Eustace felt suddenly rather sick.

"I never thought of that," he said.

"Of course not," was the cheery response. "One doesn't look all round a question in a hurry, but one has to learn to remember there may be two sides to it. You'll get the hang of the idea one of these days. I know it was a long time before I gave up wanting to shoot down everything I didn't quite like the looks of. Sometimes it turns out well, sometimes pretty badly."

He ended with a little laugh. Eustace, looking up into the merry, kindly face, knew that the awful time he had so dreaded was over, and it had not been an "awful time" after all. Bob did not think him a fool; he might have done the same himself, he said. He only warned him to be more careful another time, and gave him the reasons why he should.

The boy had always admired this friend of the family; he positively glowed with pride at this minute that Bob was a friend of his own. Whatever might happen now, whoever might snub or laugh at him, Eustace had this comforting knowledge always at heart—Bob understood, and Bob was a man no one would laugh at.

"He is a brick," thought the lad warmly. "I wish there was anything, anything in the world I could do to show him what a brick I think him. If ever there is, won't I just do it! The more dangerous it is the better."

"I remember once having a pretty gruesome experience," said Bob, chatting on easily. "I expect you've never heard about it, because you were nothing but a kiddy at the time, and it has been forgotten lately. I was going home across our plantation with two other fellows late at night—much later than the mater liked us to be out. In order to be as quick as possible, when we got to the little line running to the mill we hoisted the trolley on to the rails and began pushing ourselves along at a great rate. It was the sort of darkness one can peer through, making things look weird and distorted, often much bigger than they really are."

"Like the dingo."

"Like the dingo. Well, we were getting along finely, when we got to rather a steep gradient and had to go slower up it. Near the top one of us suddenly caught sight of something unusual to the left of the line. It looked like a huge cowering figure, wide but not tall. Whether four-legged or two-legged it was impossible to say because of the gloom. It wasn't a nice feeling to have this thing silently waiting for one. We all boo'd and shoo'd first, thinking that if it were a beast of any sort it would scoot at the noise; but it didn't stir an inch or make a sound. We felt pretty creepy by then, for black-fellow tales were even commoner in those days than they are now. From the size of it we guessed it might have been a group of three men. Then we shouted, 'Hands up and declare yourself, or we fire!' But still the creature didn't move or speak."

"My hat!" exclaimed Eustace sympathetically.

"We had got to get past it somehow to reach home, for it wasn't likely we could stay there all night. We gave it two more chances, and then we fired for all we were worth. There were instantly shrieks, groans, and such horrible sounds that we waited for nothing more, but pushing our stakes into the ground, sent the trolley flying past the awful spot and down the next hill. How we didn't turn over and get killed down that incline I don't know—it was the one nearest home, you know, where one has to be so fearfully careful about putting on a brake as a rule. However, we got in all right, and gave a detailed account of our adventure. Every one was interested and puzzled. Father was a little inclined to laugh; he said it was probably the stump of a tree, but of course we had evidence against that in the genuine shrieks and groans following our shots. 'Well, we must just go first thing to-morrow,' father said, 'and look into the matter by daylight.'"

"And did you?" asked Eustace eagerly.

"Rather! I should just think we did—father, a friend of his who was staying with us, and the two boys I had been out with. We rode, and when we got to the spot the first thing we saw was the huge stump of a newly-felled tree, right in the very place we had seen the gruesome object."

Eustace whistled.

"But a tree couldn't shriek and groan," he objected.

"So we said when father began minutely examining the bark; and to our satisfaction there wasn't a single shot mark in the tree, though we must have fired half a dozen between us. 'We can't have seen this,' I said, feeling rather cock-a-hoopy; 'it must have been something nearer.' We were just all puzzling our heads over the matter when a Chinkee came running towards us from a group of huts not very far off. He was gesticulating and making a fearful fuss. We followed him in a fine state of excitement, and he led us to a little low shed with a railing before it. We looked in, and there lay two dead pigs!"

"Two dead pigs!" cried Eustace.

"Yes. It was pretty humiliating, for it just proved we had aimed at the tree and missed it. Instead, we shot the Chinkee's inoffensive pigs. It was many a long day before that joke was forgotten against us. Moreover, amongst us we had to scrape a pound together to pay the Chinaman for his loss. I never felt so small in my life."

