Peter Perky?" retorted Aunt Dorothy. "I should
like to see you. Why, Mr. Cochrane wouldn't set his nose inside
England for all the witches in the world."

"Well, no, perhaps not for all the witches in the world," said Bob
thoughtfully; "they might prove rather too much for me. But what a
lot of nonsense we talk, to be sure."

The nonsense had the effect of sending Miss Chase to bed quite
unusually meditative, and, do what she would, she could not get off
to sleep for wondering whether she ever would come back to
Queensland again. It seemed of all things most impossible, and yet,
as she argued, who would ever have thought of her coming at all
this time only a year ago?

She had become accustomed to most of the night sounds that had at
first puzzled and sometimes frightened her, and by day there was
something about the life that delighted her--it was so free, such
an open air existence! "They seem to me to sweep all their worries
with the dust over the edge of the veranda," she thought. "I think
England will feel a little stiff and shut in after it."

It was a bright moonlight night. A deluded cock at about midnight
awoke and fancied it must be day. He crowed so loudly over his
discovery that he roused a great enemy of his, who replied in husky
irritation and no measured terms that he was a fool. But the
mischief was done--some half-dozen young cockerels took the matter
up as a joke, and crowed persistently in spite of all remonstrance
from the rest of the poultry.

Miss Chase put her head under the bedclothes and tried to shut out
the sound, but in vain. Besides, it was far too hot to sleep with a
buried nose and mouth. Resolutely keeping her eyes tight shut, she
set her mind upon nothing but sleep. She must have lain like that
for quite ten minutes, when suddenly her eyes unclosed in spite of
her, just as if they were worked by a spring, and she was as wide
awake as ever. At least so she fancied the first instant, but the
next she thought she must be dreaming. There had been no
sound--nothing but Nesta's regular breathing--and yet at the other
side of the room, standing with his back towards her, was the
figure of a man.

Her first impulse was to call out, her second prompted caution, and
she pinched herself hard to make sure whether she was awake or
not. There was no doubt about it--she was not asleep; the pinch
hurt considerably, and the man was still there. He was apparently
examining the things on her dressing-table minutely, and she
guessed he was looking for valuables. Knowing the story of the dark
visitor who had frightened every one so before her arrival, Miss
Chase had followed the general rule and left nothing of any value
lying about, though no one thought a thief would venture into the
house now that it was so full. Here he certainly was, however, and
the question was, "What ought she to do?"

Miss Chase lay absolutely still, her heart beating to suffocation,
her mind working rapidly. There was no saying that this was the
same man. He might be of a much more desperate and vicious
character. Had she been alone she might have risked screaming for
help, but there was also Nesta to be considered; she dared not
expose the child to a knock on the head to silence her.

The man took a slow tour of the room, peering into nooks and
corners in a stealthy, silent way that was most eerie to watch.
Miss Chase bore it until at last he went towards Nesta's bed with
that cat-like, sinister gait. The horror of his approaching the
helpless sleeper at the other side of the room was too much for the
girl's strained nerves. His back was towards her; he fancied her
asleep. Slipping her hand under her pillow she drew out a small
revolver, then sat up softly and took careful aim. There was a
report, a howl of fear and pain, and the man turned to gaze wildly
round the room. Nesta sprang from her bed with a terrified yell and
rushed to her aunt, who sat, still pointing her weapon at the
intruder, with a look of grim determination in her eyes.

With a heavy groan the man started towards the window, limping
pitifully. He disappeared out on to the veranda, leaving a trail of
blood across the uncarpeted floor.

"Now go for your father," said Miss Chase, giving the trembling
girl a push. "Tell him what has happened."

Nesta needed no second bidding, but she had not reached the door
before it opened and Mr. Orban dashed in.

"Through there," said Miss Chase, pointing towards the window.
"Follow the blood track. He can't go fast. I winged him."

CHAPTER XV.

WHO IS IN THE BOAT?

"Really, Miss Chase," said Bob next morning, "I'm glad you didn't
burst all your accomplishments on us at once. We might have been
rather frightened of you."

Miss Chase smiled. She was looking very pale, and unlike her usual
bright self.

"I hope I didn't do an awfully wrong thing," she said nervously;
"but I had only two definite ideas--one was to save Nesta, the
other not to let the man get away."

