"Did he get in?" asked Wally.

"Nearly—not quite, though. Dad and Norah and I had been out riding, and we came home, past the back yard, in the nick of time. We couldn't hear what the fellow was saying to Mrs. Brown, but his attitude was enough to make us pull up, and as we did so we saw him try to shove her aside. She was plucky enough and banged the door in his face, but he got his foot in the crack, so that it couldn't shut, and began to push it open.

"Dad slipped off his horse gently. He made a sign to us to keep quiet and went across the yard, and we saw him shake the lash of his stockwhip loose. You can just fancy how Norah and I were dancing with joy!

"Dad was just near the verandah when we saw the door give. Poor old Brownie was getting the worst of it. We heard the fellow call out something—a threat—and Dad's arm went up, and the stockwhip came down like a flash across the man's shoulder He gave one yell! You never heard such an amazed and terrified roar in your life!" and Jim chuckled with joy at the recollection.

"He turned on Dad and jumped at him, but he got another one with the whip that made him pause, and then Dad caught him and shook him like a rat. Mr. Swaggie was limp enough when it was over.

"'I've a very good mind to give you in charge!' Dad said—he was simply furious. It made a fellow feel pretty bad to see poor old Brownie's white face in the doorway, and to think what a fright she had had.

"The swaggie turned a very ugly look on Dad.

"'You give me in charge, and I'll precious quick have you up for assault!' he said.

"Dad laughed.

"'As for that, you can do exactly as you choose,' he said. 'I'll be quite ready to answer for thrashing a cur like you. However, you're not worth carting seventeen miles to Cunjee, so you can go—the quicker the better."

"And he cleared, I suppose?" Wally asked.

"He just did—went like a redshank. But when he got outside the gate and a bit away he stopped and turned round and let fly at Dad—such a volley of threats and abuse you never heard. It finished up with something about the grass; we didn't quite understand what; but we remembered it later, and then it was clearer to us. However, he didn't stop to explain, as Dad turned the dogs loose. They lost no time, and neither did the swaggie. He left the place at about the rate of a mile a minute!"

Jim paused.

"Thought I had a bite," he said, pulling up his line. "Bother it! The bait's gone! Chuck me a worm, young Wally." He impaled the worm and flung his line out again.

"Where was I? Oh, yes. Norah and I were a bit scared about the swaggie, and wondered what he'd try to do; but Dad only laughed at us. It never entered his head that the brute would really try to have his revenge. Of course it would have been easy enough to have had him watched off the place, but Dad didn't even think of it. He knows better now.

"I waked up early next morning hearing someone yelling outside. It was only just light. I slipped out of my window and ran into the yard, and the first thing I saw was smoke. It was coming from the west, a great cloud of it, with plenty of wind to help it along. It was one of those hot autumn mornings—you know the kind. Make you feel anyhow."

"Who was yelling?" asked Harry.

"One of Morrison's men—he owns the land adjoining ours. This fellow was coo-eeing for all he was worth.

"'You'd better rouse your men out quick 'n lively,' he sang out. 'There's a big grass fire between us and you. All our chaps are workin' at it; but I don't fancy they can keep it back in this wind.'

"I just turned and ran.

"The big bell we use for summoning the men to their meals hangs under the kitchen verandah and I made a bee-line for it. There seemed plenty of rocks and bits of glass about, and my bare feet got 'em all—at least I thought so—but there wasn't time to think much. Morrison's chap had galloped off as soon as he gave his news. I caught hold of the bell-pull and worked it all I knew!

"You should have seen them tumble out! In about half a minute the place was like a jumpers' nest that you've stirred up with a stick. Dad came out of the back door in his pyjamas, Norah came scudding along the verandah, putting on her kimono as she ran, Brownie and the other servants appeared at their windows, and the men came tumbling out of the barracks and the hut like so many rabbits.

"Dad was annoyed.

"'What are you doing, you young donkey?' he sang out.

"'Look over there!' I says, tugging the bell.

"Dad looked. It didn't take him long to see what was up when he spied that big cloud of smoke.

"'Great Scott!' he shouted. 'Jim, get Billy to run the horses up. Where are you all? Burrows, Field, Henry! Get out the water-cart—quick. All of you get ready fire-beaters. Dress yourselves—quickly!' (You could see that was quite an afterthought on Dad's part.) Then he turned and fled inside to dress."

"How ripping!" Wally said, wriggling on the log with joy.

"Ripping, do you call it?" said Jim indignantly. "You try it for yourself, young Wally, and see. Fire's not much of a joke when you're fighting it yourself, I can tell you. Well, Dad was out again in about two shakes, ready for the fray, and you can bet the rest of us didn't linger long. Billy had the horses up almost as soon, and every one got his own. Things were a bit merry in the stockyard, I can tell you, and heels did fly.

"After all, Norah here was the first mounted. Bobs was in the stable, you see, and Norah had him saddled before any of us had put our bridles on. Goodness knows how she dressed. I guess it wasn't much of a toilet!"

Jim ducked suddenly, and a chip hurled by Norah flew over his head and splashed into the water.

"Get out—you'll frighten the fish!" he said, grinning. "My yarn, old girl."

"Might have had the sense to keep me out of it," said Norah impolitely.

"You be jiggered," said Jim affectionately. "Anyhow, boys, you should have seen Dad's face when Norah trotted over from the stable. He was just girthing up old Bosun, and I was wrestling with Sirdar, who didn't want his crupper on.

"'My dear child,' Dad said, 'get off that pony and go back to bed. You can't think I could allow you to come out?'

"Poor old Norah's face fell about a foot. She begged and argued, but she might as well have spared herself the trouble. At last Dad said she could ride out in the first two paddocks, but no nearer the fire, she had to be content with that. I think she was pretty near mopping her eyes."

"Wasn't," said Norah indistinctly.

"Well, we went off. All of us had fire-beaters. You know we always have them ready; and Field was driving the water-cart—it always stands ready filled for use. We just galloped like mad. Dad didn't wait for any gates—Bosun can jump anything—and he just went straight across country. Luckily, there was no stock in the paddocks near the house, except that in one small paddock were about twenty valuable prize sheep. However, the fire was so far off that we reckoned they were safe, and so we turned our attention to the fire.

"We left old Norah in the second paddock, looking as miserable as a bandicoot. Dad made her promise not to meddle with the fire. 'Promise me you won't try any putting out on your own account,' he said; and Norah promised very reluctantly. I was jolly sorry you were out of it, you know, old kid," said Jim reflectively; and Norah gave him a little smile.

"We made great time across the paddocks," Jim continued. "Dad was ever so far ahead, of course, but our contingent, that had to go round by the gates, didn't do so badly. Billy was on Mick, and he and I had a go for the lead across the last paddock."

"Who won?" asked Harry.

"Me," said Jim ungrammatically. "When we got into the smoke we had to go round a bit, or we'd have gone straight into the fire. We hung up the horses in a corner that had been burnt round, and was safe from more fire, and off we went. There were ever so many men fighting it; all Morrison's fellows, and a lot from other places as well. The fire had started right at our boundary, and had come across a two-hundred acre paddock like a shot. Then a little creek checked it a bit, and let the fighters have a show.

"There were big trees blazing everywhere, and stumps and logs, and every few minutes the fire would get going again in some ferns or long grass, and go like mischief, and half a dozen men after it, to stop it. It had got across the creek, and there was a line of men on the bank keeping it back. Some others were chopping down the big, blazing, dead trees, that were simply showering sparks all round. The wind was pretty strong, and took burning leaves and sticks ever so far and started the fire in different places. Three fellows on ponies were doing nothing but watch for these flying firebrands, galloping after them and putting them out as they fell."

Jim paused.

"Say you put your hook in the water, Wally, old chap," he suggested.

Wally looked and blushed. In the excitement of the moment he had unconsciously pulled up his line until the bait dangled helplessly in the air, a foot above the water. The party on the log laughed at the expense of Wally, and Jim proceeded.

"Father and four other men came across the creek and sang out to us—

"'We're going back a bit to burn a break!' they said. 'Come along.'

"We all went back about a hundred yards from the creek and lit the grass, spreading out in a long line across the paddock. Then every one kept his own little fire from going in the wrong direction, and kept it burning back towards the creek, of course preventing any logs or trees from getting alight. It was pretty tough work, the smoke was so bad, but at last it was done, and a big, burnt streak put across the paddock. Except for flying bits of lighted stuff there wasn't much risk of the fire getting away from us when once we had got that break to help us. You see, a grass fire isn't like a real bush fire. It's a far more manageable beast. It's when you get fire in thick scrub that you can just make up your mind to stand aside and let her rip!"

Jim pulled up his book and examined his bait carefully.

"Fish seem off us," he said.

"That all the yarn?" Harry asked.

"No, there's more, if you're not sick of it."

"Well, fire away," Wally said impatiently.

Jim let his sinker go down gently until it settled in comfort in the soft mud at the bottom.

"This is where I come to Norah," he said.

That young lady turned a lively red.

"If you're going to tell all that bosh about me, I'm off," she said, disgustedly. "Good-bye. You can call me when you've finished."

"Where are you off to, Norah?" inquired Harry.

"Somewhere to fish—I'm tired of you old gossips—" Norah elevated a naturally tilted nose as she wound up her tackle and rose to her feet. She made her way along the log past the three boys until she reached the land, and, scrambling up the bank, vanished in the scrub. Presently they saw her reappear at a point a little lower down, where she ensconced herself in the roots of a tree that was sticking out of the bank, and looked extremely unsafe. She flung her line in below her perch.

"Hope she's all right," Harry said uneasily.

"You bet. Norah knows what she's about," Jim said calmly. "She can swim like a fish anyhow!"

"Well, go on with your yarn," urged Wally.

"Well—I told you how we stopped the fire at the little creek, didn't I? We thought it was pretty safe after we had burnt such a good break, and the men with axes had chopped down nearly all the big trees that were alight, so that they couldn't spread the fire. We reckoned we could sit down and mop our grimy brows and think what fine, brave, bold heroes we were! Which we did.

