Books: Mates at Billabong
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Mary Grant Bruce (1878 1958). >> Mates at Billabong
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The story in detail of a cricket match is generally of particular
interest to those who have been there; and as, unfortunately, the
number of spectators of the famous battle between Cunjee and Mulgoa was
limited, little would be served by an exhaustive description of each
over bowled on that day of relentless heat. Cunjee shaped badly from
the start. Their two most noted batsmen, a young blacksmith and the
post-master, fell victims, without getting into double figures, to the
crafty bowling of the Mulgoa captain, Dan Billings--who drove a coach in
his spare moments, and had as nice an understanding of how to make a
ball break on a fast wicket as of flicking the off leader on the ear
with the cracker of his four-in-hand whip. Dr. Anderson scored a couple
of fours, and then went out "leg before." He remarked, returning to the
"pavilion" sorrowfully, that when one was as round and fat as he, it
was difficult to keep out of the way of three little sticks! Then Dave
Boone and Wally made a stand that roused the perspiring spectators to
something like enthusiasm, for Mr. Boone was a mighty "slogger," and
Wally had a neat and graceful style that sent the Cunjee supporters
into the seventh heaven. Between them the score mounted rapidly, and
the men of Mulgoa breathed a sigh of relief when at length Dave skied a
ball from Billings, which descended into the ample hands of Murty
O'Toole, who was quite undecided whether to treat his catch as a
triumph or a calamity. There was no doubt, however, on the part of his
colleagues for the day, who thumped him wildly on the back and yelled
again with joy. Mr. Boone retired with a score of forty-five and a wide
grin.
Then Jim joined Wally, and kept his end up while his chum put on the
runs. Nothing came amiss to Wally that day--slow balls, fast balls,
"yorkers," "googlies"--the science of Mulgoa went to earth before the
thin brown schoolboy with the merry face. Jim, however, was never at
ease, though he managed to remain in a good while; and eventually
Dickenson, a wiry little Mulgoa man, found his middle stump with a
swift ball--to the intense dismay of Norah, to whom it seemed that the
sky had fallen. Cecil smiled serenely
"I had an idea Jim fancied himself as a bat!" said he.
"Jim never fancies himself at anything!" said Jim's sister,
indignantly. "Anyway, he's a bowler far more than a bat."
"Ah, it's possibly not his 'day out.' What a pity!" Cecil murmured.
"Well, we can't always be on our best form, I suppose," said Mrs.
Anderson, pacifically. "And, at any rate, Norah, your friend is doing
splendidly. Wasn't that a lovely stroke?"
Alas! it soon was apparent that Cunjee was not going to support its
ally. One after another the wickets went down, and the batsmen returned
from the field "with mournful steps and slow." Wally, seeing his
chances diminishing, took liberties with the bowling, and hit wildly,
with amazing luck in having catches missed. At last, however, he
snicked a ball into cover-point's hands, and retired, amid great
applause, having made forty-three. The remaining Cunjee wickets went as
chaff before the wind, and the innings closed for 119.
Then there was a rush for the refreshment shed, and monumental
quantities of tea were consumed by the teams and their supporters,
administered by the admiring maidens of Cunjee. Wally and Jim, prone on
the grass in the shade, were cheerful, but by no means enthusiastic
regarding their chances. Norah had half expected to find Jim cast down
over his batting failure, and was much relieved that he exhibited all
his usual serenity. Jim's training had been against showing feeling
over games.
"Absolutely fiery out there," said he, accepting a cup gratefully.
"Thanks, awfully, Mrs. Anderson; you people are no end good. Didn't we
make a beautiful exhibition of ourselves?--all except Dave and this kid,
that is."
"Kid yourself," said Wally, who was sucking a lemon slowly and
luxuriously. "No tea, thanks, Norah. I'm boiling already, and if I took
tea I don't know what might happen, but certainly heat apoplexy would
be part of it. Have half my lemon?"