"You were perfectly right, Dorothy," Mr. Orban said; "there would
never have been any end to the worry until he was caught. He may
thank his stars I didn't find him out. I should not have been so
merciful."

"So that is why you aimed at his ankle, Aunt Dorothy?" said
Eustace. "It was clever of you to think of laming him."

"She says she did," said Bob, the tease.--"But are you quite sure,
Miss Chase, that you really didn't aim at his head? For most women
his ankle would have been wonderfully near the mark."

"I shall treat the aspersion with silent contempt," laughed Miss
Chase.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that, Dorothy?" asked Mrs.
Orban.

"Oh, I've patronized every shooting gallery that has come to the
village for the last eighteen years, I should think," was the
answer. "But, do you know, I feel most awfully remorseful about
that poor fellow. He will be lame for a long time."

In the kitchen sat Manuel, the stable-boy, his leg bandaged and
resting on a chair; for the midnight visitor on both occasions had
been no other. He confessed to the first performance quite readily,
and declared that this second had been at the instigation of Sinkum
Fung, who promised always to get the reward for stolen goods, and
give him half. Mr. Orban was not sorry to get hold of some definite
reason for turning Sinkum Fung out of the place. He had long
suspected him to be a cheat, and he wanted an Englishman in the
store. But Manuel, when he was well, was to be allowed to retrieve
his character, as he protested vehemently he would.

"You needn't worry about Manuel," said Bob. "We shall all be coming
to you to shoot us, if you'll just bind us up as beautifully
afterwards. Did you learn that in the shooting galleries too, in
case you put the showman's eye out?"

Miss Chase really did treat this speech with silent scorn, and
changed the subject.

The clearing up of the black-fellow mystery was a great relief to
every one's mind.

"Though it comes rather late in the day, just when we are going
away," said Mrs. Orban.

"Do you know, I don't feel a bit as if we were really going," Miss
Chase declared the very evening before their departure.

All the same, when the next day came, they started in the
plantation schooner for Cooktown, accompanied by Bob and Mr. Orban,
who were going to see them off.

The children found many excitements on the way; and when finally
they were hoisted on board the big boat by means of a crane and
basket, Peter's joy knew no bounds.

Nesta found it was certainly not very nice saying the last
"good-byes," and she wished Eustace had not said anything to her
about the possibility of not coming back to Queensland for years.

But when they were fairly off, and out of sight of waving hands and
the two strong, kind faces that had been his ideals from his
babyhood, even Eustace began to cheer up considerably. He had been
very much like a bear with a sore head, rather to his mother's and
Miss Chase's astonishment; for Eustace could generally be counted
on as sensible and fairly serene in temper. To get short answers
from him, to find him unreasonably uninterested in things, and to
see him really snappy with Nesta and Peter, was something new and
extraordinary.

"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Bob. "Let England see the best
side of you, and be a credit to us."

The words rang in the boy's ears long after, and he pulled himself
together with a sudden consciousness that he had not been much of a
credit to any one for some days. He hoped Bob hadn't noticed it,
for never, never could he explain to him that it was just the
thought of leaving him that made going away so hard. If only he
had not been possessed by the horrible feeling that he would never
come back again, or at least not for years and years, it would have
been different.

It was impossible not to become interested in the boat before very
long--it was so huge, such a real house afloat, and so unusual.
Peter revelled in going downstairs to bed. Becky wanted to play in
what she called her "bunky-bye" instead of going to sleep. Nesta
eyed some other families of children speculatively, wondering how
much good they would prove as friends on the voyage. But Eustace
only wanted to talk to the officers, especially the captain, of
whom he determined to ask hundreds of questions about the
machinery, how he knew his way, and the exact time the boat would
reach every port, just to be able to check it off, and see how far
he was right in his estimates.

The first day was a lovely one--a less likely one to be productive
of adventures could scarcely be imagined.

"Calm as a duck-pond, isn't it, sir?" said one of the seamen to
Eustace, who stood staring out to sea. "Yet I've seen some storms
here too. It's a nasty bit of coast, with some ugly reefs about."

"Are there many wrecks here?" asked Eustace with interest.

"A goodish few," said the seaman; "but one doesn't look for them
this kind of weather."

