text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 19

This Monday morning Bub appeared at the Lodge and had the car ready before Mr. Conant had finished his breakfast. Mary Louise decided to drive to Millbank with them, just for the pleasure of the trip, and although the boy evidently regarded her presence with distinct disapproval he made no verbal objection.

As Irene wheeled herself out upon the porch to see them start, Mary Louise called to her:

"Here's your chair cushion, Irene, lying on the steps and quite wet with dew. I never supposed you could be so careless. And you'd better sew up that rip before it gets bigger," she added, handing the cushion to her friend.

"I will," Irene quietly returned.

Bub proved himself a good driver before they had gone a mile and it pleased Mr. Conant to observe that the boy made the trip down the treacherous mountain road with admirable caution. Once on the level, however, he "stepped on it," as he expressed it, and dashed past the Huddle and over the plain as if training for the Grand Prix.

It amused Mary Louise to watch their quaint little driver, barefooted and in blue-jeans and hickory shirt, with the heavy Scotch golf cap pulled over his eyes, taking his task of handling the car as seriously as might any city chauffeur and executing it fully as well.

During the trip the girl conversed with Mr. Conant.

"Do you remember our referring to an old letter, the other day?" she asked.

"Yes," said he.

"Irene found it in one of those secondhand books you bought in New York, and she said it spoke of both my mother and my grandfather."

"The deuce it did!" he exclaimed, evidently startled by the information.

"It must have been quite an old letter," continued Mary Louise, musingly.

"What did it say?" he demanded, rather eagerly for the unemotional lawyer.

"I don't know. Irene wouldn't let me read it."

"Wouldn't, eh? That's odd. Why didn't you tell me of this before I left the Lodge?"

"I didn't think to tell you, until now. And, Uncle Peter, what, do you think of Miss Lord?"

"A very charming lady. What did Irene do with the letter?"

"I think she left it in the book; and—the book was stolen the very next day."

"Great Caesar! Who knew about that letter?"

"Miss Lord was present when Irene found the letter, and she heard Irene exclaim that it was all about my mother, as well as about my grandfather."

"Miss Lord?"

"Yes."

"And the book was taken by someone?"

"The next day. We missed it after—after Miss Lord had visited the den alone."

"Huh!"

He rode for awhile in silence.

"Really," he muttered, as if to himself, "I ought to go back. I ought not to take for granted the fact that this old letter is unimportant. However, Irene has read it, and if it happened to be of value I'm sure the girl would have told me about it."

"Yes, she certainly would have told you," agreed Mary Louise. "But she declared that even I would not be interested in reading it."

"That's the only point that perplexes me," said the lawyer. "Just—that—one—point."

"Why?" asked the girl.

But Mr. Conant did not explain. He sat bolt upright on his seat, staring at the back of Bub's head, for the rest of the journey. Mary Louise noticed that his fingers constantly fumbled with the locket on his watch chain.

As the lawyer left the car at the station he whispered to Mary Louise:

"Tell Irene that I now know about the letter; and just say to her that I consider her a very cautious girl. Don't say anything more. And don't, for heaven's sake, suspect poor Miss Lord. I'll talk with Irene when I return on Friday."

On their way back Bub maintained an absolute silence until after they had passed the Huddle. Before they started to climb the hill road, however, the boy suddenly slowed up, halted the car and turned deliberately in his seat to face Mary Louise.

"Bein' as how you're a gal," said he, "I ain't got much use fer ye, an' that's a fact. I don't say it's your fault, nor that ye wouldn't 'a' made a pass'ble boy ef ye'd be'n borned thet way. But you're right on one thing, an' don't fergit I told ye so: thet woman at Bigbee's ain't on the square."

"How do you know?" asked Mary Louise, delighted to be taken into Bub's confidence—being a girl.

"The critter's too slick," he explained, raising one bare foot to the cushion beside him and picking a sliver out of his toe. "Her eyes ain't got their shutters raised. Eyes're like winders, but hers ye kain't see through. I don't know nuth'n' 'bout that slick gal at Bigbee's an' I don't want to know nuth'n'. But I heer'd what ye said to the boss, an' what he said to you, an' I guess you're right in sizin' the critter up, an' the boss is wrong."

With this he swung round again and started the car, nor did he utter another word until he ran the machine into the garage.

During Mary Louise's absence Irene had had a strange and startling experience with their beautiful neighbor. The girl had wheeled her chair out upon the bluff to sun herself and read, Mrs. Conant being busy in the house, when Agatha Lord strolled up to her with a smile and a pleasant "good morning."

"I'm glad to find you alone," said she, seating herself beside the wheeled chair. "I saw Mr. Conant and Mary Louise pass the Bigbee place and decided this would be a good opportunity for you and me to have a nice, quiet talk together. So I came over."

Irene's face was a bit disdainful as she remarked:

"I found the cushion this morning."

"What cushion do you refer to?" asked Agatha with a puzzled expression.

Irene frowned.

"We cannot talk frankly together when we are at cross purposes," she complained.

"Very true, my dear; but you seem inclined to speak in riddles."

"Do you deny any knowledge of my chair cushion!"

"I do."

"I must accept your statement, of course. What do you wish to say to me, Miss Lord?"

"I would like to establish a more friendly understanding between us. You are an intelligent girl and cannot fail to realize that I have taken a warm interest in your friend Mary Louise Burrows. I want to know more about her, and about her people, who seem to have cast her off. You are able to give me this information, I am sure, and by doing so you may be instrumental in assisting your friend materially."

It was an odd speech; odd and insincere. Irene studied the woman's face curiously.

"Who are you, Miss Lord?" she inquired.

"Your neighbor."

"Why are you our neighbor?"

"I am glad to be able to explain that—to you, in confidence. I am trying to clear the name of Colonel Weatherby from a grave charge—the charge of high treason."

"In other words, you are trying to discover where he is," retorted Irene impatiently.

"No, my dear; you mistake me. It is not important to my mission, at present, to know where Colonel Weatherby is staying. I am merely seeking relevant information, such information as you are in a position to give me."

"I, Miss Lord?"

"Yes. To be perfectly frank, I want to see the letter which you found in that book."

"Why should you attach any importance to that?"

"I was present, you will remember, when you discovered it. I marked your surprise and perplexity—your fear and uncertainty—as you glanced first at the writing and then at Mary Louise. You determined not to show your friend that letter because it would disturb her, yet you inadvertently admitted, in my hearing, that it referred to the girl's mother and—which is vastly more important—to her grandfather."

"Well; what then, Miss Lord?"

"Colonel Weatherby is a man of mystery. He has been hunted by Government agents for nearly ten years, during which time he has successfully eluded them. If you know anything of the Government service you know it has a thousand eyes, ten thousand ears and a myriad of long arms to seize its malefactors. It has not yet captured Colonel Weatherby."

"Why has he been hunted all these years?"

"He is charged, as I said, with high treason. By persistently evading capture he has tacitly admitted his guilt."

"But he is innocent!" cried Irene indignantly.

Miss Lord seemed surprised, yet not altogether ill-pleased, at the involuntary exclamation.

"Indeed!" she said softly. "Could you prove that statement?"

"I—I think so," stammered the girl, regretting her hasty avowal.

"Then why not do so and by restoring Mary Louise to her grandfather make them both happy?"

Irene sat silent, trapped.

"This is why I have come to you," continued Agatha, very seriously. "I am employed by those whose identity I must not disclose to sift this mystery of Colonel Weatherby to the bottom, if possible, and then to fix the guilt where it belongs. By accident you have come into possession of certain facts that would be important in unravelling the tangle, but through your unfortunate affliction you are helpless to act in your own capacity. You need an ally with more strength and experience than yourself, and I propose you accept me as that ally. Together we may be able to clear the name of James J. Hathaway—who now calls himself Colonel James Weatherby—from all reproach and so restore him to the esteem of his fellow men."

"But we must not do that, even if we could!" cried Irene, quite distressed by the suggestion.

"Why not, my dear?"

The tone was so soft and cat-like that it alarmed Irene instantly. Before answering she took time to reflect. To her dismay she found this woman was gradually drawing from her the very information she had declared she would preserve secret. She knew well that she was no match for Agatha Lord in a trial of wits. Her only recourse must be a stubborn refusal to explain anything more.

"Colonel Weatherby," she said slowly, "has better information than I of the charge against him and his reasons for keeping hidden, yet he steadfastly refuses to proclaim his innocence or to prove he is unjustly accused, which he might very well do if he chose. You say you are working in his interests, and, allowing that, I am satisfied he would bitterly reproach anyone who succeeded in clearing his name by disclosing the truth."

This argument positively amazed Agatha Lord, as it might well amaze anyone who had not read the letter. In spite of her supreme confidence of the moment before, the woman now suddenly realized that this promising interview was destined to end disastrously to her plans.

"I am so obtuse that you will have to explain that statement," she said with assumed carelessness; but Irene was now on guard and replied:

"Then our alliance is dissolved. I do not intend, Miss Lord, to betray such information as I may have stumbled upon unwittingly. You express interest in Mary Louise and her grandfather and say you are anxious to serve them. So am I. Therefore I beg you, in their interests, to abandon any further attempt to penetrate the secret."