"I don't think so, thanks," said Norah, unmoved by this magnificent
offer. "You seem to be getting used to that one, and I'd hate to
deprive you of it. Do you boys think we've any chance?"
"It's highly doubtful," Jim answered. "The general opinion is that
Mulgoa's good for 150 at the very least--they've got a few rather
superior men, I believe, and of course that Billings chap is a terror.
And the wicket, such as it is, is all in favour for the bat--which
doesn't say much for us And one of our men has gone down with the heat
and can't field--fellow from the hotel with red hair, who made
five--remember him, Wal.? He's out of training, like most hotel chaps,
and as soft as possible, So we're playing a man short."
"I wish they'd give you Murty back!" said Norah, with feminine
ignorance.
"Much hope!" returned her brother. "Anyway, Murty's not over good in
the field; he's too much in the saddle to be a quick man on his feet. I
wouldn't mind you as substitute, Nor."--which remark, though futile,
pleased Norah exceedingly.
She was rather more hopeful when the Cunjee team at length took the
field, with Boone and the blacksmith bowling against Billings and
another noted Mulgoa warrior. But her hopes were rapidly put to flight,
and the spirits of the Cunjee "barrackers" went down to zero as it
became distressingly apparent that Mr. Billings and his partner were
there to stay. Alike they treated the bowling with indifference,
hitting the Billabong stockman with especial success--which soon
demoralized Dave, who appealed to be taken off, and devoted his
energies to short slip fielding. Here he had his revenge presently, for
the second Mulgoa man hit a ball almost into his hands, and Dave clung
to it as a drowning man to a straw--one wicket for thirty-five.
Then the score mounted with alarming steadiness, and the wickets fell
all too slowly for the home team. Dan Billings appeared as comfortable
at the wickets as though on the box of his couch, and smote the bowling
all round the ground with impartiality. The heat became more and more
oppressive, and several of the Cunjee men were tiring, including plump
little Dr. Anderson, who stuck to his work as wicket-keeper pluckily--to
the unconcealed anxiety of his wife. His reward came when a hot return
from the field by Wally gave him a chance of stumping one of the Mulgoa
cracks. But the enthusiasm was only momentary; the game was considered,
even by the most sanguine small boy of Cunjee, to be "all over bar
shouting."
Jim had been bowling for some time from one end with fair results. The
batsmen certainly took fewer liberties with him, and he managed to
account for three of them for a comparatively low average. He had
allowed himself to become anxious, which is a bad thing for a bowler
when the score is creeping up and the batsmen are well set. Wally
watched his chum with some anxiety--there was none of the fire in his
bowling that had so often brought down the ground in a School match.
"Wish he's wake up," said Wally to himself. "I'd like a chance to talk
to him."
The chance came when the field crossed over, disposed anew to harry a
left-handed batsman. Jim came over with his long, swinging walk, his
head a little bent. He started a little at his friend's voice.
"You'll snore soon!" said Wally, incisively. "What on earth's the
matter with you? Play up, School!"
Jim stopped short a moment--and burst out laughing, Wally's indignant
face glanced back over his shoulder as he ran off. There was a new
spring in the bowler's walk as he went to his crease, and the smile
still lingered.
The left-handed man faced him confidently--not many local bowlers could
trouble him much, and being a large and well-whiskered gentleman, the
tall schoolboy opposite to him sent no thrill of fear through his soul.
But Jim had learned a thing or two at school about left-handed bats. He
took a short run.
On returning to the pavilion the whiskered one admitted that he knew
really nothing about the ball. It seemed to come from nowhere, and curl
about his bat as he lifted it to strike. How the bails came off was a
mystery to him, though it was unfortunately beyond question that they
had not remained on. The left-hander removed his pads, ruminating.
Cunjee, meanwhile, had cheered frantically, and Wally sent a School
yell ringing down the field. Jim's eye lit up anew as he heard it.