"There was one big tree the men couldn't get down. It was right on a bit of a hill, near the bank of the creek—a big brute of a tree, hollow for about twelve feet, and I don't know how high, but I'll bet it was over a hundred and fifty feet. It got alight from top to bottom, and, my word, didn't it blaze!

"The men tried to chop it down, but it was too hot a job even for a salamander. We could only watch it, and it took a lot of watching, because it was showering sparks and bits of wood, and blazing limbs and twigs in every direction. Lots of times they blew into the dead grass beyond our break, and it meant galloping to put them out.

"The wind had been pretty high all the time, and it got up suddenly to a regular gale. It caught this old tree and fairly whisked its burning limbs off. They flew ever so far. We thought we had them all out, when suddenly Dad gave a yell.

"There was a little, deep gully running at right angles to the creek, and right through the paddocks up to the house. In winter it was a creek, but now it was dry as a bone, and rank with dead grass at the bottom. As we looked we saw smoke rise from this gully, far away, in the home paddock.

"'My Shropshires!' said Dad, and he made a run for Bosun.

"How we did tear! I never thought old Dad could run so hard! It seemed miles to the corner where the horses were, and ages before we got on them and were racing for the home paddock. And all the time the smoke was creeping along that beastly gully, and we knew well enough that, tear as we might, we couldn't be in time.

"You see, the valuable sheep were in a paddock, where this gully ended. It wasn't very near the house, and no one might see the fire before every sheep was roasted. We had only just got them. Dad had imported some from England and some from Tasmania, and I don't know how much they hadn't cost."

"Weren't you afraid for the house as well?" asked Harry.

"No. There was a big ploughed paddock near the house; it would have taken a tremendous fire to get over that and the orchard and garden. We only worried about the Shropshires.

"I got the lead away, but Dad caught me up pretty soon. Between us and the sheep paddock there were only wire fences, which he wouldn't take Bosun over, so he couldn't race away from the rest of us this time.

"We might as well take it easy,' he said, 'for all the good we can do. The sheep nearly live in that gully.'

"All the same, we raced. The wind had gone down by now, so the fire couldn't travel as fast as it had done in the open ground. There was a long slope leading down to the gully, and as we got to this we could see the whole of the little paddock, and there wasn't a sheep in sight. Every blessed one was in the gully, and the fire was three-parts of the way along it!

"Roast mutton!' I heard Dad say under his breath.

"Then we saw Norah. She came racing on Bobs to the fence of the paddock near the head of the gully—much nearer the fire than we were. We saw her look at the fire and into the gully, and I reckon we all knew she was fighting with her promise to Dad about not tackling the fire. But she saw the sheep before we could. They had run from the smoke along the gully till they came to the head of it, where it ended with pretty steep banks all round. By that time they were thoroughly dazed, and there they would have stayed until they were roasted. Sheep are stupid brutes at any time, but in smoke they're just idiots!

"Norah gave only one look. Then she slipped off Bobs and left him to look after himself, and she tore down into the gully."

"Oh, Jim, go on!" said Wally.

"I'm going," said Jim affably.

"Dad gave one shout as Norah disappeared into the gully. 'Go back, my darling!' he yelled, forgetting that he was so far off that he might as well have shouted to the moon. Then he gave a groan, and dug his spurs into Bosun. I had mine as far as they'd go in Sirdar already!

"The smoke rolled on up the gully and in a minute it had covered it all up. I thought it was all up with Norah, too, and old Burrows behind me was sobbing for all he was worth. We raced and tore and yelled!

"Then we saw a sheep coming up out of the smoke at the end of the gully. Another followed, and another, and then more, until every blessed one of the twenty was there (though we didn't stop to count 'em then, I can tell you!) Last of all—it just seemed years—came Norah!

"We could hear her shouting at the sheep before we saw her. They were terribly hard to move. She banged them with sticks, and the last old ram she fairly kicked up the hill. They were just out of the gully when the fire roared up it, and a minute or so after that we got to her.

"Poor little kid; she was just black, and nearly blind with the smoke. It was making her cry like fun," said Jim, quite unconscious of his inappropriate simile. "I don't know if it was smoke in his case, but so was Dad. We put the fire out quick enough; it was easy work to keep it in the gully. Indeed, Dad never looked at the fire, or the sheep either. He just jumped off Bosun, and picked Norah up and held her as if she was a baby, and she hugged and hugged him. They're awfully fond of each other, Dad and Norah."

"And were the sheep all right?" Harry asked.

"Right as rain; not one of the black-faced beauties singed. It was a pretty close thing, you know," Jim said reminiscently. "The fire was just up to Norah as she got the last sheep up the hill; there was a hole burnt in the leg of her riding skirt. She told me afterwards she made up her mind she was going to die down in that beastly hole."

"My word, you must have been jolly proud of her!" Wally exclaimed. "Such a kid, too!"

"I guess we were pretty proud," Jim said quietly. "All the people about made no end of a fuss about her, but Norah never seemed to think a pennyworth about it. Fact is, her only thought at first was that Dad would think she had broken her promise to him. She looked up at him in the first few minutes, with her poor, swollen old eyes. 'I didn't forget my promise, Dad, dear,' she said. 'I never touched the fire—only chased your silly old sheep!'"

"Was that the end of the fire?" Harry asked.

"Well, nearly. Of course we had to watch the burning logs and stumps for a few days, until all danger of more fires was over, and if there'd been a high wind in that time we might have had trouble. Luckily there wasn't any wind at all, and three days after there came a heavy fall of rain, which made everything safe. We lost about two hundred and fifty acres of grass, but in no time the paddock was green again, and the fire only did it good in the long run. We reckoned ourselves uncommonly lucky over the whole thing, though if Norah hadn't saved the Shropshires we'd have had to sing a different tune. Dad said he'd never shut up so much money in one small paddock again!"

Jim bobbed his float up and down despairingly.

"This is the most fishless creek!" he said. "Well, the only thing left to tell you is where the swagman came in."

"Oh, by Jove," Harry said, "I forgot the swaggie."

"Was it his fault the fire started?" inquired Wally.

"Rather! He camped under a bridge on the road that forms our boundary the night Dad cleared him off the place, and the next morning, very early, he deliberately lit our grass in three places, and then made off. He'd have got away, too, and nobody would have known anything about it, if it hadn't been for Len Morrison. You chaps haven't met Len, have you? He's a jolly nice fellow, older than me, I guess he's about sixteen now—perhaps seventeen.

"Len had a favourite cow, a great pet of his. He'd petted her as a calf and she'd follow him about like a dog. This cow was sick—they found her down in the paddock and couldn't move her, so they doctored her where she was. Len was awfully worried about her, and used to go to her late at night and first thing in the morning.

"He went out to the cow on this particular morning about daylight. She was dead and so he didn't stay; and he was riding back when he saw the swag-man lighting our grass. It was most deliberately done. Len didn't go after him then. He galloped up to his own place and gave the alarm, and then he and one of their men cleared out after the brute."

"Did they catch him?" Wally's eyes were dancing, and his sinker waved unconsciously in the air.

"They couldn't see a sign of him," Jim said. "The road was a plain, straight one—you chaps know it—the one we drove home on from the train. No cover anywhere that would hide so much as a goat—not even you, Wal! They followed it up for a couple of miles, and then saw that he must have gone across country somewhere. There was mighty little cover there, either. The only possible hiding-place was along the creek.

"He was pretty cunning—my word, he was! He'd started up the road—Len had seen him—and then he cut over the paddock at an angle, back to the creek. That was why they couldn't find any tracks when they started up the creek from the road, and they made sure he had given them the slip altogether.

"Len and the other fellow, a chap called Sam Baker, pegged away up the creek as hard as they could go, but feeling pretty blue about catching the swaggie. Len was particularly wild, because he'd made so certain he could lay his hands on the fellow, and if he hadn't been sure, of course he'd have stayed to help at the fire, and he didn't like being done out of everything! They could understand not finding any tracks.

"'Of course it's possible he's walked in the water,' Baker said.

"'We'd have caught him by now if he had,' Len said—'he couldn't get along quickly in the water. Anyhow, if I don't see anything of him before we get to the next bend, I'm going back to the fire.'

"They were nearly up to the bend, and Len was feeling desperate, when he saw a boot-mark half-way down the bank on the other side. He was over like a shot—the creek was very shallow—and there were tracks as plain as possible, leading down to the water!

"You can bet they went on then!

"They caught him a bit farther up. He heard them coming, and left his swag, so's he could get on quicker. They caught that first, and then they caught him. He had 'planted' in a clump of scrub, and they nearly passed him, but Len caught sight of him, and they had him in a minute."

"Did he come easily?" asked Wally.

"Rather not! He sent old Len flying—gave him an awful black eye. Len was, up again and at him like a shot, and I reckon it was jolly plucky of a chap of Len's age, and I dare say he'd have had an awful hiding if Sam hadn't arrived on the scene. Sam is a big, silent chap, and he can fight anybody in this district. He landed the swaggie first with one fist and then with the other, and the swaggie reckoned he'd been struck by a thunderbolt when they fished him out of the creek, where he had rolled! You see, Sam's very fond of Len, and it annoyed him to see his eye.

"The swaggie did not do any more resisting. He was like a half-dead, drowned rat. Len and Sam brought him up to the men at the fire just after we'd left to try to save Dad's Shropshires, and they and Mr. Morrison could hardly keep the men off him. He hid behind Sam, and cried and begged them to protect him. They said it was beastly."

"Rather!" said Harry. "Where's he now?"

"Melbourne Gaol. He got three years," said Jim. "I guess he's reflecting on the foolishness of using matches too freely!"

"By George!" said Wally, drawing a deep breath. "That was exciting, Jimmy!"

"Well, fishing isn't," responded Jim pulling up his hook in disgust, an example followed by the other boys. "What'll we do?"

"I move," said Wally, standing on one leg on the log, "that this meeting do adjourn from this dead tree. And I move a hearty vote of thanks to Mr. Jim Linton for spinning a good yarn. Thanks to be paid immediately. There's mine, Jimmy!"