Agatha was disconcerted.

"Show me the letter," she urged, as a last resort. "If, on reading it, I find your position is justifiable—you must admit it is now bewildering—I will agree to abandon the investigation altogether."

"I will not show you the letter," declared the girl positively.

The woman studied her face.

"But you will consider this conversation confidential, will you not?"

"Since you request it, yes."

"I do not wish our very pleasant relations, as neighbors, disturbed. I would rather the Conants and Mary Louise did not suspect I am here on any especial mission."

"Very well."

"In truth," continued Agatha, "I am growing fond of you all and this is a real vacation to me, after a period of hard work in the city which racked my nerves. Before long I must return to the old strenuous life, so I wish to make the most of my present opportunities."

"I understand."

No further reference was made to the letter or to Colonel Weatherby. They talked of other things for a while and when Miss Lord went away there seemed to exist—at least upon the surface—the same friendly relations that had formerly prevailed between them.

Irene, reflecting upon the interview, decided that while she had admitted more than was wise she had stopped short of exposing the truth about Colonel Weatherby. The letter was safely hidden, now. She defied even Miss Lord to find it. If she could manage to control her tongue, hereafter, the secret was safe in her possession.

Thoughtfully she wheeled herself back to the den and finding the room deserted she ventured to peep into her novel hiding-place. Yes; the precious letter was still safe. But this time, in her abstraction, she failed to see the face at the window.

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 19


text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 20

Tuesday afternoon Miss Lord's big touring car stood at the door of Hillcrest Lodge, for Agatha had invited the Conant party to ride with her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.

When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison's old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy's attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.

Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley. Miss Lord's big car was just passing the Huddle on its way up the valley.

Sarah turned and reëntered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.

She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison's fine hunting rifle. In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a "repeater." Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end—the letter that Irene had found in the book.

It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet—evidently of foreign make—and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.

After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.

Both the window and the glass door of the den faced the back yard. Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work. Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper. On this she wrote the following words:

"John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C.

Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick. If England rumples paper Russia admires money.

Sarah Judd."

Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair—a tiny book it—was, filled with curious characters. When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work. After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.

"I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station," said Sarah.

Bub gave her a scornful look.

"Ye're crazy," he said and went on with his polishing.

"That needn't worry you," retorted the girl.

"It don't," declared Bub.

"You can drive and you're going to," she continued. "I've got to send this telegram quick, and you've got to take it." She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car. "There's a dollar to pay for the message, and there's a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble."

Bub gave a gasp. He came up beside her and stared at the money. Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"Private business. Don't ask questions; you'd only get lies for answers. Go and earn your money."

"Miss' Conant, she's gone to Millbank herself. Ef she sees me there, I'll git fired. The boss'll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin' the car when he tol' me not to."

"How much do you get a week!" asked Sarah.

"Four bits."

"That's about two dollars a month. In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you'll have earned four dollars. Why, Bub, it's cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars."

Bub scratched his head in perplexity.

"Ye ain't count'n' on the fun o' workin'," he suggested.

"I'm counting on that five dollars—eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it's a fortune, Bub."

He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.

"I guess Will Morrison wouldn't like it," he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."

Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.

"There," she said; "let's make it ten dollars, and save time."

Bub's hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously:

"Tain't go'n' to do no harm to them gals thet's stoppin' here, is it?"

"It is to do them a good turn that I'm sending this telegram."

"Honor bright?"

"Hope to die, Bub."

"All right; I'm off."

He folded the letter, placed it inside his Scotch cap and stowed the money carefully in his pocket.

"Don't let any of the folks see you if yon can help it," warned Sarah; "and, whatever happens, don't say anything about that telegram to a living soul. Only—see that it's sent."

"I'm wise," answered Bub and a moment later he started the car and rolled away down the road.

Sarah Judd looked after him with a queer smile on her face. Then she went back to her kitchen and resumed her dish-washing. Presently a scarcely audible sound arrested her attention. It seemed to come from the interior of the Lodge.

Sarah avoided making a particle of noise herself as she stole softly through the dining room and entered the main hallway. One glance showed her that the front door was ajar and the door of the den closed—exactly the reverse of what they should be. She crept forward and with a sudden movement threw open the door of the den.

A woman stood in the center of the room. As the door opened she swung around and pointed a revolver at Sarah. Then for a moment they silently faced one another.

"Ah," said the woman, with an accent of relief, "you're the servant. Go back to your work. Mrs. Conant told me to make myself at home here."

"Yes, I know," replied Sarah sarcastically. "She said she was expecting you and told me it wouldn't do any harm to keep an eye on you while you're here. She said Miss Lord was going to get all the family away, so you could make a careful search of the house, you being Miss Lord's maid, Susan—otherwise known as Nan Shelley, from the Washington Bureau."

Susan's hand shook so ridiculously that she lowered the revolver to prevent its dropping from her grasp. Her countenance expressed chagrin, surprise, anger.

"I don't know you," she said harshly. "Who are you?"

"New at the game," replied Sarah Judd, with a shrug. "You don't know me, Nan, but I know you; and I know your record, too. You're as slick as they make 'em, and the one who calls herself Agatha Lord is just an infantile amateur beside you. But go ahead, Nan; don't let me interrupt your work."

The woman sank into a chair.

"You can't be from the home office," she muttered, staring hard at the girl. "They wouldn't dare interfere with my work here."

"No; I'm not from the home office."

"I knew," said Susan, "as soon as I heard the story of your coming, that it was faked. I'd gamble that you never saw Mrs. Morrison in your life."

"You'd win," said Sarah, also taking a chair.

"Then who could have sent you here?"

"Figure it out yourself," suggested Sarah.

"I'm trying to. Do you know what we're after?"

"A clew to Hathaway. Incidentally, any other information concerning him that comes your way. That includes the letter."

"Oh. So you know about the letter, do you?" asked Susan.

"To be sure. And I know that's what you're here for now. Don't let me interrupt you. It's a mighty hard job, finding that letter, and the folks'll be back by and by."

"You're right," exclaimed the woman, rising abruptly. "Go back to your work in the kitchen."

"This is my occupation, just now," retorted Sarah, lolling in her chair. "Go ahead with your search, Nan, and I'll tell you when you are 'hot' or 'cold.'"

"You're an impudent little chit," said Nan tartly. "See here," with a sudden change of voice, "let's pool issues. If we can discover anything important in this place, there's reward enough for us all."

"I am not opposing you," protested Sarah Judd, "I'm not a particle interested in whether you trace Hathaway or not. I don't believe you can do it, though, and that letter you're so eager for won't help you a bit. It was written ten years ago."

"That makes it more important," declared the other, "We've two things to accomplish; one is to locate Hathaway, and the other to secure absolute proof of his guilt."

"I thought he was caught doing the job."

"So he was, in a way. But the Department needs more proof."

Sarah Judd smiled unbelievingly. Then she chuckled. Presently she laughed outright, in genuine merriment, as the thought that amused her grew and expanded.

"What fools—" she said, "what perfect fools—we mortals be!"

All this annoyed Nan Shelley exceedingly. The successful woman detective did not relish being jeered at by a mere girl.

"You've read the letter, I suppose, and are now making fun of me for trying to get it? Perhaps you've hidden it yourself—although that isn't likely. Why can't you give me an honest tip? We're both in the same line, it seems, and both trying to earn an honest living. How about that letter? Is it necessary for me to find it?"

"I've read it," admitted Sarah, "and I know where it is. You might perhaps find it, if you hunted long enough, but it isn't worth your while. It wouldn't help in the least to convict Hathaway and of course it couldn't tell you where he is now hiding."

"Is this straight?"

"True as gospel."

"Then why don't you prove it by showing me the letter?"

"Because I don't belong on your side of the fence. You're working for one organization and I for another. Any little tip I let slip is just for your personal use. Don't bother about that letter."

Susan—or Nan Shelley—sat for a time in thought. Once in a while she would cast a furtive glance around the room and its wall covered with trophies, and then she would turn to Sarah Judd's placid face.

"Where did the boy go?" she asked abruptly.

"What boy?"

"Bub; in the automobile."

"To Millbank."

"What for?"

"To send a telegram."

"Your report?"

"Yes."

"Important?"

"I think it'll bring things to a climax."

"The Hathaway case?"

"You can guess anything, Nan, if you guess long enough."

Nan rose and put the revolver in her pocket. Then she held out her hand frankly to Sarah Judd.

"If you've beaten me in this affair," she said, with no apparent resentment, "you're clever enough to become famous some day. I'm going to take your advice about the letter and if that climax you're predicting arrives on schedule time I'll not be sorry to quit this dreary, dragging case and pick up a more interesting one."

The tone was friendly and frank. Sarah stretched out her hand to meet that of Nan and in a flash a handcuff snapped over her wrist. With a cry she drew back, but a dextrous twist of her opponent's free hand prisoned her other wrist and she at once realized that she was fairly caught.

