Several other men came to the stockyard, selected each a horse, and saddled it, and disappeared in various directions. The old black horse, Bob's mate, was taken by Joe Burton, who harnessed him into a dray that stood near, loaded up a number of fence rails, and drove off over the paddock, evidently to a job of repairing some boundary. Cecil watched them crawl across the plain, until they were only a speck on the gra.s.s.

Then he turned his sullen eyes on Bobs, who, left alone, had come nearer to the fence where he sat, and was sleepily flicking with his tail at an intrusive fly, which insisted on walking round his hip.

Cecil stared at him for some minutes before his idea came to him.

Then he flushed a little, his hand clenching on the post beside him. At first the idea was fascinating, but preposterous; he tried to put it from him, but it came back persistently, and his mind held it with a kind of half-fearful excitement. They had said he could not ride him--a child's pony! Would he show them?

Once he entertained the idea at all he could not let it go. It would be such an easy way of "coming out on top"--of showing them that in one thing at least their opinion was worthless. That Jim's words were true, and that he could not master Bobs, he ridiculed loftily. It was impossible for him to believe that what a child of fourteen did so easily he might not be able to do. He had never seen Bobs other than quiet; and though big and well bred and spirited, he was still only a pony--a child's pony. Visions floated before him of increased respect paid him by the men, and even by his uncle, when he should have demonstrated his ability to manage something better than old Brown Betty, flicking at the flies in her corner of the yard, with down-drooped head, and then--he wanted to ride Bobs; and all his life Cecil Linton had done what he wanted.

He slipped down from the fence and went across to the stables for a saddle and bridle, entering the harness room a little nervously, but relieved on finding no men about. Returning, he caught Bobs--who stood like the gentleman he was--and brought him outside, where his unaccustomed fingers bungled a little with the saddle. The one he had chosen in his haste had a breastplate, but this he could not manage at all; and at last he managed to get the bewildering array of straps off, and hang it over the fence. He buckled on a pair of spurs he had found in the harness room. Then he gathered up the reins and clambered into the saddle. Possibly, had he let Bobs feel the spur, his ride would have ended there and then, and there would have been no further developments in Cecil's excursion; and it is certain that he would have spurred him cheerfully, had not the pony moved off at once. As it was he sat back and felt exceedingly independent and pleased with himself.

He turned him down the home paddock.

"Phwat are y' doin' on that pony?"

Murty O'Toole had come out of the men's quarters, and was gazing open-mouthed at the unfamiliar figure on Bobs--"the city feller," for once not apparelled in exaggerated riding clothes, but in loose flannels; already the legs of the trousers had worked up from his low shoes, disclosing a vision of brilliant sock. Cecil took no notice.

"Hallo, there! Shtop a minnit! Who put y' on Bobs?"

"Mind your own business," said Cecil, between his teeth, looking round.

"My business, is it? Sure, 'tis my business, if 'tis anny man's on Billabong! Did Miss Norah say y' could ride her pony?"

"What's that to you?"

"Be gob!" said Murty, "'tis more to me than it is to you, seein' 'tis meself knows Miss Norah's feelin's an' disposition about Bobs! Did she give y' leave? Tell me, or I'll pull y' off, if y' was the Boss' nevvy ten times over!"

"WILL you?" Cecil spat the words at him bitterly. He shook the reins, and Bobs, impatient enough already, broke into a canter that carried him away from the good friend who had intervened on his behalf. They shot across the paddock.

Murty, left helpless, said a few strong things as he looked after the retreating pair.

"It's a guinea to a gooseberry he's taken Frinch lave wid him," he said, "bitther tongued little whipper-snapper that he is! Sure if Bobs gets rid av him it'll serve him sorry, so 'twill. But phwat'll I do about it, at all?" He scratched his head reflectively. "If I go over 'twill only worry Miss Norah to hear--an' it's most likely he'll have enough av it pretty soon, an' the pony'll come home--an I do not care if he comes home widout him! I'll lave it be f'r awhile." He went slowly over to the stockyards.

Cecil, cantering over the gra.s.s with Bobs' perfect stride beneath him, was, for the moment, completely satisfied with himself. He had routed the enemy in the first engagement, and, if he had not left him speechless, at least he had had the last word. Murty and he had been at daggers drawn from the very first day, when the grinning Irishman had pulled him out of the wild raspberry clump in the cutting-out paddock; and the cheerful friendliness with which Jim and Norah treated the stockman had always irritated him. He was exceedingly pleased that on this occasion he had scored at his expense.

