Mates at Billabong | Page 9

they rode over the paddocks in the afternoon. As yet the grass had not dried up, thanks to the late rains, and everywhere a green sea rippled to the fences. Soon it would be dull and yellow; but this day there was nothing to mar the perfection of the carpet that gave softly under the horses' hoofs. The dogs raced wildly before them, chasing swallows and ground-larks in the cheerfully idiotic manner of dogs, with always a wary ear for Mr. Linton's whistle: but as yet they were not on duty, and were allowed to run riot.
An old log fence stretched before them. It was the only one on Billabong, where all station details were strictly up-to-date. This one had been left, partly because it was picturesque, and partly at the request of Jim and Norah, because it gave such splendid opportunities for jumping. There were not many places on that old fence that Bobs did not know, and he began to reef and pull as they came nearer to it.
"I don't believe I'll be able to hold him in, Daddy!" said Norah, with mock anxiety.
"Not afraid, I hope?" asked her father, laughing.
"Very--that you won't want to jump! I'd hate to disappoint him, Daddy--may I?"
"Oh, go on!" said Mr. Linton. "If I said 'no' the savage animal would probably bolt!" He held Monarch back as Norah gave the bay pony his head, and they raced for the fence; watching with a smile in his eyes the straight little form in the white coat, the firm seat in the saddle, the steady hand on the rein. Bobs flew the big log like a bird, and Norah twisted in her saddle to watch the black horse follow. Her eyes were glowing as her father came up.
"I do think he loves it as much as I do!" she said, patting the pony's neck.
"He's certainly as keen a pony as I ever saw," Mr. Linton said. "How are you going to manage without him, Norah?"
Norah looked up, her eyes wide with astonishment.
"Do without BOBS!" she exclaimed. "But I simply couldn't--he's one of the family." Then her face fell suddenly, and the life died out of her voice. "Oh--school," she said.
The change was rather pitiful, and Mr. Linton mentally abused himself for his question.
"He'll always be waiting for you when you come home, dear," he said. "Plenty of holidays--and think how fit he'll be! We'll have great rides, Norah."
"I guess I'll want them," she said. Silence fell between them.
The scrub at the backwater was fairly thick, and the cattle had sought its shade when the noonday sun struck hot. Well fed and sleek, they lay about under the trees or on the little grassy flats formed by the bends of the stream. Norah and her father separated, each taking a dog, and beat through the bush, routing out stragglers as they went. The echoes of the stock-whips rang along the water. Norah's was only a light whip, half the length and weight of the one her father carried. It was beautifully plaited--a special piece of work, out of a special hide; while the handle was a triumph of the stockman's art. It had been a gift to Norah from an old boundary rider whose whips were famous, and she valued it more than most of her possessions, while long practice and expert tuition had given her no little skill in its use,
She worked through the scrub, keeping her eyes in every direction, for the cattle were lazy and did not stir readily, and it was easy to miss a motionless beast hidden behind a clump of dogwood or Christmas bush--the scrub tree that greets December with its exquisite white blossoms. When at length she came to the end of her division and drove her cattle out of the shelter she had quite a respectable little mob to add to those with which her father was already waiting.
It was only to be a rough muster; rather, a general inspection to see how the bullocks were doing, for the nearest stockyards were at the homestead, and Mr. Linton did not desire to drive them far. He managed to get a rough count along a fence--Norah in the rear, bringing the bullocks along slowly, so that they strung out under their owner's eye. Occasionally one would break out and try to race past him on the wrong side. Bobs was as quick as his rider to watch for these vagrants, and at the first hint of a breakaway he would be off in pursuit. It was work the pair loved.
"Hundred and thirty," said Mr. Linton, as the last lumbering beast trotted past him, and, finding the way clear, with no harrowing creatures to annoy him and head him back to his mates, kicked up his heels and made