"Fine!" she cried admiringly, as she looked at her bonds, "What next, Nan?"

But Nan was too busy to talk. She deftly searched the girl's pocket and found the notebook. The shorthand writing caught her eye at once but the characters were unknown to her.

"Cipher, eh?" she muttered.

"A little code of my own invention," said Sarah. "Sometimes I can't make it out myself."

Nan restored the book and examined Sarah Judd's purse.

"They keep you well supplied with funds, it seems."

"Comes handy in emergencies," was the reply.

"Now let's go to your room."

Sarah, handcuffed, led the way. Nan Shelley made a wonderfully rapid search through every article in the maid's room. The lining of her clothes was inspected, her hair-brush tested for a sliding back, the pictures on the wall, the rug and the bed-clothing examined minutely. Yet all this consumed but a brief period of time and resulted in no important discovery.

"Feel better?" asked Sarah cheerfully.

"You know I do. I'm going to remove these handcuffs, now, and then I'm going home. Come and see me, some time when you feel lonesome. I've only that fool Agatha to talk to and I've an idea you and I might interest each other."

As she spoke she unlocked the manacles and dropped them with a slight click into a concealed pocket of her dark skirt.

"I imagine Agatha isn't real brilliant," returned Sarah; "but neither am I. When I'm your age, Nan, I hope to be half as clever. Just now you can twist me around your finger."

Nan regarded her seriously.

"I wish I knew what you are up to," she remarked suspiciously. "You can scarcely conceal your joy, my girl, and that proves I've overlooked something. You've puzzled me, youngster as you are, but you must remember that I'm working in the dark while some mysterious gleam of knowledge lights your way. Put us side by side, on the same track, and I wouldn't be afraid of you, Sarah Judd."

"Don't apologize, Nan; it makes me feel ashamed."

Nan's frown, as she looked into the blue eyes, turned to a smile of appreciation. Sarah also smiled, and then she said:

"Let me make you a cup of tea before you go."

"A good idea. We're friends, then?"

"Why not? One friend is worth a thousand enemies and it's absurd to quarrel with one for doing her duty."

"That's what O'Gorman is always saying. Ever hear of O'Gorman?"

"Yes; he's one of the old stand-bys in the secret service department; but they say he's getting old. Slipped a good many cogs lately, I hear."

"He's the Chief's right hand man. O'Gorman used to have this case—the branch of it I'm now working—but he gave it up and recommended the Chief to put me on the job. Said a woman could trail Mary Louise better than any man and with less chance of discovery; and he was right, for I've lived half a block from her in Dorfield and she never saw my face once. But O'Gorman didn't suspect you were coming into the case and the thing's getting altogether too complicated to suit me."

Sarah was brewing the tea and considered an answer unnecessary. The conversation drifted away from the Hathaway case and into less personal channels. When Nan Shelley finally rose to go there was sincere friendliness in Sarah's "good-bye" and the elder woman said in parting:

"You're the right sort, Sarah. If ever you drift into Washington and need work, come to me and I'll get the Chief to take you on. I know he'd be glad to get you."

"Thank you, Nan," said Sarah meekly.

But there was a smile on her freckled face as she watched her recent acquaintance walk down the road, and it lingered there while she returned to her kitchen and finally washed and put away the long neglected lunch dishes.

Bub dashed into the yard and tooted his horn. Sarah went out to him.

"Ye kin call me lucky, ef ye don't mind," he said with a grin. "Sent yer tel'gram, found out the tenner ye guv me were good, an' got back without the folks gett'n' a single blink at me."

"You're some driver, Bub, and you've got a wise head on your shoulders. If you don't talk about this trip, and I don't, no one will ever know, except we two, that the car has been out of the garage."

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 20


text:
Mary Louise/Chapter 21

Peter Conant had told his wife that he wouldn't be at the Lodge this week until Saturday, as business would prevent his coming earlier, yet the Thursday afternoon train brought him to Millbank and Bill Coombs' stage took him to Hillcrest.

"Why, Peter!" exclaimed Aunt Hannah, when she saw him, "what on earth brought you—"

Then she stopped short, for Peter's eyes were staring more roundly than usual and the hand that fumbled at his locket trembled visibly. He stared at Aunt Hannah, he stared at Irene; but most of all he stared at Mary Louise, who seemed to sense from his manner some impending misfortune.

"H-m," said the lawyer, growing red and then paling; "I've bad news."

He chopped the words off abruptly, as if he resented the necessity of uttering them. His eyes, which had been fixed upon the face of Mary Louise, suddenly wavered and sought the floor.

His manner said more than his words. Mary Louise grew white and pressed her hands to her heart, regarding the lawyer with eyes questioning and full of fear. Irene turned a sympathetic gaze upon her friend and Aunt Hannah came closer to the girl and slipped an arm around her waist, as if to help her to endure this unknown trial. And Mary Louise, feeling she could not bear the suspense, asked falteringly:

"Has—Gran'pa Jim—been—"

"No," said Mr. Conant. "No, my dear, no."

"Then—has anything happened to—to—mother?"

"Well, well," muttered the lawyer, with a sort or growl, "Mrs. Burrows has not been in good health for some months, it seems. She—eh—was under a—eh—under a nervous strain; a severe nervous strain, you know, and—"

"Is she dead?" asked the girl in a low, hard voice.

"The end, it seems, came unexpectedly, several days ago. She did not suffer, your grandfather writes, but—"

Again he left his sentence unfinished, for Mary Louise had buried her face in Aunt Hannah's bosom and was sobbing in a miserable, heart-breaking way that made Peter jerk a handkerchief from, his pocket and blow his nose lustily. Then he turned and marched from the room, while his wife led the hapless girl to a sofa and cuddled her in her lap as if she had been a little child.

"She's best with the women," muttered Peter to himself. "It's a sorrowful thing—a dreadful thing, in a way—but it can't be helped and—she's best with the women."

He had wandered into the dining room, where Sarah Judd was laying the table for dinner. She must have overheard the conversation in the living room, for she came beside the lawyer and asked:

"When did Mrs. Burrows die?"

"On Monday."

"Where?"

"That's none of your business, my girl."

"Has the funeral been held?"

He regarded her curiously. The idea of a servant asking such questions! But there was a look in Sarah's blue eyes that meant more than curiosity; somehow, it drew from him an answer.

"Mrs. Burrows was cremated on Wednesday. It seems she preferred it to burial." Having said this, he turned to stare from the window again.

Sarah Judd stood silent a moment. Then she said with a sigh of relief:

"It's a queer world, isn't it, Mr. Conant? And this death isn't altogether a calamity."

"Eh? Why not?" whirling round to face her.

"Because," said Sarah, "it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again—a free man."

Peter Conant was so startled that he stood motionless, forgetting his locket but not forgetting to stare. Sarah, with her hands full of forks and spoons, began placing the silver in orderly array upon the table. She paid no heed to the lawyer, who gradually recovered his poise and watched her with newly awakened interest. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and then decided not to. He was bewildered, perplexed, suspicious. In thought he began to review the manner of Sarah's coming to them, and her subsequent actions. She seemed a capable servant. Mrs. Conant had never complained of her. Yet—what did she know of Hathaway?

Mary Louise did not appear at dinner. She begged to be left alone in her room. Sarah took her some toast and tea, with honest sympathy in her eyes, but the sorrowing girl shook her head and would not taste the food. Later, however, in the evening, she entered the living room where the others sat in depressed silence and said:

"Please, Mr. Conant, tell me all you know about—mother."

"It is very little, my dear" replied the lawyer in a kindly tone. "This morning I received a message from your grandfather which said: 'Poor Beatrice passed away on Monday and at her request her body was cremated to-day. Be very gentle in breaking the sad news to Mary Louise.' That was all, my child, and I came here as quickly as I could. In a day or so we shall have further details, I feel sure. I am going back to town in the morning and will send you any information I receive."

"Thank you," said the girl, and was quietly leaving the room when Irene called to her.

"Mary Louise!"

"Yes?" half turning.

"Will you come with me to my room?"

"Now?"

"Yes. You know I cannot go up the stairs. And—I lost my own dear mother not long ago, you will remember."

Tears started to the girl's eyes, but she waited until Irene wheeled her chair beside her and then the two went through the den to Irene's room.

Mrs. Conant nodded to Peter approvingly.

"Irene will comfort her," she said, "and in a way far better than I might do. It is all very dreadful and very sad, Peter, but the poor child has never enjoyed much of her mother's society and when the first bitter grief is passed I think she will recover something of her usual cheerfulness."

"H-m," returned the lawyer; "it seems a hard thing to say, Hannah, but this demise may prove a blessing in disguise and be best for the child's future happiness. In any event, I'm sure it will relieve the strain many of us have been under for the past ten years."

"You talk in riddles, Peter."

"The whole thing is a riddle, Hannah. And, by the way, have you noticed anything suspicious about our hired girl?"

"About Sarah? No," regarding him with surprise.