Where should he go? There were three gates leading out of the home paddock--one to the Cunjee road; another to a similar well-cleared plain to that on which the house stood; and a third into a smaller paddock, which in its turn led into part of the rougher and steeper part of the run. Cecil wanted to get out of sight quickly. In his mind there was a half-formed idea that Murty might saddle a horse and come out in pursuit; and a hand-to-hand encounter with the justly indignant Irishman was just at that moment the last thing that the boy wanted. So he decided upon the bush paddock, and headed in that direction.

Now, a horse that is always ridden by one person is apt to develop ideas of his own--possibly through acquiring habits insensibly from his usual rider. Also, he becomes accustomed to that one rider, and is quite likely to be annoyed by a change--not alone in weight and in style of riding, but in the absence of the sympathy that always exists between a horse so managed and the one who cares for him and understands him. The alien hand on his mouth had irritated Bobs from the first; it was heavy, and jerky, where Norah's touch was as a feather; and the light, firm seat in the saddle was changed for a weight that b.u.mped and shifted continuously. Further, it was not very usual for Norah to ride in this direction--he had headed naturally for the second gate before his tender mouth was suddenly wrenched aside towards the third. Bobs arrived at the gate in something considerably removed from his usual contented state of mind.

The gate was awkward, and Cecil clumsy at shutting it; he hauled the pony's mouth roughly in his efforts to bring him into position where he could send home the catch. The same performance was repeated at the next gate--the one leading into the bush paddock; and when at length they turned from it Bobs' mouth was feeling the bit in a manner that was quite new to him, and as unpleasant as new. He sidled off in a rough, jerky walk, betraying irritation in every movement, had Cecil been wise enough to know it.

Cecil, however, was still perfectly content. He was out of sight of the house, which was comforting in itself; while as for the idea that he was not completely master of his mount, he would have been highly amused at it. It was pleasant to be out, in the morning freshness; and there was no need to hurry home, since the scones and tea in the kitchen had made him independent of breakfast. The paddock he was in looked interesting, too; the plain ended in a line of rough, scrub-grown hills which it occurred to him would be a good place to explore. He headed towards them.

Bobs walked on, inwardly seething; jerking his head impatiently at the unceasing pressure on his bit, and now and then giving a little half kick that at length attracted Cecil's attention, making him wonder vaguely what was wrong. Possibly something in the saddle; it had occurred to him when cantering that his girth was loose. So he dismounted and tightened it, bringing it up with a jerk that pinched the pony suddenly, and made him back away. This time Cecil did not find it so easy to mount. He was a little nervous as he rode on--and there is nothing that more quickly communicates itself to a horse than nervousness in the rider. Bobs began to dance as he went, and Cecil, hauling at his mouth, broke out into a mild perspiration. He decided that he was not altogether an easy pony to ride.

A hare jumped up abruptly in the gra.s.s just ahead. Bobs shied and plunged--and missing the hand that always understood and steadied such mistaken energy, gave a couple of rough "pig-jumps." It was more than enough for Cecil; mild as they were, he shot on to the pony's neck, only regaining the saddle by a great effort. The reins flopped, and the indignant Bobs plunged forward, while his rider clawed for support, his feet and hands alike flying. As he dropped back into the saddle, the spurs went home; and Bobs bolted.

He had never in his life felt the spur; light and free in every pace, Norah's boot heel was the utmost correction that ever came to him. This sudden cruel stab on either side was more than painful--it was a sudden shock of amazement that was sharper than pain. Coming on top of all his grievances, it was too much for Bobs. Possibly, a mad race would rid him of this creature on his back, who was so unlike his mistress. His heels went up with a little squeal as he bounded forward before settling into his stride.

Cecil gave himself up for lost from the first. He tugged frantically at the rein, realizing soon that the pony was in full command, and that his soft muscles might as well pull at the side of a house as try to stop him. He lost one stirrup, and clung desperately to the pommel while he felt for it, and by great good luck managed to get his foot in again--a piece of good fortune which his own efforts would never have secured. The pommel was too comforting to be released; he still clung to it while he tried to steady himself and to see where he was going.