"No, of course not," said Eustace, with a great show of certainty,
for he did not want the man to imagine he was scaring him.

Peter had been fairly irrepressible all day. He was always a
fidget--made on springs, his father said--and the excitement
carried him away entirely. He talked to every one indiscriminately,
especially if they happened to be in uniform, and had no shyness in
asking questions. He had a dozen friends in a very few hours.
Afraid lest he should weary people, Mrs. Orban tried to keep him
with her, and towards evening she said,--

"You might play with poor Becky a little, Peter. She will have to
go to bed very soon, and I think it has been a duller day for her
than for any one else."

Which was probably true, as Becky was too tiny to have the
sustained interest in things the others had.

So Peter began a game of romps with Becky, which at first consisted
of careering round and round and in and out between their mother's
and aunt's chairs, Peter making the reiterated assertion, "I'll
catch you, I'll catch you," Becky retorting with delighted
chuckles, "Oo can't, oo can't!"

Mrs. Orban was just congratulating herself that Becky would be
delightfully sleepy after the exercise, when the child made a
sudden dive away from the chairs in her excitement, Peter behind
her. The next minute she was rolling head over heels down the
companion-ladder, down which it had evidently been her intention to
go right side up, for a joke.

The yells that proceeded from the passage below assured every one
that Becky was not killed; but when she was picked up it was
discovered that one poor little wrist was terribly sprained. She
must have fallen with it doubled under her. To put her to bed in
such pain was out of the question; her mother's arms was the only
place in which she could find any rest. So Mrs. Orban remained on
deck in the cool with Miss Chase near her. The children's bedtime
was quite forgotten; in fact, after the doctor had examined Becky
and reported on her injuries, Nesta, Eustace, and Peter had
disappeared--probably out of range of orders to go to bed. Their
mother, when she gave them a thought, supposed them to be all
together, and in her anxiety over Becky never realized how late it
was getting.

It was quite dark. All the other children had disappeared. Most of
the grown-ups who had begun the voyage together, and were friendly
by now, were in the music-room below having a concert. The ship was
utterly still but for the throb of the engines and the "swish" of
the water as the bows cut through it. They were running at full
speed, without a pitch or a roll, the sea as clear as glass, when
all of a sudden there was an awful crash, and the boat shuddered
from bow to stern.

In an instant the peaceful scene was changed to one of wildest
confusion. There were cries of terror, hurried questions, rapid
orders, the crew dashing hither and thither, and a stream of
horror-stricken people began swarming up from below. It was awful,
the intense darkness of the night adding to the confusion
immeasurably.

"We've struck on a rock," Mrs. Orban heard some one say. "There
isn't a minute to lose."

"Man the boats!" called a strident voice, and there was a running
of ropes over pulleys, a creaking and a splashing not far away.

"Here you are, ma'am," a seaman said, taking her by the arm.

"Oh, the children!" said Mrs. Orban, holding back.

"We're here, mother," said Nesta's voice at her elbow.

"We'll see to them, ma'am," said the seaman; "you and the little
one first."

He was almost rough in his kindness; and Mrs. Orban found herself
swinging down into the boat below before she had time to make any
protestations.

One after another, through pitch darkness into the only chance for
safety, people were sent down. It was impossible to know who
came--nothing could be seen or heard. The seamen above could not
stop to pick and choose, but whoever they could lay hands on went.

Then came a hoarse cry--the boat was becoming overcrowded, the crew
pushed off, and away they went with a bound at every stroke of the
oars. To Mrs. Orban it was a hideous nightmare of awful anxiety.
She could not tell whether all her children and her sister were
with her or not. Her one ray of hope was that as they had
apparently been all standing close together, the others must have
been put in after her. But people had rushed so the moment they
knew the boats were lowered, there was an awful possibility the
children had been swept aside. They were certainly not near her,
for she called their names and Dorothy's again and again, and there
was no answer.

The men had not been rowing for seven minutes when there was a
sudden awful sound behind them, and the boat plunged and rocked as
if she were a living thing gone mad with terror.

"Oh, what was that?" Mrs. Orban cried, and the question ran from
mouth to mouth.

"The ship," answered a solemn voice with a break in it; "she's gone
under, poor thing. Must have been ripped from bows to stern."