"I do believe I've been asleep," he muttered.
The new man was waiting for him, and he treated his first two balls
with respect. Then he grew bolder; hit him for a single, and snicked
him to the fence for four. There was a perceptible droop in the Cunjee
spirits at the boundary hit. Then Jim bowled the last ball of the over,
and there was a composite yell from Cunjee as the Mulgoa man pushed the
ball gently into the air just over Dr. Anderson's head. The little
doctor was pitifully hot, but he did not fail. The Mulgoa batsman
returned to his friends.
Dan Billings was a little worried. Much, he felt, depended on him, and
he had never been more comfortably set; but his men--would they be as
reliable? He decided to hit out, and Mulgoa roared as the hundred went
up for a beautiful boundary hit. Six wickets were down, and Mulgoa was
107 at the end of the over. It seemed safe enough.
Jim took the ball again, his fingers pressing the red surface almost
lovingly. He had quite waked up; his head was buzzing with "theories,"
and his old power seemed to have come back to his fingers. The first
ball came with a beautiful leg-break, and the Mulgoan bat swiped at it
wildly, and vainly. Seven for 107.
Cunjee was getting excited as the eighth man came in--a wiry and long
youth with a stolid face. He contented himself with blocking Jim's
bowling, snatching a single presently so that Billings would have the
responsibility--to which that gentleman promptly responded by smiting
Jim for three. That brought the stolid youth back to power--an honour he
did not wish. He hit the next ball softly back to the bowler. Eight for
111; and Cunjee howling steadily, with all its youth, and some of its
beauty, battering with sticks on tins. A dog ran across the ground, and
was greeted with a yell that made it scurry away in terror, its tail
concealed between its legs. Just then Cunjee had no time for dogs.
But it was Mr. Billings' turn, and Mr. Billings was busy. He made good
use of the over--the score mounted, and the Cunjee hopes swung lower. It
was still eight--for 115--when a single brought his companion to face
little Harry Blake, the other Cunjee bowler, who was plainly feeling
the weight of his position. He sent the ball down nervously--it slipped
as it left his hand, and the Mulgoan stepped out to meet it, while
Harry gasped with horror. Up, up, it soared--a boundary surely! Then
there was a roar as Wally Meadows gathered himself together, raced, and
sprang for the red disc, spinning over his head just at the fence. It
seemed to hover above him--then his hands closed, and, unable to stop
himself, Wally somersaulted, rolling over and over in the long grass of
the outfield. He sat up, his brown face lit by a wide smile, the ball
still clutched, held above his head. Nine for 115!
The tension was on bowlers and batsmen alike now--all save Dan Billings,
whose calmness was unimpaired. He greeted the tenth man cheerfully--and
the tenth man was Murty O'Toole, very hot and nervous, and certainly
the most miserable man on the ground as he faced "Masther Jim's"
bowling, and knew that the alien hopes of Mulgoa depended on him. Out
in the open a Mulgoa man shrugged his shoulders, remarking, "He won't
try!" and was promptly attacked furiously by three small boys of
Cunjee, who pelted him with clods and abuse from a safe distance. Murty
looked at Jim with a little half-apologetic gesture, and Jim grinned.
"Play up, Murty, old chap!" he said.
It was not in vain that he had schooled the stockman in the paddock at
Billabong. He sent down a treacherous ball, and Murty met it and played
it boldly for two, amid Mulgoan shrieks. Two to tie and three to
win--no, one fewer now, for the Irishman had turned a swift ball to leg,
and only quick fielding had prevented a boundary. A hundred and
seventeen! Murty heaved a sigh of relief as he leaned on his bat at the
bowler's end and glanced across at Jim.
"Praises be, 'twill be Billings to hit it, an' not O'Toole!" he
muttered. "I have put me fut in it sufficient f'r wance!"