A resounding pat on the back startled Jim considerably, followed as it was by a second from Harry. The assaulted one fled along the log, and hurled mud furiously from the bank. The enemy followed closely, and shortly the painful spectacle might have been seen of a host lying flat on his face on the grass, while his guests, sitting on his back, bumped up and down to his extreme discomfort and the tune of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!"



CHAPTER VII. WHAT NORAH FOUND

Norah, meanwhile, had been feeling somewhat "out of things." It was really more than human nature could be expected to bear that she should remain on the log with the three boys, while Jim told amazing yarns about her. Still it was decidedly lonesome in the jutting root of the old tree, looking fixedly at the water, in which placidly lay a float that had apparently forgotten that the first duty of a float is to bob.

Jim's voice, murmuring along in his lengthy recital, came to her softly, and she could see from her perch the interested faces of the two others. It mingled drowsily with the dull drone of bees in the ti-tree behind her, and presently Norah, to her disgust, found that she was growing drowsy too.

"This won't do!" she reflected, shaking herself. "If I go to sleep and tumble off this old root I'll startle away all the fish in the creek." She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the splash of a leaping fish. "No good when they jump like that," said Norah to herself. "I guess I'll go and explore."

She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy—not that Norah's free and independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along the bank.

A little farther up she came across black Billy—a very cheerful aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine blackfish to leave their watery bed.

"Oh, I say!" said Norah, round-eyed and envious. "How do you manage it, Billy? We can't catch one."

Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words.

"Plenty bob-um float," he explained lucidly. "Easy 'nuff. You try."

"No, thanks," said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. "I'm sick of trying—and I've no luck. Going to cook 'em for dinner, Billy?"

"Plenty!" assented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it suffice.

"That's a good boy," said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old white. "I'm going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when lunch is ready."

"Plenty," said Billy intelligently.

Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush, and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives it.

She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand—clinging creepers and twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, clusters of maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade, and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling disgusted with herself.

Suddenly she stopped in amazement.

She was on the edge of a small clear space, at the farther side of which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the whole space was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in surprise.

For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent.

The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks, and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was all very neat and tidy. "It looks quite home-like," said Norah to herself.

As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him, as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he straightened himself he was wonderfully tall—taller even than Dad, who was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes.

But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have passed muster in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee. He was dressed entirely in skins—wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though there was an occasional section that looked like 'possum. They didn't look bad, either, she thought—a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling.

The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper—Norah had never seen one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked good, too—nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased "Not half bad!" he said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped.

The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to blow the dust from the result of his cookery.

At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent handkerchief.

As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its imprisonment, so Norah's sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her efforts to repress it. It came—

"A—tish—oo—oo!"

The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round.

"What on earth's that?" he said. "Who's there?" For a moment Norah hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second's thought showed her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, "It's me."

"'Me', is it?" said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt—at the merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. "'Me '," he repeated. "'Me' looks rather nice, I think. But what's she doing here?"

"I was looking at you," Norah exclaimed.

"I won't be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king," said the old man. "But don't you know that no one comes here? No young ladies in blue dresses and brown curls—only wombats and wallabies, and ring-tailed 'possums—and me. Not you—me, but me—me! How do you account for being here?"

Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man, whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke.

"But I don't think you know," she said. "Quite a lot of other people come here—this is Anglers' Bend. At least, Anglers' Bend's quite close to your camp. Why, only, to-day there's Jim and the boys, and black Billy, and me! We're not wallabies!"

"Jim—and the boys—and black Billy—and me!" echoed the old man faintly. "Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than a bunyip! But—I've been here for three months, little lady, and have never come across anyone. Are you sure you're quite serious?"

"Quite," Norah answered. "Perhaps it was that no one came across you, you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp here sometimes, but we haven't been for more than three months."

"Well, I must move, that's all," said the old man. "I do like quiet—it's annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance."

"Did you make them yourself?" asked Norah.

"Behold how she fences!" said the old man. "I did indeed!"

"Then they do you proud!" said Norah solemnly.

The old man laughed.

"I shall prize your expression of opinion," he said. "May I ask the name of my visitor?"

"I'm Norah. Please who are you?"

"That's a different matter," said the other, looking nonplussed. "I certainly had a name once, but I've quite forgotten it. I have an excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I'd be delighted if you could!"

"I couldn't." Norah shook her head. "But I'll tell you what I think you are."

"Do."

"A hermit!"

The old man's face cleared.

"My dear Miss Norah," he said, "you've made a profound discovery. I am—I am—a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me?

"I can't, I'm afraid," said Norah, looking affectionately at the damper. "The boys will be looking for me, if I don't go back. Listen—there's Jim coo-eeing now!"

"And who may Jim be?" queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily.

"Jim's my brother," Norah said. "He's fifteen, and he's just splendid. Harry and Wally are his two chums."

"Coo-ee! Coo-ee!"

Norah answered the call quickly and turned to the Hermit, feeling a little apologetic.

"I had to call," she explained—"Jim would be anxious. They want me for lunch." She hesitated. "Won't you come too?" she asked timidly.

"I haven't eaten with my fellow-men for more time than I'd care to reckon," said the Hermit. "I don't know—will they let me alone afterwards? Are they ordinary abominable boys?"

"Indeed, they're not!" said Norah indignantly. "They won't come near you at all, if you don't want them—but I know they'd be pleased if you came. Do!"

"Coo-ee!"

"Jim's getting impatient, isn't he?" said the Hermit. "Well, Miss Norah, if you'll excuse my attire I'll come. Shall I bring my damper?"

"Oh, please!" Norah cried. "We've never tasted damper."

"I wish I hadn't," said the Hermit grimly. He picked up the fallen cake. "Let us away!" he said. "The banquet waits!"

During their walk through the scrub it occurred to Norah once or twice to wonder if her companion were really a little mad. He said such extraordinary things, all in the most matter-of-fact tone—but when she looked up at him his blue eyes twinkled so kindly and merrily that she knew at once he was all right, and she was quite certain that she liked him very much.

The boys were getting impatient. Lunch was ready, and when lunch has been prepared by Mrs. Brown, and supplemented by fresh blackfish, fried over a camp fire by black Billy, it is not a meal to be kept waiting. They were grouped round the table-cloth, in attitudes more suggestive of ease than elegance, when Norah and her escort appeared, and for once their manners deserted them. They gaped in silent amazement.

"Boys, this is The Hermit," said Norah, rather nervously. "I—I found him. He has a camp. He's come to lunch."

"I must apologize for my intrusion, I'm afraid," the Hermit said. "Miss Norah was good enough to ask me to come. I—I've brought my damper!"

He exhibited the article half shyly, and the boys recovered themselves and laughed uncontrollably. Jim sprang to his feet. The Hermit's first words had told him that this was no common swagman that Norah had picked up.

"I'm very glad to see you, sir," he said, holding out his hand.

"Thank you," said the Hermit gravely. "You're Jim, aren't you? And I conclude that this gentleman is Harry, and this Wally? Ah, I thought so. Yes, I haven't seen so many people for ages. And black Billy! How are you Billy?"

Billy retreated in great embarrassment.

"Plenty!" he murmured.

Everybody laughed again.

"Well," Jim said, "we're hungry, Norah. I hope you and—er—this gentleman are." Jim was concealing his bewilderment like a hero. "Won't you sit down and sample Billy's blackfish? He caught 'em all—we couldn't raise a bite between us—barring Wally's boot!"

"Did you catch a boot?" queried the Hermit of the blushing Wally. "Mine, I think—I can't congratulate you on your luck! If you like, after lunch, I'll show you a place where you could catch fish, if you only held the end of your finger in the water!"

"Good enough!" said Jim. "Thanks, awfully—we'll be jolly glad. Come on, Billy—trot out your frying-pan!"

Lunch began rather silently.

In their secret hearts the boys were rather annoyed with Norah.

"Why on earth," Jim reflected, "couldn't she have left the old chap alone? The party was all right without him—we didn't want any one else—least of all an odd oddity like this." And though the other boys were loyal to Norah, she certainly suffered a fall in their estimation, and was classed for the moment with the usual run of "girls who do rummy things."

However, the Hermit was a man of penetration and soon realized the state of the social barometer. His hosts, who did not look at all like quiet boys, were eating their blackfish in perfect silence, save for polite requests for bread or pepper, or the occasional courteous remark, "Chuck us the salt!"

Accordingly the Hermit exerted himself to please, and it would really have taken more than three crabby boys to resist him. He told the drollest stories, which sent everyone into fits of laughter, although he never laughed himself at all; and he talked about the bush, and told them of the queer animals he saw—having, as he said, unusually good opportunities for watching the bush inhabitants unseen. He knew where the lyrebirds danced, and had often crept silently through the scrub until he could command a view of the mound where these strange birds strutted and danced, and mimicked the other birds with life-like fidelity. He loved the birds very much, and never killed any of them, even when a pair of thievish magpies attacked his larder and pecked a damper into little bits when he was away fishing. Many of the birds were tame with him now, he said; they would hop about the camp and let him feed them; and he had a carpet snake that was quite a pet, which he offered to show them—an offer that broke down the last tottering barriers of the boys' reserve. Then there were his different methods of trapping animals, some of which were strange even to Jim, who was a trapper of much renown.

"Don't you get lonely sometimes?" Norah asked him.

The Hermit looked at her gravely.

"Sometimes," he said. "Now and then one feels that one would give something to hear a human voice again, and to feel a friend's hand-grip. Oh, there are times, Miss Norah, when I talk to myself—which is bad—or yarn to old Turpentine, my snake, just to hear the sound of words again. However, when these bad fits come upon me I know it's a sign that I must get the axe and go and chop down sufficient trees to make me tired. Then I go to sleep, and wake up quite a cheerful being once more!"

He hesitated.

"And there's one thing," he said slowly—"though it may be lonely here, there is no one to trouble you; no one to treat you badly, to be ungrateful or malicious; no bitter enemies, and no false friends, who are so much worse than enemies. The birds come and hop about me, and I know that it is because I like them and have never frightened them; old Turpentine slides his ugly head over my knees, and I know he doesn't care a button whether I have any money in my pocket, or whether I have to go out into the scrub to find my next meal! And that's far, far more than you can say of most human beings!"