Eustace could well appreciate the sensation after his own experiences.

Bob took a very light view of the real visit the Orbans had had from the black-fellow two nights before.

"He wouldn't have hurt any one," said the young fellow. "He was nothing but a cowardly thief, or he wouldn't have behaved in the way he did. I'm only sorry you've offered a reward for the things; it will be an incentive to other fellows to do the same. However, I dare say, with Robertson sleeping up here, no one will venture again. I shouldn't worry if I were you, Mrs. Orban."

"I will try not to," Mrs. Orban answered bravely.

They had a quiet enough night again to warrant confidence, and every one felt rested and refreshed next day.

Just after breakfast Kate appeared to tell her mistress that a Chinaman from the plantation wished to speak to her. His name was Sinkum Fung, and he was the plantation storekeeper, a man who thought a good deal of himself, but for lying and trickery, Mr. Orban declared, was no better than his neighbours the coolies who dealt at his shop.

As soon as Sinkum Fung was shown on to the veranda, he did a good deal of bowing and scraping by way of politeness, and he had so much to say on the subject of his own unimpeachable integrity that it was a long time before Mrs. Orban could bring him to an explanation of his early visit. Both she and Eustace guessed he must be wanting to sell something, and probably hoped to drive a good bargain in Mr. Orban's absence, the cunning of the average Chinese being unsurpassed.

After a considerable preamble, Sinkum began the following remarkable tale, all told in such strange Chinkee patter, and with so much self-praise interspersed, that it took the listeners' whole attention to unravel it.



CHAPTER VII.

PETER'S NIGHTMARE.

Some nights before Sinkum Fung was sitting in his store waiting for customers. His best trade was always in the evening, when the coolies' work was over, and they had time to do some shopping. But it was getting late, and Sinkum thought it about time to close the store and go to bed. Suddenly there fell a shadow across the threshold, and a big black-fellow entered—a stranger whom Sinkum Fung had never seen before. What had he come to buy? Sinkum asked politely. But the black-fellow had come to buy nothing—he had a fierce, wild face, and his voice made Sinkum tremble when he said he had not come to buy, but to sell. He declared his name to be Jaga-Jaga of the great "Rat clan" now living in the Bush not far away. He had found, he said, a white man hanging in a tree, caught and held fast by the dreadful "wait-a-bit" cane that will swing round man or beast at a touch, and hold them fast till they die of exposure and starvation. This man was dead, and on his body, Jaga-Jaga said, he discovered sundry things which he now brought to the store to sell. What would Sinkum Fung give for them? The payment must be made in food, for the tribe were nearly starving. Food was difficult to procure in the intense heat; the ground was arid and unproductive.

Sinkum examined the goods; he made his offer; whereat the wild man swung his boomerang disagreeably, and indicated that he must have "more, more." Tears of self-pity flooded Sinkum's eyes. He had no choice but to obey, and at last the black-fellow left with a sack containing ten times the value of the goods the storeman had been forced to buy. He had been cheated, cruelly used; he was a poor man, and could not stand such losses. The things were of no value—none; but if he had not bought them he would have been a dead man.

Sinkum's hands were no longer in his sleeves—he had made dramatic passes, illustrative of the fearful fate that might have befallen him.

It presented to Eustace's mind a vivid picture—the black-fellow with poised boomerang standing over the shrinking Chinkee, threatening his life if he did not obey the exorbitant demands.

To Mrs. Orban came another thought. There apparently really were black-fellows in the neighbourhood—a whole tribe living in the Bush.

The story of the poor white man strung up in the wood made the listeners shudder. Such a thing had never come into their experience, but they knew the terrible possibility of it. Many a man has been so detained in the Bush, riding inadvertently against the "wait-a-bit" or "lawyer cane." It springs round its victim like a coiled spring, and he is helpless to free himself if his arms happen to be pinioned. Who could this particular poor fellow have been, found not far from the plantation? No one would ever know, Mrs. Orban reflected pitifully.

"And what were the things you had to buy, Sinkum Fung?" asked Eustace, with intense interest.

Sinkum searched amongst his curious garments and produced a handful of things, which he set solemnly down upon the table beside Mrs. Orban, watching her narrowly, to see what effect his action produced.

She gave a start of surprise.

