Back To Billabong

Back To Billabong

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Title: Back To Billabong
Author: Mary Grant Bruce
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BACK TO BILLABONG
by
MARY GRANT BRUCE

1921

"Beyond the distant sky-line (Now pansy-blue and clear), We know a
land is waiting, A brown land, very dear: A land of open spaces, Gaunt
forest, treeless plain: And if we once have loved it We must come back
again."
(Dorothea Mackellar.)

CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W
II. THE RAINHAMS
III. PLAYING TRUANT
IV. COMING HOME
V. THE TURN OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL
VI. SAILING ORDERS
VII. THE WATCH DOGS
VIII. HOW TOMMY BOARDED A STRANGE TAXI
IX. THE WELCOME OF AUSTRALIA
X. BILLABONG
XI. COLONIAL EXPERIENCES
XII. ON INFLUENZA AND FURNITURE
XIII. THE HOME ON THE CREEK
XIV. THE CUNJEE RACES

XV. HOW WALLY RODE A RACE
XVI. BUILDING UP AGAIN

BACK TO BILLABONG

CHAPTER I
LANCASTER GATE, LONDON, W
"Do the beastly old map yourself, if you want it. I shan't, anyhow!"
"Wilfred!"
"Aw, Wil-fred!" The boy at the end of the schoolroom table, red-
haired, snub-nosed and defiant, mimicked the protesting tone. "I've
done it once, and I'm blessed if I do it again."
"No one would dream that it was ever meant for Africa." The young
teacher glanced at the scrawled and blotted map before her. "It-- it
doesn't look like anything earthly. You must do it again, Wilfred."
"Don't you, Wilf." Wilfred's sister leaned back in her chair, tilting it on
its hind legs.
"You have nothing to do with Wilfred's work, Avice. Go on with your
French."
"Done it, thanks," said Avice. "And I suppose I can speak to my own
brother if I like."
"No, you can't--in lesson time," said the teacher.
"Who's going to stop me?"
Cecilia Rainham controlled herself with an effort.
"Bring me your work," she said.

She went over the untidy French exercise with a quick eye. When she
had finished it resembled a stormy sky--a groundwork of blue- black,
blotted writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red. Cecilia put down her
red pencil.
"It's hopeless, Avice. You haven't tried a bit. And you know it isn't
hard--you did a far more difficult piece of translation without a mistake
last Friday."
"Yes, but the pantomime was coming off on Saturday," said Wilfred,
with a grin. "Jolly little chance of tickets from Bob if she didn't!"
"You shut up!" said Avice.
"Be quiet, both of you," Cecilia ordered, a spot of red in each pale
cheek. "Remember, there will be other Saturdays. Bob will do nothing
for you if I can't give him a decent report of you." It was the threat she
hated using, but without it she was helpless. And the red-haired pair
before her knew to a fraction the extent of her helplessness.
For the moment the threat was effective. Avice went back to her seat,
taking with her the excited-looking French exercise, while Wilfred
sullenly recommenced a dispirited attack upon the African coastline.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair, and took up a half- knitted sock--to
drop it hastily, as a long-drawn howl came from a low chair by the
window.
"Whatever is the matter, Queenie?"
"I per-ricked my finger," sobbed the youngest Miss Rainham. She
stood up, tears raining down her plump cheeks. No one, Cecilia thought,
ever cried so easily, so copiously, and so frequently as Queenie. As she
stood holding out a very grubby forefinger, on which appeared a
minute spot of blood, great tears fell in splashes on the dark green
linoleum, while others ran down her face to join