"Does she—eh—snoop around much?"

"No; she's a very good girl."

"Too good to be true, perhaps," observed Peter, and lapsed into thought. Really, it wouldn't matter now how much Sarah Judd—or anyone else—knew of the Hathaway case. The mystery would solve itself, presently.

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 21


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162 Save this money that is due to you; go to Mr. Hammond's with the determination to stick to your work; write to your father and mother; strengthen your resolution every way in you power. Look at my father who began the world with nothing and who has earned for himself comfort and abundance, and sees his children ready to work for him when he gets past hard work. This is the country for the honest industrious man, and you cannot fail to get on if you are only steady and resolved. For you are so honest and straightforward; my father says no one he ever paid wages to had his interest so much at heart. Oh! George, though I have been so mistaken in your thoughts of me, let me not be mistaken in this, that you deserve my good thoughts of you."

Jessie Lindsay was no pretty, but she was very comely, and as she now stood leaning with her back to the milking shed facing George, he for the first time saw into her soul and was touched by its strength and its weakness. She looked so earnest, so self-forgetful; she had not thought of herself, but she took the only opportunity that was given to her to arouse his better feelings and to restore him to self-respect.

This was the wife for him of all the world if he only knew it, and he began to have a

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Mary Louise/Chapter 22

Mr. Conant decided to take the Friday morning train back to Dorfield, saying it would not be possible for him to remain at the Lodge over Sunday, because important business might require his presence in town.

"This demise of Mrs. Burrows," he said confidentially to his wife in the privacy of their room, "may have far-reaching results and turn the whole current of Colonel Weatherby's life."

"I don't see why," said Aunt Hannah.

"You're not expected to see why," he replied. "As the Colonel is my most important client, I must be at the office in case of developments or a sudden demand for my services. I will tell you one thing, however, and that is that this vacation at Hillcrest Lodge was planned by the Colonel while I was in New York, with the idea that he and Mrs. Burrows would come here secretly and enjoy a nice visit with Mary Louise."

"You planned all that, Peter!"

"Yes. That is, Weatherby planned it. He knows Will Morrison well, and Will was only too glad to assist him; so they wired me to come to New York, where all was quickly arranged. This place is so retired that we considered it quite safe for the fugitives to come here."

"Why didn't they come, then?"

"Two reasons prevented them. One was the sudden breaking of Mrs. Burrows' health; the other reason was the Colonel's discovery that in some way our carefully laid plans had become known to the detectives who are seeking him."

"Good gracious! Are you sure of that, Peter!"

"The Colonel seemed sure. He maintains a detective force on his own account and his spies discovered that Hillcrest is being watched by agents of the Secret Service."

"Dear me; what a maze of deceit!" wailed the good woman. "I wish you were well out of the whole affair, Peter; and I wish Mary Louise was out of it, too."

"So do I, with all my heart. But it's coming to a focus soon, Hannah. Be patient and it may end better than we now fear."

So Bub drove Mr. Conant to Millbank and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made a bungle of it and wasted all the forenoon before he finally took Bub's advice about shaping it and the new rod was attached and found to work successfully.

It was after one o'clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger—a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.

"Going far?" he asked.

"Up th' mount'n to Hillcrest," said Bub.

"Oh. May I have a lift?"

"How fer?"

"Well, I can't say how far I'll go. I'm undecided. Just came out here for a little fresh air, you know, with no definite plans," explained the stranger.

"Hop in," said Bub and for a time they rode together in silence.

"This 'ere's the Huddle, as we're comin' to," announced the boy. "Ol' Miss' Parsons she sometimes takes boarders."

"That's kind of her," remarked the stranger. "But the air isn't so good as further up the hill."

"Ef ye go up," said Bub with a grin, "guess ye'll hev to camp out an' eat scrub. Nobody don't take boarders, up th' mount'n."

"I suppose not."

He made no demand to be let out at the Huddle, so Bub drove on.

"By the way," said the little man, "isn't there a place called Bigbee's, near here?"

"Comin' to it pretty soon. They's some gals livin' there now, so ye won't care to stop."

"What sort of girls are they?"

"Sort o' queer."

"Yes?"

"Ye bet ye. Come from the city a while ago an' livin' by theyselves. Someth'n' wrong 'bout them gals," added Bub reflectively.

"In what way?" asked the little man in a tone of interest.

"They ain't here fer nuth'n' special 'cept watchin' the folks at Hillcrest. Them's the folks I belongs to. For four bits a week. They's someth'n' queer 'bout them, too; but I guess all the folks is queer thet comes here from the city."

"Quite likely," agreed the little man, nodding. "Let me out at Bigbee's, please, and I'll look over those women and form my own opinion of them. They may perhaps be friends of mine."

"In thet case," asserted Bub, "I pity ye, stranger. F'r my part, I ain't got no use fer anything thet wears skirts—'cept one er two, mebbe," he added reflectively. "Most men I kin git 'long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin' an' acts ugly, it's 'cause some gal's rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an' twisted the blade—so's ter speak."

"You're an observant lad, I see."

"When I'm awake I kain't help seein' things."

"And you're a pastoral philosopher."

Bub scowled and gave him a surly glance.

"What's the use firin' thet high-brow stuff at me?" he asked indignantly. "I s'pose ye think I'm a kid, jes' 'cause I don't do no fancy talkin'."

"I suspect you of nothing but generosity in giving me this ride," said the stranger pleasantly. "Is that Bigbee's, over yonder?"

"Yes."

The little man got out at the point where the Bigbee drive met the road, and walked up the drive toward the house. Agatha Lord was standing at the gateway, as he approached it, and seemed rather startled at his appearance. But she quickly controlled her surprise and asked in a calm voice, as she faced him:

"What's up, O'Gorman?"

"Hathaway's coming here," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"He's in Dorfield to-day, waiting to see Lawyer Conant, who went in on the morning train. Where's Nan?"

"Here, my lord!" said Nan Shelley, stepping from behind a tall shrub. "How are you, partner? I recognized you as you passed the Huddle with the boy."

"Field glasses, eh? There isn't much escapes you, Nan."

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Agatha reproachfully.

"Why don't you make your own discoveries?" retorted her confederate. Then, turning to O'Gorman, she continued: "So Hathaway's coming, is he? At last."

"A little late, but according to program. How have you been getting along?"

"Bored to death," asserted Nan. "Agatha has played the lady and I've done the dirty work. But tell me, why didn't you nab Hathaway at Dorfield?"

O'Gorman smiled a little grimly as he answered:

"I'm not sure, Nan, that we shall nab Hathaway at all."

"Isn't he being shadowed?" with some surprise.

"No. But he'll come here, right enough; and then—"

"And then," she added, as he paused, "the chase of years will come to an end."

"Exactly. We may decide to take him to Washington, and we may not."

She gazed at him inquiringly.

"There are some new developments, then, O'Gorman?"

"I'm inclined to suspect there are."

"Known to the department?"

"Yes. I'm to investigate and use my judgment."

"I see. Then Agatha and I are out of it?"

"Not yet; I'm still depending on your shrewdness to assist me. The office has only had a hint, so far, of the prospective break in the case, but—"

"Oh, yes; I remember now," exclaimed Nan.

"That girl up at Conant's sent a telegram, in a desperate hurry. I suspected it meant something important. Who is she, O'Gorman, and why did the Chief cut under us by planting Sarah Judd in the Conants' household?"

"He didn't. The girl has nothing to do with the Department."

"Then some of you intercepted the telegram?"

"We know what it said," he admitted.

"Come, let's go to the house. I've had no lunch. Can you feed me?"

"Certainly." They turned and walked slowly up the path. Said Nan, musingly: "That Sarah Judd is rather clever, O'Gorman. Is she in Hathaway's pay?"

"I think not," he replied, with an amused chuckle.

Nan tossed her head indignantly.

"Very well; play me for a ninny, if you like," she said resentfully. "You'll get a heap more out of me, in that way!"

"Now, now," said Agatha warningly, "keep your tempers and don't quarrel. You two are like cats and dogs when you get together; yet you're the two cleverest people in the service. According to your story, Mr. O'Gorman, there's an important crisis approaching, and we'd all like to be able to render a good account of ourselves."

