"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 quant.i.ties 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 gra.s.s, 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 gra.s.s.

"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 b.u.t.ter 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.

"Damp in there, Billy?" queried Wally, with a grave face.

"Plenty!" growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and a dripping leg.

The Hermit had taken Norah's saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old man stroked the pony's glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put his nose into his hand.

"He likes you," Norah said; "he doesn't do that to everyone. Do you like horses?"

"Better than men," said the Hermit. "You've a good pony, Miss Norah."

"Yes, he's a beauty," the little girl said. "I've had him since he was a foal."

"He'll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?"

"About that, I think."

"And we'll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where we are," said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. "We'll have to say good-night, sir."

"Good-night, and good-bye," said the Hermit, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry you've all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays--?"

"We'll come out," nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. "And if ever you find your way in as far as our place--"

"I'm afraid not," said the Hermit hastily. "As I was explaining to Miss Norah, I'm a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again."

The boys said "good-bye" and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah swung herself up--the pony was impatient to be gone.

"Good-bye," he said.

Norah looked at him pitifully.

"I won't say good-bye," she said. "I'm coming back--some day. So it's--'so long!'"

"So long," the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the saddle and kissed his cheek.

He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and, with slow steps, went back into the scrub.

They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well, and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is not a method of locomotion which a.s.sists conversation, and they rode almost in silence.

It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great flapping thing flew into Harry's face, and he uttered a startled yell before he realised that it was only one of the night birds--whereat mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to "Way Down Upon the Swanee River" and more modern songs, which aren't half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry "obliged" with one of Gordon's poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.