"Why," said Eustace, springing to his feet, "this is the servants' jewellery, and their watches. The black-fellow never got them off any dead white man at all; he stole them straight out of our house."

Sinkum nodded drearily.

So he had discovered, he said. When too late he had heard of the reward for the catching of that black-fellow. He could only claim the reward for returning the goods; but surely the good missee would not let him lose so much. He had given ten times the value of those things, and thus only had he saved them from the black-fellow.

In his endeavour to point out that it was due to him, and him alone, the jewellery had reappeared, Sinkum Fung next fell into raptures over his own deeds. Had he but known that missee wanted the black-fellow too, he would have given his greatest treasure—his fine long pig-tail—to have detained him. He made the statement with a great air of devotion—a Chinaman does not part lightly with his pig-tail.

But no amount of assurances would prevail on Mrs. Orban to give the man more than the promised regard. Any further claim he might have to make, she said, must be made to Mr. Orban on his return. Sinkum Fung went away in a transparently aggrieved frame of mind.

"Mother," Eustace said, as soon as the man's footsteps died away round the veranda, "did you believe his story about the black-fellow?"

"At first, yes," Mrs. Orban admitted. "I dare say such a thing is quite possible. I pictured the black-fellow bringing in a wallet containing the poor traveller's kit, a worn leather belt, with perhaps some money in it, a pipe and pouch."

"Yes, that is what I expected," said Eustace.

"Then one could have believed that Sinkum Fung might be taken in by the tale," Mrs. Orban went on; "but never tell me he believed it when he saw those trinkets. They are not the sort of things a Bushman would be carrying about with him, and Sinkum knows that as well as I do. He is no simpleton. His mistake was that he thought I might be one, and he overreached himself in his description of the ferocious Jaga-Jaga."

"You don't even think Sinkum was terrified into buying the things?" Eustace asked.

Mrs. Orban shook her head and smiled.

"I very much doubt it," she said. "Indeed, I am inclined to fancy the thief was no black-fellow at all now. It is just as likely he was a Malay or Manila boy from the plantation, and Sinkum Fung is in collusion with him. They will probably go shares in the reward; but Sinkum meant to make as much more out of me for himself as he possibly could."

"My word! if the other fellow comes again," said Eustace, "don't I just hope we shall catch him."

"I am sure I hope and trust he will not come again," said Mrs. Orban gravely. "We have had quite as many disturbances already as I feel inclined for."

Mary and Kate were delighted to get back their belongings, and made no further reference to running away. They felt more secure with the Robertson family living in the house. Besides, a letter from Mr. Orban stated that he was getting through his business quicker than he had expected, and he should only now wait for Miss Chase's boat from England, because she would need an escort up country.

This cheered every one immensely. It was something to look forward to, and the days began to go quicker and more brightly.

Then Nesta and Peter came home full of all their doings at the Highlands, and this made a great difference to the house. Eustace did not know he could have been so glad to see his brother and sister; it was not till they came back that he realized how dull he had really been without them.

The Robertsons still stayed. Nesta slept with her mother, and the three boys were in the next room.

Nesta knew a good deal about the excitements that had been taking place at home. It was thought useless to try and hush the matter up. Something was bound to slip out in the course of conversation, and so she was given the lightest possible version of the theft, ending with an amusing account of Sinkum Fung's visit.

Of course Bob brought the children over, and to Eustace's intense gratitude, when it came to the story of the bogus scare, and Nesta seemed inclined to giggle, Bob said gravely, "Older people have made worse mistakes," and then proceeded to tell the story against himself about the tree stump and the pigs.

There was something so big and nice about Bob's nature that, without meaning to, he always made people ashamed of being petty and ill-natured when he was present.

"You made a good shot at the dingo, old man," he said. "It won't be long before you are out shooting with me, at this rate."

Of course no one could laugh at Eustace after that. Bob saw nothing funny about what he had done—Bob actually praised him—and when Bob praised it meant something.

"I say," Nesta asked when the twins were alone together, "weren't you most awfully scared?"

"Well, I guess I was rather," Eustace admitted; "but of course it was silly to be. Mother thinks it was only one of the plantation hands now, and not a black-fellow at all, you see."

"But a plantation hand might have knifed somebody," Nesta said, with a shudder. "I hope he won't come again. I know I should scream like anything."