The ball left Jim's hand with a whizz, and Billings stepped out to meet
it. Just what happened no one saw clearly for a moment, it all came to
pass so quickly. Then an Irish yell from Murty O'Toole woke the echoes,
even as the bowler's hand flashed up above his head--and the big
stockman flung up his bat in an ecstasy of delight. Billings bit off a
sharp word and left his crease; and Cunjee woke to the fact that the
Mulgoan captain was caught and bowled. The match was theirs--by one run!
When Cunjee woke it became very thoroughly awake. They rushed the
ground, cheering, shouting and hurling hats and caps into the air,
irrespective of their owners' wishes. There was a demonstration to
carry Jim in, which that hero promptly quenched by taking to his heels
and leaving his too affectionate friends far in the rear. Behind him
Cunjee and Mulgoa seethed together, and the air was rent with cheers.
Free fights were in active progress in at least five places on the
ground. It was clearly Cunjee's day out.
Jim met Wally with a grin that was distinctly sheepish.
"Knew you could!" said the Mentor, patting him happily on the back.
"Good old School! But what an ass you were, Jimmy!"
"I was," said Jim, meekly.
CHAPTER XV
THE RIDE HOME
In the gathering of night-gloom o'erhead in
The still, silent change.
GORDON.
"Well, old girl?"
Norah laughed up at the big fellow delightedly.
"Oh, wasn't it lovely, Jimmy?" she said. "I was so excited--and you were
grand! And wasn't Wally's catch a beauty? It's been a lovely match,
hasn't it, Jim?"
"H'm--in spots," said Jim, a little doubtfully, but laughing back at
her. "Rather like the fellow who said his egg was 'excellent--in parts,'
don't you think? Anyhow, we won, and that's the main thing--and I never
DID see a catch to beat that of Wal's."
"We're all immensely proud of you, Jim," Mrs. Anderson said. "And
didn't my old man do well?"
"He did, indeed," Jim agreed heartily. "But I'm not a bit proud of
myself--I think I was asleep most of the time, till old Wal., here, woke
me up with a few well-chosen words. However, it's over now--and Norah, I
want you to get along home."
"Aren't you coming?" Norah asked, a little blankly.
"We'll have to catch you up. I don't quite like the look of the
weather; we're in for a storm, that's certain, and you may possibly
escape it if you get away now. I can't start just yet; the Mulgoa
fellows are insisting on 'shouting' for all hands, and we can't very
well refuse; besides"--he dropped his voice--"you know what Boone is--I
must see that he and Murty leave Cunjee. Cecil will look after you,
won't you, Cecil?"
That gentleman assented without any pleasure. He did not feel impressed
with the prospect of acting as escort to a small girl when he might
have remained in Cunjee. Norah was quick to notice his manner.
"I needn't bother Cecil, Jim," she said, "I can quite easily ride on by
myself."
"Indeed you won't," her brother responded. "Why, it'll be dark before
long--let alone the state of the weather. You don't mind, Cecil, do
you?"
Thus directly questioned, Cecil could do nothing but express his entire
willingness.
"That's all right, then," Jim said. "Hurry on down to the hotel and get
the saddles on, there's a good chap. Goodness knows whether you'll find
any one there, but I fancy that pretty well the whole township is up at
the match. You'll only escape that storm if you're lucky--don't lose a
minute." He made his farewells to Mrs. Anderson, and turned to Norah
again. "Better look after your own girth," he told her--"run after Cecil
and lend him a hand if he wants it."
Cecil had already started; his slim, correctly attired figure was
hastening along the dusty lane. He hated rain, and the hint of the
coming storm had made him hurry when no other consideration would have
done so. There was no one visible about the hotel yard, as he entered,
and he called in vain; then, seeing no help for it, he entered the
stables, where the Billabong horses occupied the stalls at one end.
Bobs whinnied sharply as the door opened, and Cecil looked at the
inquiring head; and then, sourly, towards Brown Betty, standing
peacefully, half asleep, in her stall.