Agatha Lord may have lacked something of Nan's experience, but this speech proved her a fair diplomat. It dispersed the gathering storm and during the rest of that afternoon the three counseled together in perfect harmony, O'Gorman confiding to his associates such information as would enable them to act with him intelligently. Hathaway and Peter Conant could not arrive till the next day at noon; they might even come by the afternoon train. Nan's field glasses would warn them of the arrival and meanwhile there was ample time to consider how they should act.

title: Mary Louise/Chapter 22


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Rh of the fact. If such a woman as Jessie Lindsay, with her intuitive sense of right, her sound judgment, and her affectionate heart, could be brought to love an unsettled somewhat impressible man like him, the whole course of his life would be changed. He would infallibly rise in the world if he submitted to the affectionate influence she was capable of exerting. But such men as George Copeland do not readily attach themselves to such women, and but for her surprising frankness he would have left Branxholm on the morrow with no other memory of Jessie Lindsay than that she was a good active girl who was somewhat reserved in her manner. He might have told the wife whom at a future period he might have married, and who would be a very different person, that he wished she had a lesson from Jessie Lindsay in managing house, or a dairy, or a poultry-yard, or her quiet effective activity when there was any emergency, or her steady even temper. These things were all good in their way, but they were not charming. However, now when George knew that this large reserved nature had given all her heart to him and believed him to be worthy of it, things were changed. It was not pity that he felt for her. After the first few embarrassed words had been said and her mistake as to his feelings discovered, Jessie Lindsay

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Page:Tracks of McKinlay and party across Australia.djvu/393

 horses' tracks were not yet obliterated. We marked a tree close to Landsborough's, MK, with a knife.

24th. The Queen's birth-day; very sorry we cannot drink her health. Started early; went twenty-two miles, and camped on a creek. There was a heavy dew last night; lots of game, but very wild, and difficult to be got at; natives binning all round, but none to be seen. Passed over stony ridges and flats; crossed a small creek and lagoon, with plenty of water; country well grassed, with plenty of light timber scattered about, and some bushes. Then over open country, rather swampy in places, soil very good; after that stony spinifex ridges for the rest of the way to camp, passing a creek or two, and a regular town-ship of ant-hills, of all shapes and sizes, to camp 3·30.

26th. (Camp v.) Passed through some curious country to-day, pebbly but well grassed, low ranges on both sides of us, then across a large plain, and camped on a swamp about seventeen miles from old camp; natives still firing about us, but none to be seen.

27th. Was nice and cold this morning; had to make some leather boots for the camels; they were very lame indeed. We went some thirty miles today, for we could not find water; when we did, it was so muddy that dire necessity alone made us drink it. We started at about 8·30 ; came to a fine creek, well grassed and timbered, but very


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 boggy where we struck it, and we had to take a small spell before Mr. McKinlay could find a crossing place; crossed, and soon after came upon another large one, two hundred yards wide, full of reeds and grass, but with no water where we crossed; we had a job to find water, Mr, McKinlay tried various belts of timber, in the hope of finding some, but without success. He says, "This is the most deceptive part of the country—every five minutes you are in the expectation of coming to water, but it has been our fate to find nothing but this muddy little drop; plenty of birds about, so there must be water somewhere." I don't recollect mentioning anything about our little sheep and their travels; they have gone as much as thirty-two and often twenty-five miles per diem, and were quite jolly; I wish we had some now. Ned and the bullocks not in to-night.

28th. Just after sunrise the bullocks came into camp all right, and men with them. The governor went off to look for water, and found two splendid lagoons a quarter of a mile from camp. He soon came back with the intelligence, so we saddled up, and were off for the nearest lagoon in a south direction. Maitland not up. We shall stop at this new camp some time to recruit the camels, as they are very lame, and there is plenty of feed for them; we shall also kill a bullock, and jerk him here—"Boxer, your doom is sealed!"


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 Middleton unwell again. Maitland came into camp late this afternoon, looking rather the worse for wear, quite knocked up. The governor says had we been obliged to go on a stage without luckily hitting on this place, I think he would have gone frantic, as he appeared in a sad state of mind on his arrival.

29th. (Camp viii.) Spelled here at this fine lagoon; it is a pretty sheet of water, with plenty of lilies growing on it. Three or four of the lads are taken ill with shivering and a. kind of ague. Mr. McKinlay says "it is an awkward part of the world to get ill in." Getting the meat jerked to-day. These chaps being ill we are rather short-handed. Our solitary bullock does not seem to feel lonely. He came into camp, saw his old mate, and then went off to feed quite quietly. Bell went to look after Maitland during the day, and returned without seeing him at the old camp, he having orders to go no further. He found a curious fruit—nothing but stone and skin; so, unless the kernel is good, it is valueless. N.B. The stone only contained two or three small seeds; no one tasted them. Liver and cold water for tea, but the men who are ill cannot touch it.

30th. Repairing pack-bags and saddles. On going out this morning after the camels, I found an old acquaintance—a pretty little tree, bearing a red


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 seed with a black eye; I knew it directly; it is called by the blacks in the West Indies "crab-eye." I took a lot of them to camp not thinking much of them myself; finding that none of the party had seen any before, I sallied forth again, and gathered a good supply.

We had some good bathing here, but very cold; it did us a power of good, though. The three men still ill. The governor says—"If these lagoons are permanent—and no doubt there are many more—this is a splendid pastoral country." Feed good enough for any stock, and timber to suit almost any purpose. There is a large bean here, the same, Mr. McKinlay says, that poor Leichhardt used instead of coffee.

Repairing to-day and shoeing some horses, and getting everything ready for an early start to-morrow. I hope the sick folk will be better. We had a first-rate breakfast this morning—potted bullock's head. You may laugh, but it was most excellent. It is true there was not much spice in it, but it went down well with a good appetite.

June 1st. (Camp viii.) Shall not start to-day after all. Getting the things ready repacked. Spelling the sick men and animals as long as we can. The camels being so lame, the governor ordered the hobbles to be taken off, consequently one of them is non est to-night. He won't be very far, as he is very lame; I daresay planted in some of the bushes.


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 A number of natives visited us to-day; the most curious fellows imaginable. There seemed to be only one spokesman among them, and he was an elderly gentleman, the younger ones making a kind of noise between a whistle and a hiss. Saw no lubra among them. There were many more males in the trees to the rear of our camp. Gave those who came up some old horseshoes, and some bullocks' horns; the latter they seemed to think a great curiosity. The governor could not make much out of their motions and hissing. They soon left us, and promising to return. They are not such fine men as those on the lakes. They did not like the appearance of the camels, and looked on them with great awe, and wanted them to be driven away; they happened to be the only animals in camp when they came up.

Sick men not improved, but I fear we must start to-morrow, whether or no, as it will not do for us to remain camped too long, with only one bullock for food. Some old horse won't go badly should we be driven to that.

2nd. Found camels early this morning, so we shall not be detained, and eastward ho! again to-day. I hope we shall not stop any more till we get to a station. I am far more jolly writing this to-day than I was when jotting it down in pencil in my pocket-book. Over my shoulder are


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 rather a nice lively pair of eyes, belonging to a certain young lady of my acquaintance. Ah! what does Tom Moore say—let me see if I can recollect. Oh I here it is:

"'If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,'"

The other line, slightly altered,

"'Think, think, what a heaven she'd make of this here.'"

I hope we shall soon see some merry faces and laughing eyes at Port Denison. Pretty creatures, what should we do without them!

Our path is through a good deal of scrub today, and we came only about twelve miles, on account of the sick men, and camped on a lagoon, in which all those who were well had a bathe, as usual, whenever there was water enough. It was very cold; a most tremendous dew last night and this morning; everything was wet through, and McKinlay's waterproof over his bedding had a gallon of water resting on it in the hollows. I never experienced such a heavy dew in my life. There was also a thick fog; could not see ten yards ahead of you. The fog lifted between 8 and 9, when we prepared to start. Palmer ill with the fever, making four on sick-list.

"'Although this country is rather too thickly wooded to be called open forest, it is still an excellent pastoral country, the grasses sweet and plenty of water, the lagoons being covered with nymphans or water lily, and the soil sandy. We passed"


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 many patches of burnt ground, some burnt earlier than the rest, haying green grass nine to twelve inches high.

"Saw nothing of the natives this morning before starting. Several palms seen through the forest; a few close by this camp of no great height. The feed in general is very dry, except in the neighbourhood of the creeks or lagoons."

3rd. A heavy dew last night and this morning, but not so bad as the night before. A long twenty-seven miles walk to-day—not very comfortable for the invalids. Passed through lots of spinifex and timbered ground, but not so dense as yesterday. Here we lost a fine horse, Harry: he had been ridden into camp, and began to blow a good deal, and died at 9 He was poisoned or bitten by a snake. We passed several creeks with very little water in them. Fortunately the governor ordered us to fill our canteens, and he was right; for we camped without water, and found what we had brought with us quite a godsend. We had to keep a sharp look-out after the horses and bullocks. This is nasty work, as it is nearly dark. Kept the fire in all night. None of the horses got away, and the camels being tied up, we shall get away early to-morrow morning. The female camel, Krishna, very lazy, and would not go along by fair or foul means. She is nearly done up. I expect we shall have to leave her behind. She ought to be jerked. It fairly tires me leading the old brute.

Came only about six miles to-day; have


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As the Manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards, and looks into the Fair, a feeling of profound melancholy comes over him in his survey of the bustling place. There is a great quantity of eating and drinking, making love and jilting, laughing and the contrary, smoking, cheating, fighting, dancing, and fiddling: there are bullies pushing about, bucks ogling the women, knaves picking pockets, policemen on the look-out, quacks (other quacks, plague take them!) bawling in front of their booths, and yokels looking up at the tinselled dancers and poor old rouged tumblers, while the light-fingered folk are operating upon their pockets behind. Yes, this is ; not a moral place certainly; nor a merry one, though very noisy. Look at the faces of the actors and buffoons when they come off from their business; and Tom Fool washing the paint off his cheeks before he sits down to dinner with his wife and the little Jack Puddings behind the canvass. The curtain will be up presently, and he will be turning head over heels, and crying, "How are you?"