"I believe it would be the worst thing you could do," Eustace said gravely. "He would be sure to try and shut you up if you made a row—any thief would, if he wasn't such a coward as that one. But I wouldn't think about it if I were you, or you'll be fancying things, just as I did."

In spite of which advice Nesta did suffer a few qualms at night, if she happened to wake in the dark; but sleeping with her mother was comforting, and the panics never lasted long.

Lessons began again, and the days passed in their usual routine, but with the added joy of something to look forward to in the arrival of the new aunt.

It was a nightly annoyance to Peter that he was put to bed at the same time as Sandy Robertson, while the twins stayed up to late dinner. Becky went to bed still earlier, and was generally fast asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

"You might shoot pistols in the room after Becky is asleep," was a favourite saying, "and you wouldn't wake her."

Which statement she almost verified the night Eustace caused such an excitement; she really did not wake until the second shot was fired.

But Peter was not a heavy sleeper. Moreover, he had heard something about the black-fellow stories too. Sandy Robertson gave him a good deal of information as they played together, and the little fellow got into a thoroughly nervous state.

Mrs. Orban often sat with him till he was asleep, and then left a shaded light burning both in his room and her own.

It did not startle her very much one night as she sat at dinner with the twins to see Peter tear into the room yelling for her at the top of his voice. She guessed he had awakened from a dream, and was just frightened at finding himself alone with no one but Sandy.

He sprang into her arms and lay there trembling, panting only "Mother—mother—mother," over and over again.

"Well, sonny, what is it?" said his mother soothingly, stroking back his hair from his forehead.

"O mummie," he gasped, "there's something moving in your room. I heard it."

Eustace and Nesta started, and exchanged frightened glances. But Mrs. Orban answered quite calmly,—

"I dare say, darling. It is probably Mary turning down the beds."

She rose as she spoke and went towards the door.

"Oh, don't, mummie! don't go," Peter pleaded eagerly; "perhaps it's a black-fellow."

"Nonsense, darling," Mrs. Orban said. "You can stay here with Eustace and Nesta if you like, but of course I must go and see what the noise was."

"I'm going with mother," said Eustace sturdily.

"So am I," said Nesta.

"We'll all go," said Mrs. Orban cheerily; "and I am quite sure Mary will think us mad when she sees us."

So down the passage they went, Peter trembling and clinging to his mother. Straight into Mrs. Orban's room they all trooped, and of course, when they got there, there was no one to be seen—not even Mary turning down the beds.

On they went into the boys' room, and all was peaceful there; for Peter had been too frightened to yell till he reached the dining-room, and Sandy had not been roused.

"There, you see," said Mrs. Orban; "what did I tell you? There are far too many of us in the house now for any one to dare to come."

She went on into the kitchen still holding Peter, and Mary and Kate certainly did look surprised.

"Master Peter has been having a nightmare," Mrs. Orban explained, "and I want to reassure him. Were you in my room just now, Mary?"

"No, ma'am," Mary said; "I haven't been there since dinner."

"Oh, well, then, he must have been dreaming," Mrs. Orban said, still in the same cheery way. "We will just go all through the house and show him everything is all right, and then I will sit by him till he gets to sleep again."

Eustace took a lantern, and on they all went right through the house, very naturally finding no one. Robertson, who was smoking on the veranda, declared that no one had been up or down the steps since he had been out, and Mrs. Robertson, who was in her bedroom lulling the baby to sleep, said no one had been that way either.

After all of which Eustace and Nesta began to breathe freely; but, to tell the truth, at first they had both been a good deal scared by Peter's announcement. They guessed their mother was just making all this show of bravery for Peter's and their sakes, for another visit from the thief was not at all unlikely.

But when Robertson laughed at the notion of any one having been able to pass him unseen where he stood near the veranda steps, when every nook and cranny had been looked into and no one was forthcoming to prove Peter's tale, every one was certain he had had a bad dream.

"You are a little silly," Nesta said bracingly. "Of course there are always noises in the house."

"But this was a big noise," Peter objected; "something banged."

"Why didn't you say that before?" said Eustace with superiority; then added, out of the vastness of his recent experience, "Nobody ever bangs when they want to rob a house; they try to be as silent as mice."

"Besides," said Nesta, "there is nothing for any one to steal now, since we keep all our things hidden away."