The silence that followed was dreadful. How many boats had got
away? Who was left on board? There was not one in the boat who had
not a thought of agonized pity for the poor souls left behind.

It was so unexpected; every one was so unprepared. Who could
suppose that with a sea as calm as a mill-pond a great vessel could
strike on a rock and sink in less than seven minutes?

Afterwards, when the matter came to be investigated, it was
discovered that the _Cora_ had run on to a coral reef unmarked in
the charts. Coral reefs form with extraordinary rapidity, and are
infinitely dangerous, because they are so sharp as to cut like
razors. The loss of the _Cora_ was no one's fault; but that fact
was of but little comfort to those whose friends went down in her.

The boat pulled steadily on awhile, then paused, for no one could
be certain where she lay as regarded the shore.

"Easy, mates," said the man in command. "We must hang about till
there's a gleam of light to give us our bearings, or we shall go
down like that poor thing over there."

In the hush that fell it was possible to hear each other speak.
People began to question who was in the boat with them.

"Eustace, Nesta, Peter, are you there?" cried Mrs. Orban.

"Yes, mother; yes, mother," she heard, and her heart bounded with
thankfulness.

"And you, Dorothy?" she forced herself to say.

But to this there was no answer.

"Children," Mrs. Orban said, "isn't your aunt there?"

"I don't know," Eustace said; "she wouldn't come before us."

There could be no doubt that Miss Chase was not there.

The first streak of daylight fell upon a boatload of haggard men
and women, afraid of, yet longing for, the day. It was discovered
that they had come within half a mile of shore, and the crew pulled
with a will till they beached the boat. One after another in the
shadowy gloom the stiff, cramped figures landed. There were
meetings, but no open rejoicings, because of those others left
behind.

Eustace and Nesta clung to their mother, half sobbing.

"And Peter," she said--"where is Peter?"

"Peter?" said the other two blankly.

"I thought you said he was there?" said Mrs. Orban.

"We--we answered for ourselves," faltered Eustace. "I didn't notice
he didn't speak."

The boat was empty now. Groups of shivering, unstrung people stood
about, utterly incapable of thinking what to do next. But Peter was
not there--nor was Dorothy.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHAT THE TIDE BROUGHT IN.

The stranded party was much in need of a leader till one of the
crew volunteered the information that some miles higher up the
coast there was a bêche-de-mer station where they would probably
get some means of communicating with the rest of the world, and at
least find food, of which every one was much in need. Bêche-de-mer
fisheries are a feature of the coast, the bêche-de-mer being a huge
sea-slug, thought to be a great delicacy.

This particular station was owned by some half-caste Portuguese,
and worked by a mixture of aborigines and Malays, a most
unpromising and ruffianly-looking set. However, they received the
unhappy boatload quite civilly, promised that a messenger should be
dispatched across country to the nearest civilized centre, and
provided a good meal of salt junk, sweet potatoes, rice, and tea.
It did not matter to the exhausted men and women that they had to
eat off tin plates, drink out of tin pannikins, and that the food
was more roughly prepared and served than any they had ever tasted
before.

They camped under some trees for the meal; and many sad eyes
looked towards the great calm sea, where not a trace of last
night's tragedy was to be seen. In the distance there was the sail
of an outgoing vessel--one of the bêche-de-mer boats off on a
several months' trip. Besides that, there was just one tiny speck,
not so far out as the sail, but much smaller.

"It's a boat," said the captain of the station, a swarthy
Portuguese. He had been watching the speck for some time through a
telescope. "So far as I can make out it is something of the same
build as yours."

There was instant excitement. Could it be another of the ship's
boats?

It seemed an eternity before the boat came close enough to discover
that she did indeed belong to the ill-fated _Cora_. The crowd on
the beach was speechless before she pulled in to shore and her
worn-out occupants were disembarked.

Amongst the anxious watchers were Mrs. Orban, with the fretful,
feverish Becky in her arms, and Nesta and Eustace. But though they
pressed forward and saw every man, woman, and child that landed,
there was no comfort for them. Miss Chase and Peter had not come.
There was but one interpretation to put on this--they had never
left the ship.

"Any more boats likely to come?" asked a woman whose husband was
missing.