A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through

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 viii an exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other people's hilarity. An episode of humour or kindness touches and amuses him here and there;—a pretty child looking at a gingerbread stall; a pretty girl blushing whilst her lover talks to her and chooses her fairing; poor Tom Fool, yonder behind the waggon, mumbling his bone with the honest family which lives by his tumbling;—but the general impression is one more melancholy than mirthful. When you come home you sit down, in a sober, contemplative, not uncharitable frame of mind, and apply yourself to your books or your business.

I have no other moral than this to tag to the present story of "Vanity Fair". Some people consider Fairs immoral altogether, and eschew such, with their servants and families: very likely they are right. But persons who think otherwise and are of a lazy, or a benevolent, or a sarcastic mood, may perhaps like to step in for half an hour and look at the performances. There are scenes of all sorts; some dreadful combats, some grand and lofty horse-riding, some scenes of high life, and some of very middling indeed; some love-making for the sentimental, and some light comic business: the whole accompanied by appropriate scenery, and brilliantly illuminated with the Author's own candles.

What more has the Manager of the Performance to say?—To acknowledge the kindness with which it has been received in all the principal towns of England through which the Show has passed, and where it has been most favourably noticed by the respected conductors of the Public Press, and by the Nobility and Gentry. He is proud to think that his Puppets have given satisfaction to the very best company in this empire.

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 Rh The famous little Becky Puppet has been pronounced to be uncommonly flexible in the joints and lively on the wire: the Amelia Doll, though it has had a smaller circle of admirers, has yet been carved and dressed with the greatest care by the artist: the Dobbin Figure, though apparently clumsy, yet dances in a very amusing and natural manner: the Little Boys' Dance has been liked by some; and please to remark the richly dressed figure of the Wicked Nobleman, on which no expense has been spared, and which Old Nick will fetch away at the end of this singular performance.

And with this, and a profound bow to his patrons, the Manager retires, and the curtain rises.

 * June 28, 1848.
 * June 28, 1848.

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2 "Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel."

"Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack; I have put up two bottles of the gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, and the receipt for making it, in Amelia's box."

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of Miss Sedley's

account. This is it, is it? Very good—ninety-three pounds, four shillings. Be kind enough to address it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I have written to his lady."

In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration, as would have been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her pupils quitted the establishment, or when they were about to be married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally to the parents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion that if anything could console Mrs. Birch for her daughter's loss, it would be that pious and eloquent composition in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event.

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following effect:—

"The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18——

—After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents,

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Rh Miles 3½ hides as 1 manor. There is land for 9 ploughs. On the demesne is 1 ; and there could be 2 (more). There 9 villeins with 2 bordars have 3½ ploughs, and there could be 2½ ploughs more. There is mea- dow (sufficient) for 9 plough (teams). It is and was worth 4 pounds. This manor Brictric, a thegn of King Edward, held and could sell. In [Addington] Eddulf holds half a hide. There is land for half a plough and this is there. It is worth 10 shillings; when received 5 shillings ; T.R.E. 10 shil- lings. This land Lewi, a man of Edwi, held and could sell.

In [Bradwell] William holds of Miles 2 hides and 3 virgates. There is land for 3 ploughs. On the demesne are 2 ploughs ; and 5 villeins there could have I plough. There are 2 serfs, and meadow (sufficient) for 2 plough (teams). It is worth 40 shillings ; when received 20 shillings ; T.R.E. 60 shillings. This manor 2 thegns, Sibi and Goduin, men of Alric son of Coding, held and could sell.

M. Ralf holds [Stanton (Barry) ] of Miles. It is assessed at 5 hides. There is land for 5½ ploughs. On the demesne are 2 ; and 7 villeins with 3 bordars have 3 ploughs, and there could be half a plough more. There are 4 serfs, and I mill worth (de) 10 shillings and 8 pence and 50 eels, and meadow (sufficient) for 4 plough (teams). In all (totis valentiis) it is worth 6 pounds ; when received 100 shillings; T.R.E. 6 pounds. This manor Bisi, a thegn of King Edward, held and could sell.

Almar de Odona holds 1 hide of Miles. There is land for 1 plough, and it is there with 3 villeins and 2 bordars. Meadow is there (sufficient) for I plough (team). It is and was worth T.R.E. and after (valuit semper) 10 shillings. This land Ordwi, a man of Wigot of Walingeford [Wallingford], held and could sell.

M. Edward of Sarisberie [Salisbury] holds [Aston (Clinton)]. It is assessed at 20 hides. There is land for 17 ploughs. In the demesne are 9 hides and 1 virgate, and on it are 6 ploughs ; and 28 villeins with 4 bordars have 11 ploughs, and there could be a twelfth. There are 13 serfs, and 1 mill worth (de) 5 ' ores ' of silver, meadow (sufficient) for 17 plough (teams), woodland (to feed) 300 swine, and (supplying) shares for the ploughs of the demesne (et ferra carucis dominicis). In all (totis valentiis) it is worth 1 8 pounds ; when received 10 pounds; T.R.E. 20 pounds. This manor Wlwen, a ' man ' of King Ed- ward, held and could sell.

Rannulf holds of Edward 1 hide and 1½ virgates. There is land for I plough, and it is there with 1 villein and 1 bordar and 4 serfs. There is meadow (sufficient) for 1 plough (team). It is and was worth 10 shillings; T.R.E. 20 shillings. This land Almar held of Wlwene of Cresselai [Creslow] and could sell.

The same Rannulf holds [Cres- low]. It is assessed at 5 hides. There is land for 6 ploughs. On the demesne are 4, and 6 villeins with 1 bordar have 2 ploughs. There are 5 serfs, and meadow (sufficient) for 5 plough (teams). In all (totis valentiis) it is worth i oo shillings; when received 4 pounds ; T.R.E. 6 pounds. This manor Wlwen, a certain woman, held T.R.E. and could sell.

Hugh de Beauchamp holds [Linslade]. It is assessed at 15 hides. There is land for 16 ploughs. In the demesne are 5 hides, and on it are 2 ploughs and there

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Rh and good-natured a person. As she is not a heroine, there is no need to describe her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and she had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and honestest good-humour, except indeed when they filled with tears, and that was a great deal too often; for the silly thing would cry over a dead canary-bird, or over a mouse, that the cat haply had seized upon, or over the end of a novel, were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word to her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so,—why, so much the worse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, that austere and god-like woman, ceased scolding her after the first time, and though she no more comprehended sensibility than she did Algebra, gave all masters and teachers particular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentleness, as harsh treatment was injurious to her.

So that when the day of departure came, between her two customs of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was greatly puzzled how to act. She was glad to go home, and yet most wofully sad at leaving school. For three days before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about, like a little dog. She had to make and receive at least fourteen presents,—to make fourteen solemn promises of writing every week: "Send my letters under cover to my grandpapa, the Earl of Dexter", said Miss Saltire (who, by the way, was rather shabby): "Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate Miss Swartz; and little Laura Martin (who was just in round hand) took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you Mamma." All

which details, I have no doubt, J, who reads this book at his Club,

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Rh of Miss Swartz, the parlour-boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart would fain pass over. The embracing was over; they parted—that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving her.

Sambo of the bandy-legs slammed the carriage-door on his young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the carriage. "Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel.

"It's some sandwiches, my dear," said she to Amelia. "You may be hungry, you know; and Becky, Becky Sharp, here's a book for you that my sister—that is, I,—Johnson's Dixonary, you know; you mustn't leave us without that. Good by. Drive on, coachman. God bless you!"

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotions.

But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp put her pale face out of the window, and actually flung the book back into the garden.

This almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. "Well, I never,"—said she—"what an audacious"—Emotion prevented her from completing either sentence. The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; the bell rang for the dancing lesson. The world is before the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall.

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 come to a water-hole, and not finding water up or down the creeks, Mr. McKinlay thought it best to stop there. Old Krishna is to be let go her own way, and high time too. We filled our canteens and bags with water, and then let the animals drink. It being only a small hole, soon got muddy. How the poor things go into the water! they not having had any since the morning.

4th. (Camp x.) The silk cotton, which I have seen growing in India, is here with its beautiful red blossom, and having no leaves while in flower.

5th. There is a creek on our right; then we come to a large one, with a little water in, where we camp, as there is good feed for the camels, for they have been tied up for the last two or three nights. Sick men mending, except Kirby, who is very weak. This river here, Mr. McKinlay says, is the "Flinders." It has lots of paper-barked trees on it, and some very fine ones on its banks: we camped in its bed. We got a bath today in a hole; water as clear as crystal. We passed several frames, six feet long by four feet wide, and three feet from the ground, on forks, making a kind of sleeping-place; the darkies are refined up here.