He looked round on their grave faces, and smiled for the first time.

"This is uncommonly bad behaviour in a guest," he said cheerily. "To come to lunch, and regale one's host and hostess with a sermon! It's too bad. I ask your forgiveness, young people, and please forget all I said immediately. No, Miss Norah, I won't have any damper, thank you—after a three months' course of damper one looks with joy once more on bread. If Wally will favour me—I think the correct phrase is will you 'chuck me the butter?'"—whereat Wally "chucked" as desired, and the meal proceeded merrily.



CHAPTER VIII. ON A LOG

Lunch over, everyone seemed disinclined for action. The boys lay about on the grass, sleepily happy. Norah climbed into a tree, where the gnarled boughs made a natural arm-chair, and the Hermit propped his back against a rock and smoked a short black pipe with an air of perfect enjoyment. It was just hot enough to make one drowsy. Bees droned lazily, and from some shady gully the shrill note of a cricket came faintly to the ear. Only Billy had stolen down to the creek, to tempt the fish once more. They heard the dull "plunk" of his sinker as he flung it into a deep, still pool.

"Would you like to hear how I lost my boot?" queried the Hermit suddenly.

"Oh, please," said Norah.

The boys rolled over—that is to say Jim and Wally rolled over. Harry was fast asleep.

"Don't wake him," said the Hermit. But Wally's hat, skilfully thrown, had already caught the slumberer on the side of the head.

Harry woke up with surprising promptness, and returned the offending head-gear with force and directness. Wally caught it deftly and rammed it over his eyes. He smiled underneath it at the Hermit like a happy cherub.

"Now we're ready, sir," he said. "Hold your row, Harry, the—this gentleman's going to spin us a yarn. Keep awake if you can spare the time!"

"I'll spare the time to kick you!" growled the indignant Harry.

"I don't know that you'll think it's much of a yarn," the Hermit said hurriedly, entering the breach to endeavour to allay further discussion—somewhat to Jim's disappointment. "It's only the story of a pretty narrow escape.

"I had gone out fishing one afternoon about a month ago. It was a grand day for fishing—dull and cloudy. The sun was about somewhere, but you couldn't see anything of him, although you could feel his warmth. I'd been off colour for a few days, and had not been out foraging at all, and as a result, except for damper, my larder was quite empty.

"I went about a mile upstream. There's a splendid place for fishing there. The creek widens, and there's a still, deep pool, something like the pool at the place you call Anglers' Bend, only I think mine is deeper and stiller, and fishier! At all events, I have never failed to get fish there.

"I fished from the bank for a while, with not very good luck. At all events, it occurred to me that I could better it if I went out upon a big log that lay right across the creek—a tremendous tree it must have been, judging by the size of the trunk. You could almost ride across it, it's so wide—if you had a circus pony, that is," added the Hermit with a twinkle.

"So I gathered up my tackle, hung the fish I'd caught across a bough in the shade, and went out on the log, and here I had good luck at once. The fish bit just as soon as I put the bait into the water, and though a good many of them were small there were some very decent-sized ones amongst them. I threw the little chaps back, on the principle that—

Baby fish you throw away Will make good sport another day,

and at last began to think I had caught nearly enough, even though I intended to salt some. However, just as I thought it was time to strike for camp, I had a tremendous bite. It nearly jerked the rod out of my hands!

"'Hallo!' I said to myself, 'here's a whale!' I played him for a bit, for he was the strongest fish I ever had on a line in this country, and at last he began to tire, and I reeled the line in. It seemed quite a long time before I caught a glimpse of his lordship—a tremendous perch. I tell you I felt quite proud as his head came up out of the water.

"He was nearly up to the log, when he made a sudden, last leap in the air, and the quickness of it and his weight half threw me off my balance. I made a hurried step on the log, and my right foot slipped into a huge, gaping crack. It was only after I had made two or three ineffectual struggles to release it that I found I was stuck.

"Well I didn't realize the seriousness of the position for a few minutes," the Hermit went on. "I could understand that I was wedged, but I certainly never dreamed that I could not, by dint of manoeuvring, wriggle my foot out of the crack. So I turned my attention to my big fish, and—standing in a most uncomfortable position—managed to land him; and a beauty he was, handsome as paint, with queer markings on his sides. I put him down carefully, and then tried to free myself.

"And I tried—and tried—and tried—until I was tired out, and stiff and hopeless. By that time it was nearly dark. After I had endeavoured unsuccessfully to get the boot clear, I unlaced it, and tried to get my foot out of it—but I was in a trifle too far for that, and try as I would I could not get it free. The crack was rather on the side of the log. I could not get a straight pull. Hurt? Yes, of course it hurt—not more from the pinching of the log, which you may try any time by screwing your foot up in a vice, than from my own wild efforts to get clear. My foot and ankle were stiff and sore from my exertions long before I knocked off in despair. I might have tried to cut the wood away, had I not left my knife on the bank, where I was fishing first. I don't know that it would have done much good, anyhow.

"Well, I looked at the situation—in fact, I had been looking at it all the time. It wasn't a very cheering prospect, either. The more I pondered over it, the less chance I saw of getting free. I had done all I could towards that end; now it only remained to wait for something to 'turn up.' And I was quite aware that nothing was in the least likely to turn up, and also that in all probability I would wear out some time before the log did.

"Night came on, and I was as hungry as a hunter—being a hunter, I knew just how hungry that is. I hadn't anything to eat except raw fish, and I wasn't quite equal to that yet. I had only one pipe of tobacco too, and you may be sure I made the most of that, I smoked it very, very slowly, and I wouldn't like to say how long it lasted.

"From time to time I made fresh attempts to release my foot—all unavailing, and all the more maddening because I could feel that my foot wasn't much caught—only just enough to hold it. But enough is as good as a feast! I felt that if I could get a straight pull at it I might get it out, and several times I nearly went head first into the water, overbalancing myself in the effort to get that straight pull. That wasn't a pleasant sensation—not so bad, indeed, if one had got as far as the water. But I pictured myself hanging from the log with a dislocated ankle, and the prospect was not inviting.

"So the night crept on. I grew deadly sleepy, but of course I did not care to let myself go to sleep; but worse than that was the stiffness, and the cramp that tortured the imprisoned leg. You know how you want to jump when you've got cramp? Well, I wanted to jump at intervals of about a minute all through that night, and instead, I was more securely hobbled than any old horse I ever saw. The mosquitoes worried me too. Altogether it was not the sort of entertainment you would select from choice!

"And then, just as day began to dawn, the sleepiness got the better of me. I fought it unavailingly; but at last I knew I could keep awake no longer, and I shut my eyes.

"I don't know how long I slept—it couldn't have been for any time, for it was not broad daylight when I opened my eyes again. Besides, the circumstances weren't the kind to induce calm and peaceful slumber.

"I woke up with a start, and in my dreams I seemed to hear myself crying out with pain—for a spasm of cramp had seized me, and it was like a red-hot iron thrust up my leg. I was only half awake—not realizing my position a bit. I made a sudden spring, and the next moment off I went, headlong!

"I don't suppose," said the Hermit reflectively, poking a stem of grass down his pipe, "that I'll ever lose the memory of the sudden, abject terror of that moment. They say 'as easy as falling off a log,' and it certainly doesn't take an able-bodied man long to fall off one, as a rule; but it seemed to me that I was hours and years waiting for the jerk to come on my imprisoned foot. I'm sure I lived through half a lifetime before it really came.

"Then it came—and I hardly felt it! There was just a sudden pull—scarcely enough to hurt very much, and the old boot yielded. Sole from upper, it came clean away, and the pressure on my foot alone wasn't enough to hold me. It was so unexpected that I didn't realize I was free until I struck the water, and went down right into the mud at the bottom of the creek.

"That woke me up, I can assure you. I came up choking and spluttering, and blinded with the mud—I wouldn't like to tell you for a moment that it was pleasant, but I can truthfully say I never was more relieved in my life. I struck out for the bank, and got out of the water, and then sat down on the grass and wondered why on earth I hadn't made up my mind to jump off that log before.

"I hadn't any boot left—the remainder had been kicked off as I swam ashore. I made my way along the log that had held me so fast all night, and there, wedged as tight as ever in the crack, was my old sole! It's there still—unless the mosquitoes have eaten it. I limped home with my fish, cleaned them, had a meal and went to bed—and I didn't get up until next day, either!

"And so, Mr. Wally, I venture to think that it was my boot that you landed this morning," the Hermit said gravely. "I don't grudge it to you; I can't say I ever wish to see it again. You"—magnanimously—"may have it for your very own!"

"But I chucked it back again!" blurted out Wally, amidst a roar of laughter from Jim and Harry at his dismayed face.

"I forgive you!" said the Hermit, joining in the laugh. "I admit it was a relic which didn't advertise its own fame."

"I guess you'd never want to see it again," Jim said. "That was a pretty narrow escape—if your foot had been in just a bit farther you might have been hanging from that old log now!"

"That was my own idea all that night," observed the Hermit; "and then Wally wouldn't have caught any more than the rest of you this morning! And that reminds me, I promised to show you a good fishing-place. Don't you think, if you've had enough of my prosy yarning, that we'd better make a start?"

The party gathered itself up with alacrity from the grass. Lines were hurriedly examined, and the bait tin, when investigated, proved to contain an ample supply of succulent grubs and other dainties calculated to tempt the most fastidious of fish.

"All ready?" said the Hermit.

"Hold on a minute," Jim said. "I'll let Billy know where we're going."

Billy was found fishing stolidly from a log. Three blackfish testified to his skill with the rod, at which Wally whistled disgustedly and Norah laughed.

"No good to be jealous of Billy's luck," she said. "He can always get fish, when nobody else can find even a nibble. Mrs. Brown says he's got the light hand like hers for pastry."

The Hermit laughed.