"No, lady," said a sailor, shaking his head pitifully. "They only
got one more out, and she was overcrowded and swamped. There was no
time for anything."

There is no describing the misery of the day that followed--the
terrible blankness for many, the haunting recollection that all had
of the nightmare experience.

The men at the station were as kind as they could be in their rough
way. The sailors who had manned the boats set to work to arrange
some comforts for the women and children, improvising hammocks for
them to lie in, as sleeping in the grass was dangerous on account
of snakes and other disagreeables.

Poor little Becky spent a day of weeping, for her wrist was very
painful. She needed all Mrs. Orban's attention, which was perhaps
fortunate for the poor lady--it gave her less time for brooding
over her terrible loss. Nesta cried herself nearly silly, and then
fell asleep in a hammock that a kindly old sailor prevailed on her
to try.

Eustace was too restless to settle down. He spent his time hovering
about his white-faced, desolate-looking mother. The moment inaction
began to tell on him and make him feel sleepy he went away for a
while, and paced up and down by the water's edge to rouse himself.
However useless his presence, he could not bear to leave his mother
lonely and unwatched; it seemed heartless to forget her and her
sorrows in sleep when she could take no rest.

"She might want something, or perhaps she would like to speak," he
argued, "or she may cry presently; and there mustn't be no one to
comfort her."

But Mrs. Orban asked for nothing for herself, only water now and
then to bandage Becky's wrist. She took the food when it was given
her, but ate very little. Whatever she was thinking about, she did
not speak of her trouble, but inquired after Nesta, and whether she
and Eustace had had plenty of food and felt no symptoms of chill or
fever.

"I wish father or Bob would come quick," thought the boy
helplessly; "we're no good. She is only thinking about taking care
of us all the time; and I don't know how to look after her. It
would have been better if I had been drowned instead of Aunt
Dorothy; she would have known what to do."

He was doing one of his violent pacings up and down, and every turn
backwards or forwards he had to change his course, for the tide was
running in fast. The sea fascinated him; he could not help watching
it, especially now when all sorts of bits of wreckage were
beginning to float in--lengths of rope, a life-belt or two, and
things belonging to the _Cora's_ deck. The men from the station
were watching with the sailors and hauling things in to land.

"Any bodies that went down will be carried by the under current
into the next bay," Eustace heard the bêche-de-mer owner explaining
to the _Cora's_ crew.

"Well, my name's not Swaine," said an old sailor with a telescope,
"if that isn't one coming now."

There was a thrill of excitement, an immediate demand for the
telescope, as every one pressed forward.

"It will be a broken spar," said the bêche-de-mer captain. "I've
been here fifteen years and there's never such a thing happened
yet."

"I'm going out in one of the boats, mate," said the old sailor
resolutely. "Who is coming with me?"

There were many volunteers at once, and the boat was launched.

Eustace remained as if frozen to the spot. He could just see the
log-like thing lying upon the water, gently tossed by the tiny
waves that were slowly, slowly bearing it to shore. It certainly
looked no bigger than a broken spar, and very much that shape as,
the boat drawn up alongside, two sailors leant over and lifted it
in.

It was all Eustace could do to make himself stay until the boat's
return, and he covered his face as the burden was gently lifted
ashore.

"It's all right, youngster," said a kindly voice at his elbow, one
of the older sailors; "he is alive--only unconscious. It's a
miracle; but there, miracles do happen, say what you will."

The news made all the difference to Eustace, and he pressed round
with the rest.

"Here," said one of the _Cora's_ crew, catching sight of him
suddenly, "make way for this laddie--it's his own brother."

In utter bewilderment Eustace felt himself forced to the centre of
the crowd, and there, with a man kneeling beside him trying
restoratives, lay Peter, with a life-belt round him, his face
ashen, and his fair hair all sodden--but he was living. They said
he was alive, but certainly he did not look it.

Eustace turned, fought his way madly through the press, and dashed
up the beach straight to the trees where his mother sat bending
over Becky.

"Hush," she said warningly; "I am just getting her off to sleep."

The quiet voice pulled the boy up just in time, before he had
blurted out his news in all its crudeness.

"Mother," he said instead, "let me hold Becky--I can really. Peter
will want you."