This was a rule Mrs. Orban had made—that everything of value must be put away under lock and key. She had no fancy to be perpetually paying away rewards for recovered goods. She believed Sinkum Fung to be quite capable of setting people to do these little pilferings just in order to obtain the rewards. Disagreeable as was the idea, it frightened her far less than the thought of genuine black-fellows lurking about the place; they were really dangerous, cruel, and lawless.

Mrs. Orban took Peter back with her into the dining-room, and he sat cuddled up on her knee while she finished dinner.

They were all sitting listening to just one "good-night" story before going to bed, when Mary came into the room, gave a frightened glance round, and exclaimed,—

"Lor', ma'am, haven't you got Miss Becky here? I made sure you had."

Every one stared at Mary, and thought she looked rather white and queer.

"Did you, Mary?" asked Mrs. Orban rather hurriedly. "Why?"

"Well, ma'am," said Mary in an unsteady voice, "because she isn't in her bed."

Mrs. Orban sprang to her feet.

"Not in her bed?" she exclaimed. "My good woman, what do you mean?"

Setting Peter down on the ground, she turned swiftly and left the room.

"I just went in to turn down the beds," explained Mary to the twins as they hurriedly followed, "and went over to Miss Becky's corner to take a look at her, and she wasn't there. I didn't stop a minute, I was so took aback, but came straight off to see if maybe she was in the dining-room. You might have knocked me down with a feather when I saw she wasn't."

Mrs. Orban rushed to Becky's bed. She was standing beside it as if petrified when the others entered. The bed was empty. This was no dream. Becky really and truly was not there.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE WITCH.

Of course Peter's story jumped to every one's mind, and with a horrified cry Mrs. Orban fell forward, fainting, on to the empty bed.

The recent hunt through the house had been, as Eustace guessed, a greater strain than she had allowed any one to see; she could not be certain that they were on a wild-goose chase. This, coming on the top of it, was just too much for her.

Instances of children being stolen had from time to time come to her knowledge—stories of little ones silently, mysteriously disappearing and never being heard of again. The twins had heard the same from the servants, among other disturbing stories. This last terrible event seemed just to prove that the first visitor had been no mere plantation hand; the stealing of a baby was more like the work of the native blacks.

Nesta wrung her hands and wept. Eustace dashed away to fetch Robertson. Mary lost her head completely, and nobody thought of trying to restore poor Mrs. Orban to consciousness till motherly little Mrs. Robertson appeared on the scene.

Robertson stood in the middle of the room looking the picture of bewilderment.

"This beats everything," he said in an awed voice.

Every one was really too terrified to make a noise. Puzzled glances were exchanged, questions whispered, and Robertson said again,—

"This beats everything! It doesn't seem possible, unless she has been spirited away; for how could any one pass me on those steps without my seeing them?"

"Could he have swarmed one of the posts?" Eustace asked.

"I shouldn't say he could," Robertson replied, "but it looks as if he did. How could a man swarm a post with a sleeping child in his arms?"

"Black-fellows are dreadfully clever," said Kate.

"Hush," said Mrs. Robertson, "the poor lady is coming to herself. Don't let her hear you talking like that. Oh dear, how will she bear it?"

The poor woman's eyes were full of tears. She knew well enough what a mother's feelings would be under such awful circumstances.

"Every corner of the house was searched," said Robertson meditatively.

"We didn't look under the beds," said Nesta.

"Silly," said Eustace. "As if a black-fellow would have stopped to be looked for under a bed."

"Yes—that's no go," said Robertson; and just at that moment there came such a strange sound from under the very bed they were standing by that every one jumped—a sound that brought Mrs. Orban back to her senses far quicker than any of good Mrs. Robertson's restoratives, for it was the voice of Becky herself.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed all the women, after the first shock of surprise was over.

"My patience," said Robertson, and down they all went on their hands and knees like a party of kangaroos, peering under the bed.

There lay Becky, rosy with sleep, safe and sound, with puckered face and plaintive voice, evidently wondering what all the fuss was about.

They hauled her from under the bed, and placed her on her mother's knee, where she sat blinking at the light like a young owl.

"Why," said Nesta, "she must have tumbled out of bed in her sleep, and rolled over underneath."

"So she must," agreed every one.

"That was the noise Peter heard," Eustace said.