"I like Mrs. Brown's simile," he said. "If that was her pastry in those turnovers at lunch, Miss Norah, I certainly agree that she has 'the light hand.'"

"Mrs. Brown's like the cook in The Ingoldsby Legends, Dad says," Norah remarked.

"What," said the Hermit—

"For soups and stews, and French regouts, Nell Cook is famous still—?" finished Norah delightedly. "However did you know, Mr. Hermit?"

The Hermit laughed, but a shade crossed his brow. "I used to read the Legends with a dear old friend many years before you were born, Miss Norah," he said gravely. "I often wonder whether he still reads them."

"Ready?" Jim interrupted, springing up the bank. "Billy understands about feeding the ponies. Don't forget, mind, Billy."

"Plenty!" quoth Billy, and the party went on its way. The Hermit led them rapidly over logs and fallen trees, up and down gullies, and through tangles of thickly growing scrub. Once or twice it occurred to Jim that they were trusting very confidingly to this man, of whom they knew absolutely nothing; and a faint shade of uneasiness crossed his mind. He felt responsible, as the eldest of the youngsters, knowing that his father had placed him in charge, and that he was expected to exercise a certain amount of caution. Still it was hard to fancy anything wrong, looking at the Hermit's serene face, and the trusting way in which Norah's brown little hand was placed in his strong grasp. The other boys were quite unconscious of any uncomfortable ideas, and Jim finally dismissed his fears as uncalled for.

"I thought," said the Hermit, suddenly turning, "of taking you to see my camp as we went, but on second thoughts I decided that it would be better to get straight to work, as you young people want some fish, I suppose, to take home. Perhaps we can look in at my camp as we come back. It's not far from here."

"Which way do you generally go to the river?" Norah asked.

"Why, anyway," the Hermit answered. "Generally in this direction. Why do you ask, Miss Norah?"

"I was wondering," Norah said. "We haven't crossed or met a single track."

The Hermit laughed.

"No," he said, "I take very good care not to leave tracks if I can avoid it. You see, I'm a solitary fellow, Miss Norah, and prefer, as a rule, to keep to myself. Apart from that, I often leave camp for the greater part of the day when I'm fishing or hunting, and I've no wish to point out the way to my domain to any wanderers. Not that I've much to lose, still there are some things. Picture my harrowed feelings were I to return some evening and find my beloved frying-pan gone!"

Norah laughed.

"It would be awful," she said.

"So I planned my camp very cunningly," continued the Hermit, "and I can tell you it took some planning to contrive it so that it shouldn't be too easily visible."

"Well, it isn't from the side I came on it," Norah put in; "I never dreamed of anything being there until I was right on the camp. It did surprise me!"

"And me," said the Hermit drily. "Well that is how I tried to arrange camp, and you could be within a dozen yards of it on any side without imagining that any was near."

"But surely you must have made some sort of a track leading away from it," said Jim, "unless you fly out!"

The Hermit laughed.

"I'll show you later how I manage that," he said.

The bush grew denser as the little party, led by the Hermit, pushed along, and Jim was somewhat surprised at the easy certainty with which their guide led the way, since there was no sign of a track. Being a silent youth, he held his tongue on the matter; but Wally was not so reserved.

"However d'you find your way along here?" he asked. "I don't even know whether we're near the creek or not."

"If we kept still a moment you'd know," the Hermit said. "Listen!" He held up his hand and they all stood still. There came faintly to their ears a musical splash of water.

"There's a little waterfall just in there," the Hermit said, "nothing much, unless the creek is very low, and then there is a greater drop for the water. So you see we haven't got far from the creek. How do I know the way? Why, I feel it mostly, and if I couldn't feel it, there are plenty of landmarks. Every big tree is as good as a signpost once you know the way a bit, and I've been along here pretty often, so there's nothing in it, you see, Wally."

"Do you like the bush, Mr. Hermit?" Norah asked.

The Hermit hesitated.

"Sometimes I hate it, I think, Miss Norah," he said, "when the loneliness of it comes over me, and all the queer sounds of it bother me and keep me awake. Then I realise that I'm really a good way from anywhere, and I get what are familiarly called the blues. However, that's not at all times, and indeed mostly I love it very much, its great quietness and its beauty; and then it's so companionable, though perhaps you're a bit young to understand that. Anyhow, I have my mates, not only old Turpentine, my snake, but others—wallabies that have come to recognise me as harmless, for I never hunt anywhere near home, the laughing jackasses, two of them, that come and guffaw to me every morning, the pheasants that I watch capering and strutting on the logs hidden in the scrub. Even the plants become friends; there are creepers near my camp that I've watched from babyhood, and more than one big tree with which I've at least a nodding acquaintance!"

He broke off suddenly.

"Look, there's a friend of mine!" he said gently. They were crossing a little gully, and a few yards on their right a big wallaby sat staring at them, gravely inquisitive. It certainly would not have been human nature if Jim had not longed for a gun; but the wallaby was evidently quite ignorant of such a thing, and took them all in with his cool stare. At length Wally sneezed violently, whereat the wallaby started, regarded the disturber of his peace with an alarmed air, and finally bounded off into the scrub.

"There you go!" said the Hermit good-humouredly, "scaring my poor beastie out of his wits."

"Couldn't help it," mumbled Wally.

"No, a sneeze will out, like truth, won't it?" the Hermit laughed. "That's how Miss Norah announced herself to me to-day. I might never have known she was there if she hadn't obligingly sneezed! I hope. you're not getting colds, children!" the Hermit added, with mock concern.

"Not much!" said Wally and Norah in a breath.

"Just after I came here," said the Hermit, "I was pretty short of tucker, and it wasn't a good time for fishing, so I was dependent on my gun for most of my provisions. So one day, feeling much annoyed after a breakfast of damper and jam, I took the gun and went off to stock up the larder.

"I went a good way without any luck. There didn't seem anything to shoot in all the bush, though you may be sure I kept my eyes about me. I was beginning to grow disheartened. At length I made my way down to the creek. Just as I got near it, I heard a whirr-r-r over my head, and looking up, I saw a flock of wild duck. They seemed to pause a moment, and then dropped downwards. I couldn't see where they alighted, but of course I knew it must be in the creek.

"Well, I didn't pause," said the Hermit. "I just made my way down to the creek as quickly as ever I could, remaining noiseless at the same time. Ducks are easily scared, and I knew my hopes of dinner were poor if these chaps saw me too soon.

"So I sneaked down. Pretty soon I got a glimpse of the creek, which was very wide at that point, and fringed with weeds. The ducks were calmly swimming on its broad surface, a splendid lot of them, and I can assure you a very tempting sight to a hungry man.

"However, I didn't waste time in admiration. I couldn't very well risk a shot from where I was, it was a bit too far, and the old gun I had wasn't very brilliant. So I crept along, crawled down a bank, and found myself on a flat that ran to the water's edge, where reeds, growing thickly, screened me from the ducks' sight.

"That was simple enough. I crawled across this flat, taking no chances, careless of mud, and wet, and sword grass, which isn't the nicest thing to crawl among at any time, as you can imagine; it's absolutely merciless to face and hands."

"And jolly awkward to stalk ducks in," Jim commented, "the rustle would give you away in no time."

The Hermit nodded.

"Yes," he said, "that's its worst drawback, or was, on this occasion. It certainly did rustle; however, I crept very slowly, and the ducks were kind enough to think I was the wind stirring in the reeds. At any rate, they went on swimming, and feeding quite peacefully. I got a good look at them through the fringe of reeds, and then, like a duffer, although I had a good enough position, I must try and get a better one.

"So I crawled a little farther down the bank, trying to reach a knoll which would give me a fine sight of the game, and at the same time form a convenient rest for my gun. I had almost reached it when the sad thing happened. A tall, spear-like reed, bending over, gently and intrusively tickled my nose, and without the slightest warning, and very greatly to my own amazement, I sneezed violently.

"If I was amazed, what were the ducks! The sneeze was so unmistakably human, so unspeakably violent. There was one wild whirr of wings, and my ducks scrambled off the placid surface of the water like things possessed. I threw up my gun and fired wildly; there was no time for deliberate taking of aim, with the birds already half over the ti-tree at the other side."

"Did you get any?" Jim asked.

"One duck," said the Hermit sadly. "And even for him I had to swim; he obligingly chose a watery grave just to spite me, I believe. He wasn't much of a duck either. After I had stripped and swum for him, dressed again, prepared the duck, cooked him, and finally sat down to dinner, there was so little of him that he only amounted to half a meal, and was tough at that!"

"So was your luck," observed Wally.

"Uncommonly tough," agreed the Hermit. "However, these things are the fortunes of war, and one has to put up with them, grin, and play the game. It's surprising how much tougher things look if you once begin to grumble. I've had so much bad luck in the bush that I've really got quite used to it."

"How's that?" asked Harry.

"Why," said the Hermit, "if it wasn't one thing, it was mostly another. I beg your pardon, Miss Norah, let me help you over this log. I've had my tucker stolen again and again, several times by birds, twice by swaggies, and once by a couple of black fellows pilgrimaging through the bush I don't know whither. They happened on my camp, and helped themselves; I reckoned myself very lucky that they only took food, though I've no doubt they would have taken more if I hadn't arrived on the scene in the nick of time and scared them almost out of their wits."

"How did you do that?" asked Norah; "tell us about it, Mr. Hermit!"

The Hermit smiled down at Norah's eager face.

"Oh, that's hardly a yarn, Miss Norah," he said, his eyes twinkling in a way that made them look astonishingly young, despite his white hair and his wrinkles. "That was only a small happening, though it capped a day of bad luck. I had been busy in camp all the morning cooking, and had laid in quite a supply of tucker, for me. I'd cooked some wild duck, and roasted a hare, boiled a most splendid plum-duff and finally baked a big damper, and I can tell you I was patting myself on the back because I need not do any more cooking for nearly a week, unless it were fish—I'm not a cook by nature, and pretty often go hungry rather than prepare a meal.

"After dinner I thought I'd go down to the creek and try my luck—it was a perfect day for fishing, still and grey. So I dug some worms—and broke my spade in doing so—and started off.