Mrs. Orban neither started nor changed colour; she just stared at
Eustace curiously, and said inquiringly,--

"Peter?"

"Yes, mummie, Peter," Eustace said in a shaking voice. "He is
unconscious, but he will want you when he opens his eyes."

He held out his arms for Becky; and Mrs. Orban rose and went as if
she were dreaming, leaving him standing there with the baby.

It was a very long time before Peter knew that he wanted his
mother. Terror and the exposure in the water for so many hours had
done their work, and even when the little fellow recovered
consciousness he was too ill to realize anything at all.

Every one was very kind to the Orbans. The poor lady who had lost
her husband took entire charge of Becky; other fellow-passengers
offered to help with Peter, who needed nursing night and day. The
survivors from the wreck clung together, and found some comfort in
helping each other. The people of the station were very attentive
and good; but the relief party from Cooktown was hailed with
thankfulness, for there were of course many discomforts and
unpleasantnesses. The blacks had a disagreeable habit of prowling
about in the night and peeping at their guests as they tried to
sleep in the impromptu hammocks. The food was coarse and
monotonous; the men rough, and uncouth in their ways.

When Eustace saw his father he felt a great burden lifted from his
shoulders; his powerlessness to help his mother did not matter any
more; no one could comfort her like his father. Then there was Bob;
he would help the whole family to keep up in his usual splendid
way!

Fortunately Mr. Orban and Bob had not yet left Cooktown when the
news of the disaster arrived. They hastened to the bêche-de-mer
station on getting Mrs. Orban's message, without the least
knowledge whom they would find of their own party; and after the
first explanations were over, no one could speak of the cloud
shadowing the joy of meeting. To Eustace's infinite surprise, Bob,
to whom he had looked for so much, failed him utterly--he could not
rouse himself, let alone other people.

The survivors of the wrecked _Cora_ were carried by steamer to
Cooktown, and Mr. Orban took his family to the best hotel, for no
plans could be made till Peter was better.

Alone with Eustace, Nesta gave vent to her feelings very often.

"Eustace," she said, "wasn't it queer Aunt Dorothy saying the very
day before we left she didn't feel a bit as if we were going to
England? Do you remember?"

Eustace replied with a kind of grunt. He had not words for every
emotion as Nesta had.

"And it seems so horrid," she proceeded chokily, "to know nothing
about what happened to her or even how it happened. If only some
one could tell us!"

"What's the good of talking when no one can?" said Eustace
gruffly. "I can't think why you do. You only make yourself cry."

The first person to speak of Miss Chase without tears was Peter. He
was lying in their private sitting-room, and suddenly he said,--

"I say, where's Aunt Dorothy?"

He had asked before, but in his weakness the subject had easily
been changed.

"She is not here, dear," said Mrs. Orban.

"That's funny," said Peter, in his old talkative way; "she
distinctly said she was coming."

Bob got up from a deep chair and stood, with his back to the room,
looking out of the window.

"Did she, Peter?" said Mr. Orban quickly. "When?"

"Why, on the boat," said Peter; "when she put the life-belt round
me."

"Oh, she put the life-belt round you, did she?" said Mr. Orban.
"And what did she say?"

Every one leant forward eagerly. It was the first time Peter had
shown any inclination to talk, and no one had guessed he could
possibly know anything of Miss Chase.

"She said," was his clear reply, "'That's right, Peter Perky. Now
mind you float; don't struggle, but lie on your back.'--Bob," he
broke off, "lucky you taught me to float, wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes," said Bob; "never mind about that. Go on about Dorothy."

Eustace stared at his back in wonder. For the first time in his
life he heard Bob irritable.

"She said," Peter went on obediently, "'Don't be frightened; I am
coming too.'"

"Well?" prompted Mr. Orban.

"Then she took me up, and we jumped overboard. I don't know what
happened next."

"Try to think," said Bob in a hard voice.

"I can't," said Peter; "everything was noise and blackness. Ask
Aunt Dorothy; she'll tell you."

There was a solemn hush--so solemn that Peter stared round in
amazement at the grave faces. Bob turned and walked heavily out of
the room. Nesta buried her head in her hands.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Peter sharply.