"Of course it was," said every one except Mrs. Orban; and she said, as she bent her face over the baby in her arms,—

"Oh, you dreadful children! Have you a conspiracy amongst you to frighten me out of my wits? Or are you trying to harden my nerves? I begin to wish your father would come home."

She laughed a little, and it sounded much more like sobbing. So kind Mrs. Robertson hurried every one off to bed, because she said Mrs. Orban must be quite worn out.

Eustace was so upset by his mother's words that he could not get to sleep for hours. They seemed to hold a reproach specially for himself—for had he not been the first to terrify his mother? It was not a good record to present to his father; and he had meant to be such a stand-by and comfort. With all his heart he echoed Mrs. Orban's wish. He had dreaded his father's going away; he longed for his return.

The very next day the wish was fulfilled. News came up the hill that the plantation schooner had been sighted the evening before; she was in the bay. By midday the travellers had arrived, and the climax of the great excitement was reached.

Every one had wondered a hundred times and more what that first greeting would be like—what words would be said. As a matter of fact, when the time really came, nobody said anything at all except Mr. Orban, who exclaimed when he caught sight of his wife, "Darling, what is the matter? You are looking ill."

But Mrs. Orban stopped him with the promise to tell him everything later on. Meanwhile she nearly wept for joy over the meeting with Aunt Dorothy, and was far too happy to remember or speak of the distresses of the past week or so.

The children hung back shyly and stared at the new-comer—a tall, slender girl, dressed, Nesta afterwards commented, just like a person in a story book, so dainty was she.

Dorothy Chase was not at all like Mrs. Orban. She was certainly pretty, but the most remarkable thing about her was her expression, so vivacious was it, so keenly interested and alert. She was a great contrast to the people amongst whom she had come, for tropical heat saps a good deal of the enthusiasm of life out of people—even the children were subject to lassitude.

They looked a quiet enough set as Miss Chase cast a quick searching glance around her after greeting her sister, and there flashed through her mind a contrast between them and the nephew and niece she had left but a few weeks ago in England—the children of another sister, orphans who lived with their grandparents in the old home.

"Well, chicks," said Aunt Dorothy, with a laugh, "who is going to speak to me first?"

They were standing, all in an untidy row, Becky, with one finger in her mouth, hanging on to Nesta's skirt.

To the new-comer they looked pasty-faced, spiritless beings. The prints that the girls were dressed in were rather washed out; Peter had outgrown his suit. They were ill-clad, shy, and awkward.

Eustace flushed with an uncomfortable feeling that they were not behaving very courteously, and came forward the instant Miss Chase spoke. Nesta followed, and then Peter, all as stiff as pokers in their shyness. But Becky Miss Chase picked up with a playful little shake, and kissed her heartily.

"Oh, you dear, funny wee soul," she said, "how glad I am to see you. I've brought out a Kodak and I've promised to take all your photos almost every other day, for certainly no one at home could guess the least little bit what you are like."

Becky did not resent the unceremonious treatment at all, but took it quite placidly in her own particular way. This gave Peter confidence.

"Have you brought lots of boxes?" he asked, with an interested stare up into his young aunt's face.

Eustace pulled his sleeve.

"Shut up," he whispered. "Don't ask questions; it's rude."

Eustace felt uncomfortable. He knew quite well whither his small brother's questions were trending. Peter was wondering what would be in those boxes for himself.

"A good many," answered Miss Chase; but she was allowed time to say no more, because she was hurried into the house to rest and refresh.

At tea the children sat round as solemn as owls and listened to all the questions and answers about the home folk. They picked up scraps of information most interesting to themselves, especially about the English cousins, Herbert, who was sixteen, and Brenda, who was a month or so older than the twins. From time to time they had heard of these cousins in letters, but it made them seem much more real when they were talked about by some one who had just come away from them.

"Herbert is a very big fellow," Miss Chase said. "He is doing famously at Winchester."

"Lucky chap," thought Eustace, who never read a school story without longing to go to a big English school.

"And what about Brenda?" questioned Mrs. Orban.

"You shall see a photo that was taken of her the other day," was the answer. "Most people think her very pretty."

"Does she go to school too?" said Mrs. Orban, asking the very question Nesta was bursting to put.

"Oh yes, Brenda is a regular schoolgirl. You see it would be so lonely for her to have lessons at home with a governess."