The plain ended abruptly just before him, and the rough hills sloped away to the south. Perhaps, if he put Bobs at the steepest it might calm him a little, and he might be able to pull him up. So he wrenched the pony's mouth round, and presently they were racing up the face of the hill, which apparently made no difference whatever to Bobs. Cecil had not the slightest idea that his heels were spurring the pony at every stride. He wondered angrily in his fear why he seemed to become momentarily more maddened, and sawed at the bleeding mouth in vain.

They were at the top of the hill now. The crest was sharp and immediately over it a sharp drop went down to a gully at the bottom. It was steep, rough-going, boulder-strewn and undermined with wombat holes. Perhaps in his calmer moments Bobs might have hesitated, but just now he knew nothing but a frantic desire to escape from that cruel agony in his sides. He flung down the side of the hill blindly, making great bounds over the spa.r.s.e bracken fern that hid the ground. Cecil was nearly on his shoulder now--a moment more would set him free.

Then he put his foot on a loose boulder that gave with him and went down the slope in a flurry of shifting stones. He made a gallant effort to recover himself, stumbling to his knees as Cecil left the saddle and landed in the ferns--but just as he struck out for firmer footing his forefoot sank into a wombat hole, and he turned a complete somersault, rolling over and over. He brought up against a big boulder, struggled to rise and then lay still.

Presently Cecil came limping to him, white and angry.

"Get up, you brute!" he said, kicking him. When there was no response, he took the bridle, jerking it. Bobs' head gave a little at every jerk, but that was all.

Between rage and fear, Cecil lost his head. He kicked the pony savagely; and finding that useless, sought a stick and thrashed him as he lay. Once Bobs struggled, but only his head and shoulders came up, and presently they fell back again. Cecil gave it up at last, and left him alone, limping down to the gully and out of sight. He sat down on a log for a long while, until the sun grew hot. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and set off towards home.

Bobs did not know he had gone. He lay quite still.

CHAPTER XVII

ON THE HILLSIDE

Never again, when the soft winds blow, We shall ride by the river.

G. ESs.e.x EVANS.

Wally came into breakfast with a rush and a scramble, bearing traces of a hasty toilet. At the table Norah and Jim were eating solemnly, with expressions of deep disapproval. They did not raise their eyes as Wally entered.

"Awfully sorry!" said he. "You've no idea of the difficulties I've had to overcome, Norah, and all along of him!" indicating Jim with a jerk of his head. "Oh, Norah, do be sympathetic, and forget that he's your brother. I a.s.sure you I'd be a far better brother to you than ever he could, and you can have me cheap! Look up at me, Norah, and smile--one perfect grin is all I ask! He took my towel and dressed Tait in it, and for all he cared I would be swimming in that beastly lagoon yet, and dying of cramp, and nervous prostration, and housemaid's knee. And she goes on gnawing a chop!"

He sat down, and buried his face in his hands tragically, and began to sob, whereat Norah and Jim laughed, and the victim of circ.u.mstances recovered with prompt.i.tude.

"Cream, please," he said, attacking his porridge. "Oh, he's a beast, Norah. I'm blessed if I know why you keep him in the family--it can't be for either his manners or his looks! I have a hectic cough coming on rapidly. My uncle by marriage three times removed died of consumption, and it's a thing I've always been nervous about. When I occupy the family urn with my ashes you'll be sorry!"

"I should be more than sorry if it were this urn," Jim put in, grinning. "It might be an honour, of course; but we've other homely uses for the urn. How long did you swim, Wal.?"

"Never you mind," returned Wally wrathfully. "I don't see why I should satisfy any part of your fiendish curiosity--only when Brownie finds Tait wearing one of the best bath towels as a toga, and makes remarks about it, I shall certainly refer her to you!"

"I never saw a dog look so miserable as he did," Norah said, laughing.

"He came straight up to me, with a truly hang-dog air, and folds of towel ever so far behind him in the gra.s.s, and didn't get back his self-respect until I took it off. Poor old Tait! You really ought to be ashamed of yourself, Jimmy."

"I am," said Jim cheerfully. "Toast, please."

"When I saw Tait last he was disappearing into the landscape with all his blushing honours thick upon him!" Wally said. "I don't see why you waste all your sympathy on the brute, and give me none. It's the greatest wonder I'm here at all!"

"Where's Cecil, anyhow?" asked Jim, suddenly.

"Haven't an idea--how should I? He wasn't in the lagoon, which is the only place I could give an expert opinion on this morning."

"Oh, he's late as usual," Norah said. "I suppose he's still cross about last night. Really, Jim, I'm sorry we've managed to rub him up the wrong way."