He had to be told then, and he wept as if his heart would break;
but he could remember nothing after the jump into the sea. It
appeared that he was all by himself at the other side of the ship,
very unhappy because he thought it was all his fault Becky had been
hurt. Then came the crash, and he was terrified. He was wondering
what had happened, when Aunt Dorothy came running towards him,
crying, "Peter, Peter, where are you?" And then followed the
putting on of the life-belt. It was so easy to picture her talking
to him all the time, to reassure him, in that quick, cheery way of
hers.

"O Eustace," Nesta said afterwards, "wasn't she splendid? I guess
Bob must be sorry he teased her so now."

"Pooh," said Eustace, "that was only his fun. Aunt Dorothy knew
it."

But Nesta could not stand teasing herself, and was sure no one
liked or understood it.

"I don't know," she said; "she used to get red sometimes. And I'm
not so sure Bob did mean it all in chaff. He has a real
down-on-anything-English. I mean to ask him some day what he thinks
of English girls' pluck now."

"If you do," said Eustace, with sudden ferocity, "I'll never speak
to you again."

Nesta stared at him in dismay.

"Why ever?" she asked dully. "Wouldn't he like to talk about her?
Didn't he like her, really?"

"Like her!" Eustace exclaimed. "Oh, you little stupid! Didn't you
see him when Peter was telling us about her? Didn't you hear Bob
then? Can't you understand?"

Nesta stared in blank silence for some seconds.

"Oh, I say!" she gasped, "I didn't know! I never thought of that!
I--I wasn't looking at him."

"I wasn't looking at anything else," said Eustace; "but I guess he
wouldn't like to think any one knew, so we must hold our tongues.
But I couldn't have you going and asking him blundering questions."

"I won't," said Nesta, with unwonted meekness. "When did you
guess?"

"Only then," said Eustace; "but now I can remember lots of things.
Bob always liked talking to her better than any one. Bob didn't
want her to go. Bob asked her to come back."

He broke off short and slammed out of the room. It was as bad to
think of as it had been to bear his mother's helpless loneliness;
for as he could do nothing then for her, he could do nothing now
for Bob.

It was a matter of conjecture between the twins what was likely to
happen next. They really expected that, when Peter was well enough
for the rough journey, they would all go back to the plantation,
and settle down again for ever and ever.

A telegram had been dispatched with the bad news to Mr. and Mrs.
Chase. The reply was an urgent appeal for them all to go on as
first intended.

Leaving everything on the plantation in Bob's care, Mr. Orban
decided to take his wife and family home himself. It would not be
the joyful home-coming they had anticipated; and Mrs. Orban would
need him, he knew.

"We must do what we can for the poor dear old people," Mr. Orban
explained to Bob. "Dorothy was their baby. It is a terrible loss to
them."

"To every one," said Bob briefly.

CHAPTER XVII.

MOTHER'S HOME.

In the length and breadth of England there could hardly have been
found a more lovely little property than Maze Court. There were
larger houses in the neighbourhood, with more extensive grounds;
but as Brenda Dixon stood on the terrace and gazed down towards the
good old English park she felt a real glow of pride and pleasure in
belonging to such a place. It was the sort of feeling she had
whenever she brought a new school friend home for the holidays.

Beside her stood Herbert--long, lean, and very gentlemanly in his
flannels. It was one of his sister's great joys that he always
looked a gentleman in everything.

She was a striking-looking girl herself, with features a little too
pronounced for accurate beauty; but this very fault had the effect
of making her handsome. She had little personal vanity--mere
features she cared nothing for--but pride of birth and of the old
home were deeply rooted in her.

"I think Nesta and Eustace ought to be surprised," she was
thinking; "they won't have seen anything like it. It will seem so
big and splendid to them after the kind of life they have had."

Brenda was never very sure how to picture the Orbans' existence in
Queensland. There was a touch of pettiness about it--a feeling of
poverty and "hugger-muggerness," if one may coin such a word. The
thought of her uncle going daily to his work in his shirt-sleeves;
of her aunt helping in the housework; her cousins brought up just
anyhow, without a governess or any schooling, shocked her
sensibilities and gave vivid local colouring to her ideas about the
Orbans. Those were the sort of details she would never have
referred to at school.

And now she and Herbert were waiting for the arrival of the
travellers, whom their grandparents had driven to the station to
meet.