6th. Kirby still continues very weak; no energy left. The rest better. Passed through plenty of scrub as usual, and crossed the Flinders twice to-day. Struck another river, the Binoe.


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Rh could be 3 more. There 22 villeins with 6 bordars have 11 ploughs. There are 5 serfs, and 1 mill worth (de) 20 shillings, and meadow (sufficient) for 2 plough (teams). In all it is worth 10 pounds ; when received 100 shillings; T.R.E. 10 pounds. This manor Alwin, a man of Queen Eddid, held and could sell.

In [Soulbury] Hugh holds 2 thirds (partes) of 1 virgate. There is land for 4 oxen (to plough). It is and was worth 3 shillings; T.R.E. 4 shillings. This land Dot, man of Deus (homo dei), held and could sell to whom he wished.

In [Lathbury] William de Orenge holds 4 hides of Hugh as one manor. There is land for 3 ploughs. On the de- mesne are 2 ; and 4 villeins with 4 bordars have 1 plough. There are 3 serfs, meadow (sufficient) for 3 plough (teams) and woodland (to feed) 100 swine. It is worth 4 pounds ; when received 20 shillings ; T.R.E. 60 shil- lings. This manor 2 thegns, Leuric and Olviet, held as 2 manors and could sell.

Hugh de Bolebech holds in [Missenden] half a hide and Ulviet holds of him. There is land for 1 plough and this is there with 1 bordar. Meadow is there (sufficient) for 1 plough (team), woodland (to feed) 30 swine. It is and was worth T.R.E. and after (valuit semper) 10 shillings. The same man (Istemet ) held it T.R.E. He was a man of Bishop Wlwi and could sell (it).

In [Amersham] Ulviet holds of Hugh half a hide. There is land for 2 ploughs, and these are there with 2 vil- leins and 3 bordars. There is I mill worth (de) 5 shillings, and woodland (to feed) 20 swine. It is and was worth T.R.E. and after (valuit semper) 20 shillings. The same man (Istemet) held it T.R.E. and could sell (it).

Hugh himself holds in [Cries- ham] 8½ hides. There is land for 16 ploughs. In the demesne are 1 hides, and on it are 2 ploughs ; and 16 villeins with 6 bordars have 12 ploughs and there could be 2 more. There are 6 serfs, and 1 mill worth (de) 10 shillings, meadow (sufficient) for 16 plough (teams), and woodland (to feed) 800 swine and (supplying) shares for the ploughs (et ferrum carucis). In all (totis valentiis) it is worth 10 pounds all but 3 shillings; T.R.E. 12 pounds. This manor Brictric, a man of Queen Eddid, held, and there 2 sokemen held 4 hides ; they were men of Brictric and could sell (them).

M. Hugh himself holds [Medmenham]. It is assessed at 10 hides. There is land for 10 ploughs. In the de- mesne are 4 hides, and on it are 2 ploughs ; and i o villeins with 8 bordars have 8 ploughs. There are 4 serfs. From a fishery (come) 1,000 eels. Meadow is there (sufficient) for all the plough (teams), woodland (to feed) 50 swine. In all it is and was worth 100 shillings ; T.R.E. 8 pounds. This manor Wlstan, a thegn of King Edward, held and could sell to whom he wished.

Hugh himself holds [ ? Brook (End) ] as 1 hide. There is land for 1 plough, and it is there with I villein and 2 bordars. It is and was worth T.R.E. and after (valuit semper) 10 shillings. This land Odo held. He was a man of Brictric and could sell (it).

In [Cheddington] Hugh holds half a hide, but it has been laid waste. This land Ulwin of Wadone [? Weedon] held and could sell.

In [Whaddon in Slapton] Hugh holds 1 hide. There is land for 1 plough, and this is there with I villein. Meadow is there (sufficient) for I plough (team). It is and was worth 10 shillings ; T.R.E. 2O shillings. This land 2 men of Brictric held and could sell.

M. Hugh himself holds [Calverton]. It is assessed at 10 hides.

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 The country open, timber, well-grassed. Camped on a small creek running into the Binoe. Few lagoons close by covered with yellow lilies. Plenty of water in the small creek, but none in the Binoe just here. Any quantity of corkscrew or spiral palm. The old camel not in yet. A native companion shot this morning. Very little game.

7th. (Camp xiii.) Started about 8, over some rough country, low ranges, with thick scrub, some very lofty barren ranges to our left, some eight miles off, very rocky, timbered to the top. We crossed the Flinders at a very wide branch, and crossed and recrossed the Binoe. Camped on the Flinders, at a long sheet of water; quantities of the bronzed stones strewed in our path to-day. We shall kill our last bullock, and then for "old horse." We must make the most of him; he is rather wild sometimes, rushing among the horses, and going through them sideways, etc.; so the sooner he is killed the better. Native fires ahead, but no darkies to be seen. Killed the bullock; not an ounce of fat on him.

8th. All hands jerking bullock. Patients better. Mr. McKinlay out on a ramble. Brought home a snake eight feet long. This is a fine sheet of water, 400 yards long and thirty wide. Lots of large bean vines. Very pretty it is, cut up into small islands, with the sandy courses going all


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48 He burst out laughing at himself; for the truth is, he could sing no better than an owl.

It is to be understood, as a matter of course, that our young people, being in parties of two and two, made the most solemn promises to keep together during the evening, and separated in ten minutes afterwards. Parties at Vauxhall always did separate, but 'twas only to meet again at supper-time, when they could talk of their mutual adventures in the interval.

What were the adventures of Mr. Osborne and Miss Amelia? That is a secret. But be sure of this—they were perfectly happy, and correct in their behaviour; and as they had been in the habit of being together anytime these fifteen years, their téte-à-téte offered no particular novelty.

But when Miss Rebecca Sharp and her stout companion lost themselves in a solitary walk, in which there were not above five score more of couples similarly straying, they both felt that the situation was extremely tender and critical, and now or never was the moment, Miss Sharp thought, to provoke that declaration which was trembling on the timid lips of Mr. Sedley. They had previously been to the panorama of Moscow, where a rude fellow, treading on Miss Sharp's foot, caused her to fall back with a little shriek into the arms of Mr. Sedley, and this little incident increased

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 round them. Some of them have fine gums growing on them. Some traces of game here—kangaroo, wallaby, emu, etc.

9th. (Camp xiv.) In camp spelling, mending bags, and finishing beef. Good roast beef for dinner; it went well without mustard, salt, or pepper even. Shoeing horses. Governor and Middleton out on a cruise to see the country.

Mr. McKinlay says:—

"'I took Middleton with me to go out to reconnoitre and feel our way for next stage through the hills a-head. Found that the water-course comes from north, or a little west of north, from between the heavy-timbered ranges to north and west, and. bald hills, or nearly so, to north and east, and probably winds round nearer its source more to the east. A number of thinly-wooded hills, with small creeks running from them to west and south appear to run round south for some distance, perhaps ten to fifteen miles or more. Beyond the highest, in the distance, the natives are busy burning, and this leads me to suppose they are on the other or principal branch of the Flinders River; but I shall know more about it in a few days. Abundance of water in the small creeks, as far east and south as I went to-day, and some lagoons in the flats. The natives commence their range of fires from 20° west of south to 30° east of south, and I think I shall find that it will meet me on my course. Wind in the afternoon from south by east, strong occasionally; towards evening it died away. Beef now dry. We start from here to-morrow if all is right, and we have nothing more to detain us. The horses are shod, except one, and that one, one of the best, no shoes being large enough. I hope he will be able to get along. Our food now consists of about 230 lb. of dry and salt beef, everything else in the shape of food gone, but I think we will have sufficient to carry us into the settled" }}


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 "of Queensland, on the Burdekin River, where we will be able to get a fresh supply. We have a little salt, and amongst the lot about half a pound of soap.'"

10th. We are off to-morrow. I hope the bullock will see us to a station, but I doubt it; the meat is well jerked. Sun very hot. Bathed of course. Making all ready for an early start tomorrow morning.

11th. Started early. Country well wooded. Crossed two creeks. The bed of one of them was one mass of conglomerate, with large boulders of iron-stone, as if they had been thrown up by fire lately. Lots of quartz, sandstone, etc. The creek resembles very much the one we left, with the small islands, sandy bed, and fine trees and shrubs of all kinds. Our way lay through open forest and plains, intersected by small creeks. Passed also lagoons now and then on the plains.