"The promise of the day held good. I went to my favourite spot, and the fish just rushed me—the worms must have been very tempting, or else the fish larder was scantily supplied. At any rate, they bit splendidly, and soon I grew fastidious, and was picking out and throwing back any that weren't quite large enough. I fished from the old log over the creek, and soon had a pile of fish, and grew tired of the sport. I was sleepy, too, through hanging over the fire all the morning. I kept on fishing mechanically, but it was little more than holding my bait in the water, and I began nodding and dozing, leaning back on the broad old log.

"I didn't think I had really gone to sleep, though I suppose I must have done so, because I dreamed a kind of half-waking dream. In it I saw a snake that crept and crept nearer and nearer to me until I could see its wicked eyes gleaming, and though I tried to get away, I could not. It came on and on until it was quite near, and I was feeling highly uncomfortable in my dream. At last I made a great effort, flung out my hand towards a stick, and, with a yell, woke up, to realise that I had struck something cold, and clammy, and wet. What it was I couldn't be certain for an instant, until I heard a dull splash, and then I knew. I had swept my whole string of fish into the water below!

"Oh, yes, I said things—who wouldn't? I was too disgusted to fish any more, and the nightmare having thoroughly roused me, I gathered up my tackle and made tracks for home, feeling considerably annoyed with myself.

"You must know I've a private entrance into my camp. It's a track no one would suspect of being a track, and by its aid I can approach noiselessly. I've got into a habit of always sneaking back to camp—just in case anyone should be there. This afternoon I came along quietly, more from force of habit than from any real idea of looking out for intruders. But half-way along it a sound pulled me up suddenly. It was the sound of a voice.

"When you haven't heard anyone speak for a good many months, the human voice has quite a startling effect upon you—or even the human sneeze, Miss Norah!" added the Hermit, with a twinkle. "I stopped short and listened with all my might. Presently the voice came again, low and guttural, and I knew it for a native's.

"The conviction didn't fill me with joy, as you may imagine. I stole forward, until by peeping through the bushes I gained a view of the camp—and was rewarded with the spectacle of two blacks—ill-favoured brutes they were, too—quite at home, one in the act of stuffing my cherished roast hare into a dirty bag, the other just taking a huge bite out of my damper!

"The sight, as you may imagine, didn't fill me with joy. From the bulges in my black visitors' bag I gathered that the ducks had preceded the hare; and even as I looked, the gentleman with the damper relaxed his well-meant efforts, and thrust it, too, into the bag. Then they put down the bag and dived into the tent, and I heard rustlings and low-toned remarks that breathed satisfaction. I reckoned it was time to step in.

"Luckily, my gun was outside the tent—indeed I never leave it inside, but have a special hiding-place for it under a handy log, for fear of stray marauders overhauling my possessions. A gun is a pretty tempting thing to most men, and since my duck-shooting failure I had treated myself to a new double-barrel—a beauty.

"I crept to the log, drew out both guns, and then retired to the bushes—a little uncertain, to tell the truth, what to do, for I hadn't any particular wish to murder my dusky callers; and at the same time, had to remember that they were two to one, and would be unhampered by any feeling of chivalry, if we did come to blows. I made up my mind to try to scare them—and suddenly I raised the most horrible, terrifying, unearthly yell I could think of, and at the same time fired both barrels of one gun quickly in the air!

"The effect was instantaneous. There was one howl of horror, and the black fellows darted out of the tent! They almost cannoned into me—and you know I must look a rum chap in these furry clothes and cap, with my grandfatherly white beard! At all events, they seemed to think me so, for at sight of me they both yelled in terror, and bolted away as fast as their legs could carry them. I cheered the parting guests by howling still more heartily, and firing my two remaining barrels over their heads as they ran. They went as swiftly as a motor-car disappears from view—I believe they reckoned they'd seen the bunyip. I haven't seen a trace of them since.

"They'd had a fine time inside the tent. Everything I possessed had been investigated, and one or two books badly torn—the wretches!" said the Hermit ruefully. "My clothes (I've a few garments beside these beauties, Miss Norah) had been pulled about, my few papers scattered wildly, and even my bunk stripped of blankets, which lay rolled up ready to be carried away. There wasn't a single one of my poor possessions that had escaped notice, except, of course, my watch and money, which I keep carefully buried. The tent was a remarkable spectacle, and so close and reminiscent of black fellow that my first act was to undo the sides and let the fresh air play through. I counted myself very lucky to get off as lightly as I did—had I returned an hour later none of my goods and chattels would have been left."

"What about the tucker?" Harry asked; "did they get away with the bag they'd stowed it in?"

"Not they!" said the Hermit; "they were far too scared to think of bags or tucker. They almost fell over it in their efforts to escape, but neither of them thought of picking it up. It was hard luck for them, after they'd packed it so carefully."

"Is that how you looked at it?" Jim asked, laughing.

"Well—I tried to," said the Hermit, laughing in his turn. "Sometimes it was pretty hard work—and I'll admit that for the first few days my own misfortunes were uppermost."

"But you didn't lose your tucker after all, you said?" queried Wally. "I thought they left the bag?"

"They did," the Hermit admitted. "But have you ever explored the interior of a black fellow's bag, Master Wally? No? Well, if you had, you would understand that I felt no further hankerings over those masterpieces of the cook's art. I'm not extra particular, I believe, but I couldn't tackle them—no thanks! I threw them into the scrub—and then washed my hands!"

"Poor you!" said Norah.

"Oh, I wasn't so badly off," said the Hermit. "They'd left me the plum-duff, which was hanging in its billy from a bough. Lots of duff—I had it morning, noon and night, until I found something fresh to cook—and I haven't made duff since. And here we are at the creek!"



CHAPTER IX. FISHING

The party had for some time been walking near the creek, so close to it that it was within sound, although they seldom got a glimpse of water, save where the ti-tree scrub on the bank grew thinner or the light wind stirred an opening in its branches. Now, however, the Hermit suddenly turned, and although the others failed to perceive any track or landmark, he led them quickly through the scrub belt to the bank of the creek beyond.

It was indeed an ideal place for fishing. A deep, quiet pool, partly shaded by big trees, lay placid and motionless, except for an occasional ripple, stirred by a light puff of wind. An old wattle tree grew on the bank, its limbs jutting out conveniently, and here Jim and Wally ensconced themselves immediately, and turned their united attention to business. For a time no sound was heard save the dull "plunk" of sinkers as the lines, one by one, were flung into the water.

The Hermit did not fish. He had plenty at his camp, he said, and fishing for fun had lost its excitement, since he fished for a living most days of the week. So he contented himself with advising the others where to throw in, and finally sat down on the grass near Norah.

A few minutes passed. Then Jim jerked his line hurriedly and began to pull in with a feverish expression. It lasted until a big black fish made its appearance, dangling from the hook, and then it was suddenly succeeded by a look of intense disgust, as a final wriggle released the prisoner, which fell back with a splash into the water.

"Well, I'm blessed!" said Jim wrathfully.

"Hard luck!" said Harry.

"Try again, Jimmy, and stick to him this time," counselled Wally, in a fatherly tone.

"Oh, you shut up," Jim answered, re-baiting his hook. "I didn't catch an old boot, anyhow!"—which pertinent reflection had the effect of silencing Wally, amidst mild mirth on the part of the other members of the expedition.

Scarcely a minute more, and Norah pulled sharply at her line and began to haul in rapidly.

"Got a whale?" inquired Jim.

"Something like it!" Norah pulled wildly.

"Hang on!"

"Stick to him!"

"Mind your eye!"

"Don't get your line tangled!"

"Want any help, Miss Norah?"

"No thanks." Norah was almost breathless. A red spot flamed in each cheek.

Slowly the line came in. Presently it gave a sudden jerk, and was tugged back quickly, as the fish made another run for liberty. Norah uttered an exclamation, quickly suppressed, and caught it sharply, pulling strongly.

Ah—he was out! A big, handsome perch, struggling and dancing in the air at the end of the line. Shouts broke from the boys as Norah landed her prize safely on the bank.

"Well done, Miss Norah," said the Hermit warmly.

"That's a beauty—as fine a perch as I've seen in this creek."

"Oh, isn't he a splendid fellow!" Norah cried, surveying the prey with dancing eyes. "I'll have him for Dad, anyhow, even if I don't catch another."

"Yes, Dad's breakfast's all right," laughed the Hermit. "But don't worry, you'll catch more yet. See, there goes Harry."

There was a shout as Harry, with a scientific flourish of his rod, hauled a small blackfish from its watery bed.

"Not bad for a beginning!" he said, grinning. "But not a patch on yours, Norah!"

"Oh, I had luck," Norah said. "He really is a beauty, isn't he? I think he must be the grandfather of all the perches."

"If that's so," said Jim, beginning to pull in, with an expression of "do or die" earnestness, "I reckon I've got the grandmother on now!"

A storm of advice hurtled about Jim as he tugged at his line.

"Hurry up, Jim!"

"Go slow!"

"There—he's getting off again!"

"So are you!" said the ungrateful recipient of the counsel, puffing hard.

"Only a boot, Jim—don't worry!"

"Gammon!—it's a shark!—look at his worried expression!"

"I'll 'shark' you, young Harry!" grunted Jim. "Mind your eye—there he comes!" And expressions of admiration broke from the scoffers as a second splendid perch dangled in the air and was landed high and dry—or comparatively so—in the branches of the wattle tree.

"Is he as big as yours, Norah?" queried Jim a minute later, tossing his fish down on the grass close to his sister and the Hermit.

Norah laid the two fishes alongside.

"Not quite," she announced; "mine's about an inch longer, and a bit fatter."

"Well, that's all right," Jim said. "I said it was the grandmother I had—yours is certainly the grandfather! I'm glad you got the biggest, old girl." They exchanged a friendly smile.