"Wonder if she'd mind?" Cecil muttered, pondering. "Let her, anyhow!"
With which cryptic remarks he moved towards the saddles.
Norah arrived on the scene a few minutes later, coming straight to the
stables. For a moment she could not see Cecil, then, peering into
Betty's stall, she made him out, busily girthing up. Bobs was already
saddled, and Norah went up to him.
"Why, you have been quick, Cecil," she said, cheerfully. "I thought I
was going to help you, but there doesn't seem anything for me to do.
Thanks very much for saddling Bobs." She led the pony out, and then
stopped. "Oh, what a pity," she said. "You've got the wrong saddles on,
Cecil."
Cecil came out, leading the brown mare, and a little flushed.
"I did it on--ah--purpose," he said. "You don't mind, I suppose if I ride
Bobs home?"
Norah looked at him a moment, and then flushed in her turn. To let her
cousin ride Bobs seventeen miles was unthinkable. She had the
profoundest regard for her pony's back; and she knew that even Brown
Betty's seasoned hide was giving way under the unskilled horsemanship
of the city boy. It was very doubtful, moreover, that it would be safe
to mount him on Bobs, who was already excited with the coming storm and
the prospect of home. She knew every turn, and thought of the
high-spirited pony--he went quietly for her, but with a new-chum it
might be a different matter.
Moreover, Norah was distinctly annoyed. She was a sweet-tempered
maiden, but she did not like being treated lightly; and in assuming
that he might coolly appropriate her special property, it seemed to her
that Cecil was treating her very lightly indeed. She had a moment's
swift wish that Jim were there to take her part. It was not quite easy
to oppose any one nearly grown up like Cecil--who in addition was a
guest, and had a special claim on courtesy. She flushed deeply as she
answered him in a low voice.
"I can't let you ride Bobs, I'm afraid, Cecil."
"Oh, can't you?" said Cecil, staring. "Why not?"
"Well, no one rides him but me," said Norah unhappily. "And he's a
queer pony, Cecil. I'm not a bit sure that he'd go nicely with you. You
see, I understand him."
"You evidently think no one can ride but yourself," Cecil said
disagreeably. "I really think I can manage the famous Bobs."
"If you knew him it might be all right," Norah answered. "But I'd
really rather not, Cecil. He's eager and impatient, and quite
unaccustomed to strangers. Dad would be awfully annoyed if you had any
trouble with him."
"I don't fancy Uncle David would be given any need for annoyance,"
Cecil replied. "I'm a bit sick of this old mare, and I don't think it
would hurt you to lend me Bobs. It's uncommonly selfish of you to want
to keep him always."
Norah's flush deepened.
"I'm awfully sorry you think that," she said. "And I'll speak to Dad
about your riding him, if you like--another time."
"Another time? Then what's the matter with my riding him now? I
suppose," said Cecil with a sneer, "you want to show off in Cunjee."
Norah stared at him blankly for a moment. Rudeness had been always so
far from her that she did not for a moment comprehend that this boy was
being deliberately rude. Then she walked round Bobs without replying,
and unbuckled the girth.
"Please let me have my saddle," she said. Her voice was quite final.
Cecil was pale with anger. He flung round without a word, tugging at
the buckle until Betty, who was patient but girth-galled, pulled away
in protest. As it yielded Norah laid his saddle on the mare's withers,
and slipped her own away. Their eyes met for a moment as she did so--the
child's steady and a little scornful, the young man's shifty. Then
Norah lifted her saddle across to Bobs, and girthed him up in silence.
The pony was restless and excited, and objected to the second saddling
out in the space of the yard, when he was keen to get away. It seemed
unreasonable to Bobs, and he ran round and generally behaved in a
frivolous manner, while Norah struggled with the girth. When it was
done, she took her head, somewhat dishevelled, from under the saddle
flap. She laughed a little.