"Lucky girl," thought Nesta, and sighed.

"She was quite green with envy when she heard I was coming out here," Miss Chase said, "and threatened to have all sorts of illnesses, necessitating change of air for recovery, so that she might come with me."

"Oh, I wish she had," Nesta said impulsively.

"I don't think her grannie would agree with you," laughed Miss Chase. "She can hardly bear to part with her every term. If you want to see her, I think your best plan is to have an illness yourself, and let me take you back with me for change of air."

"That would be better and better," Nesta exclaimed, "only I should want mother and every one else to come too."

"Well, why not?" asked Miss Chase gaily. "Let's make up a party and all go back together. I am only allowed to stay two months, and then I must be off again. I will willingly pack you all up in my boxes and take you with me."

"What did I tell you?" said a deep voice from the window, and there stood Bob Cochrane on the veranda. "I said she would bewitch you and spirit you all away."

"You did, you did," said Peter, who had been drinking in every word; "you said you wouldn't like her."

"Oh, come, no tales out of school," said Bob, as he crossed the threshold and came forward to be introduced; "you are giving me a bad start, you know."

"I am sorry to have made such a bad impression at the outset," Miss Chase responded merrily as she shook hands. "Would it appease you at all if I offered to pack you with the rest?"

"I wouldn't if I were you, Dorothy," said Mr. Orban. "He would take such a fearful amount of room, even if you doubled him up."

Miss Chase smiled as she eyed the great big fellow.

"I wouldn't come if you paid me," Bob said lightly. "They tell me it is a toss up whether the climate or the people freeze you up most in England."

"Treason, treason, Bob," said Mrs. Orban. "Remember we are English."

"I guess you have mellowed in the sunshine," Bob said imperturbably. "Children, don't you listen to a good word about England; don't you let yourselves be spirited away by bad fairies, or you'll regret it."

"It's high treason," shouted Eustace. "England is our country. Off with his head."

Then suddenly Miss Chase saw what her nephews and nieces really were like.

"He has got to be punished," Nesta sang out.

Peter and Becky made a simultaneous dive at the unfortunate Bob, who had begun whistling with a great show of unconcern.

"What's his punishment to be?" demanded Eustace.

Mrs. Orban thought a minute while Peter suggested pommelling, and Nesta mentioned a few tortures in the way of old-fashioned forfeits.

"It's too hot for violent exercise," said Bob, when Nesta requested him to walk round the room three times on his head. "I shall go home to mother if I am ill-used."

"Have some tea, Bob," said Mr. Orban.

"No, no," cried the bullying trio, "not till he has paid his penalty for high treason."

"Well," said Mrs. Orban gently, "suppose you fetch the banjo and make him sing for his tea."

"Good! Good!" was the immediate acclamation.

Bob sat down resignedly.

"I don't think a crueller sentence could have been passed," he said with a mock groan.

"Between ourselves," said Mrs. Orban, as the children rushed into the drawing-room to fetch the banjo, "there is no tea in the pot, and you may as well sing till the kettle is boiling."

Bob took the banjo with the air of a martyr and tuned it skilfully.

"I choose my own song," he said, struck a few chords, and began, in his really beautiful voice,—

"Dey told us darkies right away out west In England men make der money much de best, And I believed dat ebry word was true, So dat is why I come along wid you. Oho you and de banjo."

"Oh, oh, oh," interrupted the children, "more treason! If you sing that song you will have to do another as well."

"You can't hang a man after his head is cut off," said Bob stolidly, and went on,—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IX.

A RIDERLESS HORSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A cicada!" repeated Miss Chase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob laughed.

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

"What is a dingo?" inquired Miss Chase.

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

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

Peter shook his head in bewilderment.

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

Peter reddened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Chase listened in bewilderment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"People!" repeated Nesta blankly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Nesta did not sympathize.

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

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

"What is that?" asked Miss Chase curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's bad," said Bob.

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

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

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

"It looks grand burning," said Eustace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He looks an ass."

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

"I think so," Eustace said imperturbably.

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

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

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

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

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

Nesta was at his side with a pounce.

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X.

A VOICE FROM THE SCRUB.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Orban eyed the boy kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Cochrane stared blankly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she said nothing of her fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI.

BLACK-FELLOWS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was not the faintest response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

THE SECRET OF THE THICKET.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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