A yell from Wally intimated that he had something on his hook, and with immense pride he flourished in the air a diminutive blackfish—so small that the Hermit proposed to use it for bait, a suggestion promptly declined by the captor, who hid his catch securely in the fork of two branches, before re-baiting his hook. Then Harry pulled out a fine perch, and immediately afterwards Norah caught a blackfish; and after that the fun waxed fast and furious, the fish biting splendidly, and all hands being kept busy. An hour later Harry shook the last worm out of the bait tin and dropped it into the water on his hook, where it immediately was seized by a perch of very tender years.

"Get back and grow till next year," advised Harry, detaching the little prisoner carefully, the hook having caught lightly in the side of its mouth. "I'll come for you next holidays!" and he tossed the tiny fellow back into the water. "That's our last scrap of bait, you chaps," he said, beginning to wind up his line.

"I've been fishing with an empty hook for I don't know how long," said Jim, hauling up also. "These beggars have nibbled my bait off and carefully dodged the hook."

"Well, we've plenty, haven't we?" Norah said. "Just look what a splendid pile of fish!"

"They take a bit of beating, don't they?" said Jim. "That's right, Wal, pull him up!" as Wally hauled in another fine fish. "We couldn't carry more if we had 'em."

"Then it's a good thing my bait's gone, too!" laughed Norah, winding up. "Haven't we had a most lovely time!"

Jim produced a roll of canvas which turned out to be two sugar bags, and in these carefully bestowed the fish, sousing the whole thoroughly in the water. The boys gathered up the lines and tackle and "planted" the rods conveniently behind a log, "to be ready for next time," they said.

"Well, we've had splendid sport, thanks to you, sir," Jim said, turning to the Hermit, who stood looking on at the preparations, a benevolent person, "something between Father Christmas and Robinson Crusoe," as Norah whispered to Harry. "We certainly wouldn't have got on half as well if we'd stayed where we were."

"Oh, I don't know," the Hermit answered. "Yours is a good place—I've often caught plenty of fish there—only not to be relied on as this pool is. I've really never known this particular spot fail—the fish seem to live in it all the year round. However, I'm glad you've had decent luck—it's not a bit jolly to go home empty-handed, I know. And now, what's the next thing to be done? The afternoon's getting on—don't you think it's time you came to pay me a visit at the camp?"

"Oh, yes, please!" Norah cried.

Jim hesitated.

"We'd like awfully to see your camp, if—if it's not any bother to you," he said.

"Not the least in the world," the Hermit said. "Only I can't offer you any refreshment. I've nothing but cold 'possum and tea, and the 'possum's an acquired taste, I'm afraid. I've no milk for the tea, and no damper, either!"

"By George!" said Jim remorsefully. "Why, we ate all your damper at lunch!"

"I can easily manufacture another," the Hermit said, laughing. "I'm used to the process. Only I don't suppose I could get it done soon enough for afternoon tea."

"We've loads of tucker," Jim said. "Far more than we're likely to eat. Milk, too. We meant to boil the billy again before we start for home."

"I'll tell you what," Norah said, struck by a brilliant idea. "Let's coo-ee for Billy, and when he comes send him back for our things. Then if—if Mr. Hermit likes, we could have tea at his camp."

"Why, that's a splendid notion," the Hermit cried. "I'm delighted that you thought of it, Miss Norah, although I'm sorry my guests have to supply their own meal! It doesn't seem quite the thing—but in the bush, polite customs have to fall into disuse. I only keep up my own good manners by practising on old Turpentine, my snake! However, if you're so kind as to overlook my deficiencies, and make them up yourselves, by all means let us come along and coo-ee for sweet William!"

He shouldered one of the bags of fish as he spoke, disregarding a protest from the boys. Jim took the second, and they set out for the camp.

Their way led for some time along the track by which they had come, if "track" it might be called. Certainly, the Hermit trod it confidently enough, but the others could only follow in his wake, and wonder by what process he found his way so quickly through the thick bush.

About half a mile along the creek the Hermit suddenly turned off almost at right angles, and struck into the scrub. The children followed him closely, keeping as nearly at his heels as the nature of the path would permit.

Norah found it not very pleasant. The Hermit went at a good rate, swinging over the rough ground with the sure-footed case of one accustomed to the scrub and familiar with the path. The boys unhampered by skirts and long hair, found no great difficulty in keeping up with him, but the small maiden of the party, handicapped by her clothes, to say nothing of being youngest of them all, plodded along in the rear, catching on sarsaparilla vines and raspberry tangles, plunging head first through masses of dogwood, and getting decidedly the worst of the journey.

Harry was the first to notice that Norah was falling "into the distance," as he put it, and he ran back to her immediately.

"Poor old kid!" he said shamefacedly. "I'd no idea you were having such a beast of a time. Sorry, Norah!" His polite regrets were cut short by Norah's catching her foot in a creeper and falling bodily upon him.

"Thank you," said Harry, catching her deftly. "Delighted, I'm sure, ma'am! It's a privilege to catch any one like you. Come on, old girl, and I'll clear the track for you."

A little farther on the Hermit had halted, looking a trifle guilty.

"I'm really sorry, Miss Norah," he said, as Norah and Harry made their way up to the waiting group. "I didn't realise I was going at such a pace. We'll make haste more slowly."

He led the way, pausing now and again to make it easier for the little girl, holding the bushes aside and lifting her bodily over several big logs and sharp watercourses. Finally he stopped.

"I think if you give Billy a call now, Jim," he said, "he won't have much difficulty in finding us."

To the children it seemed an utter impossibility that Billy should ever find them, though they said nothing, and Jim obediently lifted up his voice and coo-ee'd in answer to the Hermit's words. For himself, Jim was free to confess he had quite lost his bearings, and the other boys were as much at sea as if they had suddenly been dropped down at the North Pole. Norah alone had an idea that they were not far from their original camping-place; an idea which was confirmed when a long "Ai-i-i!" came in response to Jim's shout, sounding startlingly near at hand.

"Master Billy has been making his way along the creek," commented the Hermit. "He's no distance off. Give him another call."

"Here!" Jim shouted. Billy answered again, and after a few more exchanges, the bushes parted and revealed the sable retainer, somewhat out of breath.

"Scoot back to camp, Billy," Jim ordered. "Take these fish and soak 'em in the creek, and bring back all our tucker—milk and all. Bring it—Where'll he bring it, sir?" to the Hermit.

"See that tall tree, broken with the bough dangling?" the Hermit asked, pointing some distance ahead. Billy nodded. "Come back to that and cooee, and we'll answer you."

"Plenty!" said Billy, shouldering the bags of fish, and departing at a run. Billy had learnt early the futility of wasting words.

"Come along," said the Hermit, laughing.

He turned off into the scrub, and led the way again, taking, it seemed to Norah, rather a roundabout path. At length he stopped short, near a dense clump of dogwood.

"My back door," he said politely.

They stared about them. There was no sign of any door at all, nor even of any footprints or marks of traffic. The scrub was all about them; everything was very still and quiet in the afternoon hush.

"Well, you've got us beaten and no mistake!" Jim laughed, after they had peered fruitlessly about. "Unless you camp in the air, I don't see—"

"Look here," said the Hermit.

He drew aside a clump of dogwood, and revealed the end of an old log—a huge tree-trunk that had long ago been a forest monarch, but having fallen, now stretched its mighty length more than a hundred feet along the ground. It was very broad and the uppermost side was flat, and here and there bore traces of caked, dry mud that showed where a boot had rested. The dogwood walled it closely on each side.

"That's my track home," the Hermit said. "Let me help you up, Miss Norah."

He sprang up on the log as he spoke, and extended a hand to Norah, who followed him lightly. Then the Hermit led the way along the log, which was quite broad enough to admit of a wheelbarrow being drawn down its length. He stopped where the butt of the old tree, rising above the level of the trunk, barred the view, and pulling aside the dogwood, showed rough steps, cut in the side of the log.

"Down here, Miss Norah."

In a moment they were all on the ground beside him—Wally, disdaining the steps, having sprung down, and unexpectedly measured his length on the earth, to the accompaniment of much chaff. He picked himself up, laughing more than any of them, just as Norah popped her head through the scrub that surrounded them, and exclaimed delightedly—.

"Why, here's the camp."

"I say," Jim said, following the Hermit into the little clearing, "you're well planted here!"

The space was not very large—a roughly circular piece of ground, ringed round with scrub, in which big gum trees reared their lofty heads. A wattle tree stood in the centre, from its boughs dangling a rough hammock, made of sacking, while a water bag hung from another convenient branch. The Hermit's little tent was pitched at one side; across the clearing was the rude fireplace that Norah had seen in the morning. Everything, though tough enough, was very clean and tidy, with a certain attempt at comfort.

The Hermit laughed.

"Yes, I'm pretty well concealed," he agreed. "You might be quite close to the camp and never dream that it existed. Only bold explorers like Miss Norah would have hit upon it from the side where she appeared to me this morning, and my big log saves me the necessity of having a beaten track home. I try, by getting on it at different points, to avoid a track to the log, although, should a footmark lead anyone to it, the intruder would never take the trouble to walk down an old bushhung tree-trunk, apparently for no reason. So that I feel fairly secure about my home and my belongings when I plan a fishing expedition or an excursion that takes me any distance away."

"Well, it's a great idea," Jim said. "Of course, a beaten track to your camp would be nothing more or less than an invitation to any swaggie or black fellow to follow it up."

"That's what I thought," the Hermit said; "and very awkward it would have been for me, seeing that one can't very well put a padlock on a tent, and that all my belongings are portable. Not that there's anything of great value. I have a few papers I wouldn't care to lose, a watch and a little money—but they're all safely buried in a cashbox with a good lock. The rest I have to chance, and, as I told you, I've so far been pretty lucky in repelling invaders. There's not much traffic round here, you know!"

Jim and Norah laughed. "Not much," they said, nodding.

"My tent's not large," the Hermit said, leading the way to that erection, which was securely and snugly pitched with its back door (had there been one) against the trunk of a huge dead tree. It was a comparatively new tent, with a good fly, and was watertight, its owner explained, in all weathers. The flap was elaborately secured by many strings, tied with wonderful and fearful knots.

"It must take you a long time to untie those chaps every day," said Wally.