Cecil, every line of his back showing offended dignity, was riding out
of the yard. As he came to the gate he dug his heel into Betty, who
broke into a canter at once. Norah's escort disappeared round a turn in
the street without looking back.
"Well, if he isn't a donkey!" was her comment. "He's awfully
unpleasant--I wish he wouldn't make things so uncomfortable." She
mounted Bobs, and subdued that excitable steed's impatience while she
settled her habit. "Jim will be so angry if he finds out. I must get
away before he comes."
She rode into the street. Some distance away a crowd was moving slowly
in her direction. Cheers and snatches of triumphant choruses were
wafted to her. In the midst she could see some figures in white
flannels. Norah rounded the corner of the street, seeing ahead of her a
fast-receding speck--Brown Betty and her rider. It was evident that she
was not to have the benefit of Cecil's presence on the ride home; and
Norah could not help laughing again, although she was annoyed at the
whole occurrence. For all his airs, he was such a baby, this cousin of
hers.
"I'll tell Dad all about it," she reflected. "The he can say whether he
thinks Cecil can ride Bobs. Only I won't tell him he cleared out and
left me, 'cause there would be a row straight away." Thus pondering in
the Australian manner, she took the road home.
Jim's storm was coming up slowly, and though the sun had not yet set,
already it was growing dusk; and still it was very hot. She let Bobs
canter slowly, not wishing to appear to be hurrying after Cecil. Norah
never bore malice, but she had her pride! Often she glanced back over
her shoulder, hoping to see the boys. She knew they would not let the
grass grow under their horses' hoofs, once they were able to take the
road home. But the track lay bare behind her, and ahead Cecil had quite
disappeared. By the time she was five miles out of Cunjee she seemed
the only person in the whole landscape, and the only sound that met her
ear was the steady beat of the cantering hoofs, mingled with the creak
of the saddle leather.
The metalled road ended, and she struck into the bush track. It was
very lonely now; trees overhung the path, and the eerie light of the
coming storm threw strange shadows, at which Bobs shied constantly.
Once or twice there was a distant roll of thunder. There was just light
enough left to see the way. The road wound in and out among the trees.
By day it was Norah's favourite part of the journey; but now she could
not help wishing that it were possible to look further ahead, or to
watch the road over which she had passed, to catch the first glimpse of
Jim and Wally. There was a pleasant security in feeling that they were
coming. Norah was not a nervous girl; but she had rarely been allowed
to ride any but short distances alone. If Dad and Jim were not
available, it was an understood thing that Billy must act as her
escort. Certainly she had never been in the dark alone, and so far from
home. She was not afraid--she would have laughed at the very notion.
Still, it was a little queer. She knew she would be glad when she was
out of the timber.
There came a bend in the track, and Bobs swung round it sharply. Then a
dark figure loomed up suddenly in the gloom, and the pony shied
violently, and propped. Norah struck her heel into him, her heart
giving a great bound. He struggled and plunged. A hand was on his
bridle, and a rough voice threatened him savagely. In the gloom Norah
could just make out a brutal-looking man, young, but with something in
his face that made her shudder. Her heart stood still for a moment,
after that first wild leap. Then she realized that he was asking her
for money, and she commanded her voice to answer.
"I haven't any."
It was true. When she rode with her father or brother it never occurred
to Norah to carry money, and she wore nothing of value at all to tempt
any thief. Her hunting-crop was silver mounted; she remembered it
suddenly, glad that it was dark and that the man would not be likely to
notice the gift that had been Jim's.
"I don't believe y'," he said.
"Well, you can, then," Norah answered. She was beginning to recover
herself, a little ashamed of that first moment of unreasoning terror.
If she had no money he would surely let her go. She scarcely knew the
meaning of fear--how should she, in the free, simple life that had
always been guarded, yet had left her only a little child in mind? "I
haven't so much as a penny," she went on. "Let go my bridle."
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