"Oh dear," she said with a sigh, "how I wish I didn't wish they
weren't coming! If they are fearfully eccentric, all the
neighbourhood will be talking about it in a week, and thinking it
funny we have such relations. One can't explain to every one that
they really are ladies and gentlemen gone to seed, can one?"

"Not exactly," said Herbert. "I jolly well hope you won't try; it
would be beastly bad form. Of course if one had a fellow staying in
the house one might have to explain."

"I simply couldn't ask any one," Brenda said. "It would be all over
the school next term my uncle was a common labourer, and my cousins
savages--or something!"

"Nice sort of friends you seem to have," said Herbert. "Is that a
girl's usual way?"

"Well," said Brenda, with some asperity, "boys aren't any better,
if you should have to explain matters to a chum of yours."

"That's different," Herbert said; "one doesn't want to give a bad
impression. What I hope is that Eustace isn't an awful little muff.
I expect he is, though--can't help being when he has never been
amongst any boys. It will have to be knocked out of him."

"Aunt Dorothy said he was a very nice little chap," Brenda quoted,
and then her voice broke, so that she could not go on.

It was the beginning of the summer holidays, and both she and
Herbert were feeling the death of Miss Chase most dreadfully. It
had been bad enough when she left before the end of the winter
holidays. Again at Easter the dullness of the house without her had
known no bounds. But now, when they knew she would never be with
them again, her very name choked them; they could scarcely speak of
her, because her absence proved at every turn all that her presence
had meant to them and to every one. How they had hated Australia
when she left! How much more they hated it now and everything to do
with it--even the coming of the cousins! Australia seemed the root
of all evil--the cause of Aunt Dorothy's death.

"Aunt Dorothy was a brick," said Herbert jerkily; "she saw niceness
in people whatever they were like. But girls don't really know when
fellows are muffs."

"I don't know about Eustace," said Brenda, "but Nesta looked
fearfully long-legged and queerly dressed in those snapshots Aunt
Dorothy did."

"I hope she won't want to kiss me when she says 'How-do-you-do,'"
said Herbert; "that is all I mind about her. But if that kid
Eustace fancies he is going to hang around with me perpetually, he
will find himself mistaken. I couldn't be bothered."

"But we shall have to look after them properly, and treat them just
as we would any other visitors," Brenda said anxiously; "we can't
sort of leave them to themselves, you know."

"Of course," said Herbert rather testily; "what do you take me for?
I hope I shan't behave like a cad in my own house! But that is just
the nuisance of it: they'll be visitors without being visitors, and
they'll be here such an awful time. Thank goodness, there will be
term time to look forward to!"

"If only Aunt Dorothy--" began Brenda.

"Oh, shut up," said Herbert roughly. Then added more gently, "I
think the carriage has just turned in at the park gate. Listen."

All through the voyage Eustace and Nesta had been picturing this
very day--this very hour. The parting with Bob and the farewell to
home necessarily dropped into the background of their thoughts; the
foreground was full of expectations. Now that they could realize
they were on their way to the fulfilment of what had originally
been the dream of their lives, all the old feeling of longing
possessed them. At last they would see England! At last they would
know what real "home" was like--their mother's old home, to which
she had given them such a sense of belonging by all the tales they
knew so well!

That England was not what they expected was natural enough. Mrs.
Orban had never pretended to describe England, but simply her own
particular corner of it on the borders of Wales. Leaving the ship
was all bustle and rush, but during the long train journey there
was plenty of time to look about, and English scenery struck all
three children as most peculiar.

"Why, it's just like a map!" exclaimed Peter, as he knelt up at a
window. "I'm certain if I was up in a balloon it would look like a
map with all those funny little hedges."

"I think it would look like a patchwork quilt," said Nesta.
"Father, why do people mark their land out into such funny little
bits?"

So spoke the children, used to wide tracts of land without
boundaries, hundreds of acres without fence or railing--such
country as England boasts of in miniature only on its wildest
moors.

The twins were speechless and almost suffocated with excitement
when the train at last ran into a little country station, and Mr.
Orban said briskly,--

"Here we are!"

"There they are!" exclaimed Mrs. Orban, with a little sob in her
voice.