"It would," said the Hermit, "if I did untie them. They're only part of my poor little scheme for discouraging intruders, Master Wally." He slipped his fingers inside the flap and undid a hidden fastening, which opened the tent without disarranging the array of intricate knots.

"A fellow without a knife might spend quite a while in untying all those," said the Hermit. "He'd be rather disgusted, on completing the job, to find they had no bearing on the real fastening of the tent. And perhaps by that time I might be home!"

The interior of the tent was scrupulously tidy and very plain. A hastily put up bunk was covered with blue blankets, and boasted a sacking pillow. From the ridge-pole hung a candlestick, roughly fashioned from a knot of wood, and the furniture was completed by a rustic table and chair, made from branches, and showing considerable ingenuity in their fashioning. Wallaby skins thrown over the chair and upon the floor lent a look of comfort to the tiny dwelling; and a further touch of homeliness was given by many pictures cut from illustrated papers and fastened to the canvas walls. The fly of the tent projected some distance in front, and formed a kind of verandah, beneath which a second rustic seat stood, as well as a block of wood that bore a tin dish, and evidently did duty as a washstand. Several blackened billies hung about the camp, with a frying-pan that bore marks of long and honourable use.

The children surveyed this unusual home with much curiosity and interest, and the boys were loud in their praises of the chairs and tables. The Hermit listened to their outspoken comments with a benevolent look, evidently pleased with their approval, and soon Jim and he were deep in a discussion of bush carpentry—Jim, as Wally said, reckoning himself something of an artist in that line, and being eager for hints. Meanwhile the other boys and Norah wandered about the camp, wondering at the completeness that had been arrived at with so little material, and at its utter loneliness and isolation.

"A man might die here half a dozen times, and no one be any the wiser," Wally said. "I wouldn't like it myself."

"Once would be enough for most chaps." Harry grinned.

"Oh, get out! you know what I mean," retorted Wally. "You chaps are never satisfied unless you're pulling my leg—it's a wonder I don't limp! But seriously, what a jolly rum life for a man to choose."

"He's an educated chap, too," Harry said—"talks like a book when he likes. I wonder what on earth he's doing it for?"

They had dropped their voices instinctively, and had moved away from the tent.

"He's certainly not the ordinary swaggie," Norah said slowly.

"Not by a good bit," Wally agreed. "Why, he can talk like our English master at school! Perhaps he's hiding."

"Might be," Harry said. "You never can tell—he's certainly keen enough on getting away from people."

"He's chosen a good place, then."

"Couldn't be better. I wonder if there's anything in it—if he really has done anything and doesn't want to be found?"

"I never heard such bosh!" said Norah indignantly. "One would think he really looked wicked, instead of being such a kind old chap. D'you think he's gone and committed a murder, or robbed a bank, or something like that? I wonder you're not afraid to be in his camp!"

The boys stared in amazement.

"Whew-w-w!" whistled Wally.

Harry flushed a little.

"Oh steady, Norah!" he protested—"we really didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It was only an idea. I'll admit be doesn't look a hardened sinner."

"Well, you shouldn't have such ideas," Norah said stoutly; "he's a great deal too nice, and look how kind he's been to us! If he chooses to plant himself in the bush, it's no one's business but his own."

"I suppose not," Harry began. He pulled up shortly as the Hermit, followed by Jim, emerged from the tent.

The Hermit had a queer smile in his eyes, but Jim looked desperately uncomfortable.

Jim favoured the others with a heavy scowl as he came out of the tent, slipping behind the Hermit in order that he might deliver it unobserved. It was plain enough to fill them with considerable discomfort. They exchanged glances of bewilderment.

"I wonder what's up now?" Wally whispered.

Jim strolled over to them as the Hermit, without saying anything, crossed to his fireplace, and began to put some sticks together.

"You're bright objects!" he whispered wrathfully. "Why can't you speak softly if you must go gabbling about other people?"

"You don't mean to say he heard us?" Harry said, colouring.

"I do, then! We could hear every word you said, and it was jolly awkward for me. I didn't know which way to look."

"Was he wild?" whispered Wally.

"Blessed if I know. He just laughed in a queer way, until Norah stuck up for him, and then he looked grave. 'I'm lucky to have one friend,' he said, and walked out of the tent. You're a set of goats!" finished Jim comprehensively.

"Well, I'm not ashamed of what I said, anyhow!" Norah answered indignantly. She elevated her tip-tilted nose, and walked away to where the Hermit was gathering sticks, into which occupation she promptly entered. The boys looked at each other.

"Well, I am—rather," Harry said. He disappeared into the scrub, returning presently with a log of wood as heavy as he could drag. Wally, seeing his idea, speedily followed suit, and Jim, after a stare, copied their example. They worked so hard that by the time the Hermit and Norah had the fire alight, quite a respectable stack of wood greeted the eye of the master of the camp. He looked genuinely pleased.

"Well, you are kind chaps," he said. "That will save me wood-carting for many a day, and it is a job that bothers my old back."

"We're very glad to get it for you, sir," Jim blurted, a trifle shamefacedly. A twinkle came into the Hermit's eyes as he looked at him.

"That's all square, Jim," he said quietly, and without any more being said the boys felt relieved. Evidently this Hermit was not a man to bear malice, even if he did overhear talk that wasn't meant for him.

"Well," said the Hermit, breaking a somewhat awkward silence, "it's about time we heard the dusky Billy, isn't it?"

"Quite time, I reckon," Jim replied. "Lazy young beggar!"

"Well, the billy's not boiling yet, although it's not far off it."

"There he is," Norah said quickly, as a long shout sounded near at hand. The Hermit quickly went off in its direction, and presently returned, followed by Billy, whose eyes were round as he glanced about the strange place in which he found himself, although otherwise no sign of surprise appeared on his sable countenance. He carried the bags containing the picnic expedition's supply of food, which Norah promptly fell to unpacking. An ample supply remained from lunch, and when displayed to advantage on the short grass of the clearing the meal looked very tempting. The Hermit's eyes glistened as Norah unpacked a bag of apples and oranges as a finishing touch.

"Fruit!" he said. "Oh, you lucky people! I wish there were fruit shops in the scrub. I can dispense with all the others, but one does miss fruit."

"Well, I'm glad we brought such a bagful, because I'm sure we don't want it," Norah said. "You must let us leave it with you, Mr. Hermit."

"Water's plenty boilin'," said Billy

Tea was quickly brewed, and presently they were seated on the ground and making a hearty meal, as if the lunch of a few hours ago had never been.

"If a fellow can't get hungry in the bush," said Wally, holding out his hand for his fifth scone, "then he doesn't deserve ever to get hungry at all!" To which Jim replied, "Don't worry, old man—that's a fate that's never likely to overtake you!" Wally, whose hunger was of a generally prevailing kind, which usually afflicted him most in school hours, subsided meekly into his tea-cup.

They did not hurry over the meal, for everyone was a little lazy after the long day, and there was plenty of time to get home—the long summer evening was before them, and it would merge into the beauty of a moonlit night. So they "loafed" and chatted aimlessly, and drank huge quantities of the billy-tea, that is quite the nicest tea in the world, especially when it is stirred with a stick. And when they were really ashamed to eat any more they lay about on the grass, yarning, telling bush tales many and strange, and listening while the Hermit spun them old-world stories that made the time slip away wonderfully. It was with a sigh that Jim roused himself at last.

"Well," he said, "it's awfully nice being here, and I'm not in a bit of a hurry to go—are you, chaps?"

The chaps chorused "No."

"All the same, it's getting late," Jim went on, pulling out his watch—"later than I thought, my word! Come on—we'll have to hurry. Billy, you slip along and saddle up the ponies one-time quick!"

Billy departed noiselessly.

"He never said 'Plenty!'" said Wally disappointedly, gathering himself up from the grass.

"It was an oversight," Jim laughed. "Now then, Norah, come along. What about the miserable remains?"

"The remains aren't so miserable," said Norah, who was on her knees gathering up the fragments of the feast. "See, there's a lot of bread yet, ever so many scones, heaps of cake, and the fruit, to say nothing of butter and jam." She looked up shyly at the Hermit. "Would you—would you mind having them?"

The Hermit laughed.

"Not a bit!" he said. "I'm not proud, and it is really a treat to see civilized food again. I'll willingly act as your scavenger, Miss Norah."

Together they packed up the remnants, and the Hermit deposited them inside his tent. He rummaged for a minute in a bag near his bed, and presently came out with something in his hand.

"I amuse myself in my many odd moments by this sort of thing," he said. "Will you have it, Miss Norah?"

He put a photograph frame into her hand—a dainty thing, made from the native woods, cunningly jointed together and beautifully carved. Norah accepted it with pleasure.

"It's not anything," the Hermit disclaimed—"very rough, I'm afraid. But you can't do very good work when your pocket-knife is your only tool. I hope you'll forgive its shortcomings, Miss Norah, and keep it to remember the old Hermit."

"I think it's lovely," Norah said, looking up with shining eyes, "and I'm ever so much obliged. I'll always keep it."

"Don't forget," the Hermit said, looking down at the flushed face. "And some day, perhaps, you'll all come again."

"We must hurry," Jim said.

They were all back at the lunching-place, and the sight of the sun, sinking far across the plain, recalled Jim to a sense of half-forgotten responsibility.

"It's every man for his own steed," he said. "Can you manage your old crock, Norah?"

"Don't you wish yours was half as good?" queried Norah, as she took the halter off Bobs and slipped the bit into his mouth.

Jim grinned.

"Knew I'd got her on a soft spot!" he murmured, wrestling with a refractory crupper.

Harry and Wally were already at their ponies. Billy, having fixed the load to his satisfaction on the pack mare, was standing on one foot on a log jutting over the creek, drawing the fish from their cool resting-place in the water. The bag came up, heavy and dripping—so heavy, indeed, that it proved the last straw for Billy's balance, and, after a wild struggle to remain on the log, he was forced to step off with great decision into the water, a movement accompanied with a decisive "Bust!" amidst wild mirth on the part of the boys. Luckily, the water was not knee deep, and the black retainer regained the log, not much the worse, except in temper.