Mr. McKinlay again says:—

"'Over first stony ridge at 10·10, and considerable sized double creek at 10·17, dry at crossing. Top of next high range at 11·15; five and a quarter miles. Very extensive view. Spelled on top of hill waiting for the camels for forty-five minutes, till noon. Then started on bearing of 127½° for south-west end of large range in the distance, that would otherwise come right across my original course. There is an immense large black circular range from 127½° round by east to west-north-west, with reaphooky faces and scrubby tops, and a number of detached conical and coronet-topped hills. At 1 water in a rocky creek close to the right. Watered the horses. Spelled ten minutes, till 1·10. Crossed creek at"


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 "1·15. Sandy, scrubby forest. Crossed another sandy creek at 1·57. Crossed another sandy creek at 2·3. At 3·15 on top of rocky mulga hill, with granite and mass of quartz pebbles. Some difficulty in getting over and down a rocky range (granite principally). Struck a small creek, with sufficient water for our use, and good feed, and camped at 3·50 at distance of ten and three-quarters to eleven miles on last bearing. Distance travelled about sixteen miles. Course of the ranges close by, the one that we last crossed, and the one just close by before us, 40° west of south, with the drainage in same direction.'"

12th. (Camp xv.) We went only six miles today, and camped on a very pretty deep running stream; well wooded all about here; nearly all of the trees paper-barked; some of them were broken off at their tops twelve or twenty feet. There must have been a tornado, and high too, only just to have broken the tops off. We are now in the ranges, scrambling, climbing, ascending and descending, and getting over rocks and precipices as well as we can. Arrived at a large isolated hill; the governor ascended, and we spelled for some time, while he did the climbing. He says you have an extensive view; the whole country is black and dismal in every direction. A large range in the distance, with large gaps; drainage all to the south-west. We started again round this hill, and here we came on the tracks of horses; traced them going west. The ground must have been very wet when they passed. We soon got to a fine valley, well timbered and grassed. We were obliged to camp at


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 this short distance, for Maitland, who had stayed behind, was nowhere to be seen. When he does come up he will catch it and no mistake; i. e., if he ever does, for this is no country to track in, unless for a native; the ground very hard and stony; the camels leave no prints, only a stone turned over here and there.

13th. Came a long day's journey to-day over a most awful country as ever was seen for poor beasts to travel over; immense boulders to cross over somehow or other; the scenery magnificent and grand. We travelled from 8 to 5, and found no water; I dare say we have come twenty-five miles in distance, but only about twelve on our course; we were continually tacking, for to go straight was impossible. We camped at last on a little bit of a creek, with about a quart of water in it, in a small hole under a rock; we dug and got enough for the horses, camels, etc., and enough for ourselves. There were some little fish, an inch or so long, dead; round this and several other holes plenty of feed for the animals.

This day's work was so intricate that I must leave Mr. McKinlay to describe it:—

"'13th. (Camp xvi.) Dewless night; wind from east by north. I take this to be the main branch of the Flinders, the hills on its right proper banks are very bold and must be over 3000 feet high. If they are not before named, I have called them Gregory's Ranges, after Augustus Gregory,"


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Rh There is land for 10 ploughs. In the de- mesne are 3 hides, and on it are 3 ploughs ; and 1 8 villeins with 8 bordars have 7 ploughs and there could be a ninth. There are 9 serfs, and 1 mill worth (de) 13 shillings and 4 pence, and meadow (sufficient) for 5 plough (teams). In all (totis valentiis) it is and was worth 10 pounds ; T.R.E. 12 pounds. This manor Bisi, a thegn of King Edward, held; and there a man of Queen Eddid had 2 hides as one manor and could sell (them). M. In [Linford] Hugh holds 2 hides and 1½ virgates as one manor. There is land for 2 ploughs. On the demesne is 1 ; and 5 villeins with 2 bordars have 1 plough. There is meadow (sufficient) for I plough (team). It is and was worth 20 shillings ; T.R.E. 40 shillings. This manor 3 thegns held and could assign and sell.

In [Hardmead] Hugh holds half a virgate. There is land for 2 oxen (to plough), meadow (sufficient) for 2 oxen, wood- land (to feed) 5 swine. It is and was worth 2 shillings. This land Ulgrim, a man of Earl Lewin, held and could sell.

In [Wavendon] Ansel holds of Hugh 3 hides less i virgate as one manor. There is land for 3 ploughs. There are 4 fo. 151

oxen there with 2 villeins and 3 bordars, and meadow (sufficient) for 3 plough (teams). It is and was worth 40 shillings ; T.R.E. 60 shillings. This land Suen, a man of Earl Harold, held and could sell.

M. Henry de Ferreres holds [Grendon (Underwood)]. It is assessed at 2 hides. There is land for 8 ploughs. In the demesne is 1 hide, and on it are 3 ploughs ; and 12 villeins with 2 bordars have 5 ploughs. There are 3 serfs, meadow (sufficient) for 2 plough (teams), woodland (to feed) 500 swine. In all (totis valentiis) it is and was worth 6 pounds ; T.R.E. 7 pounds. This manor Boding the 'constable' (constabularius) held T.R.E. and could sell.

M. In [Shipton (Lee) ] Henry holds 7 hides. There is land for 7 ploughs. In the demesne are 3 hides, and on it are 2 ploughs and there could be other 2. There 4 villeins with 1 bordar have 2 ploughs and there could be a third. There is I serf. Mea- dow is there (sufficient) for i plough (team). It is and was worth 60 shillings ; T.R.E. 100 shillings. This manor Boding the 'constable' (constabularius) held T.R.E.

Walter de Vernon holds in [Hartwell] half a hide. There is land for half a plough, but (the) plough is not there. It is and was worth T.R.E. and after (valuit semper) 10 shillings. This land Turgot, a thegn of King Edward, held and could sell.

In [Marlow] Walter holds 6 hides and 1½ virgates. There is land for 6 ploughs. In the demesne are 3½ hides and on it are 2 ploughs; and 8 villeins with 6 bordars have 2½ ploughs, and there could be 1½ ploughs more. There is 1 serf, and meadow (sufficient) for 2 plough (teams). It is and was worth 100 shillings; T.R.E. 4 pounds. This land Godric a man of Asgar the staller held and could sell. M. Walter himself holds [(Fleet) Marston]. It is assessed at 3 hides. There is land for 6 ploughs. In the demesne is 1 hide, and on it is 1 plough, and there could be another. There 6 villeins with 5 bordars have 3 ploughs, and there could be a fourth. There is I serf, and meadow (sufficient) for 2 plough (teams). It is worth 40 shillings ; when received 100 shillings ; and as much T.R.E. This manor Turgot, a man of Earl Lewin, held and could sell.

M. Walter son of Other holds Hortune [Horton]. It is assessed at 10 hides. There

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Page:Tracks of McKinlay and party across Australia.djvu/406

 "Esq., now Surveyor-General of Queensland. The point I changed my course at yesterday I have called Mount Wildash, after F. Wildash, Esq., of Queensland. Immediately east of Mount Wildash, close by, is another bluff equally high, which I have called Hawker's Bluff, after the Hon. G. C. Hawker. Started at 7·58, on bearing of 100°, for the southern end of. dark range in the distance; at 8·30, south of conspicuous sandstone rocky peak, which I have called Morpheas Peak, after John Morphett, Esq., of Adelaide; dip of about 35° in the sandstone to about north-east or a little more east. Kept the above course three miles over good travelling country; spelled a few minutes, then up and down and over very rocky ranges, in many places precipitous and most intricate travelling from 9 till 11·30; three and a half miles further, then table-land till 1·50, the drainage is to the east, no doubt to go south after it has cleared the rocky ranges. Spelled, watering the camels, from 2·25 to 2·45, up to this eight and three-quarters miles further. Commenced ascending another mass of similar rocky ranges; stopped at 3·40, two and a quarter miles further, to look out a track to endeavour to get out of this awful place. Started again at 4·55, after spelling one and a quarter hours, could not get the animals over. Went back till 5·22, one mile on our track, or to sixteen and a half miles on bearing 100°, to try another place, southerly and westerly along and over very rocky ranges till 6·15, about two miles on average bearing of 215° to 220°. Came to a small sandy creek, then another, where by digging we will be able to give the animals some water; there is plenty of feed. It has been a very distressing day for the poor brutes. Distance, sixteen and a half miles on course of 100°, and two miles on 220°. Gave each of the animals from two to five buckets. Although when first seen the little water that was visible did not exceed a quart, with a few small dead fish about one and a half inches long, after digging, and clearing away the sand we got sufficient for to-night and to-morrow morning. It has been close and oppressive, which has added to the distress of the horses and camels. One of the latter, an old Indian, could hardly be"


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Page:Tracks of McKinlay and party across Australia.djvu/407

 "persuaded to come along. Very light rain commenced about dark or a little after, bat I doubt whether it will come to anything; however, it will damp the grass for the poor animals, and make it more palatable.'"

14th. Came over country as bad or worse than yesterday, till we arrived at a creek. Went down it four or five miles. Craggy and rocky hills. Our pack bags fearfully torn yesterday coming through the scrub and stringy bark. Passed through lots of fine timber to-day. We had to spell a time. One of the horses bolted with his packs; he took fright at something, and off he was like a shot; tore the bags off him, burst his girth bucking, and in the end got all his traps off but his halter. This occurred in a thick forest of small stringy bark, by the side of a creek. Palmer and Bell went after him, and he was at last caught, how or where I never asked. We were soon on the road again after he was brought in. One of our horses, "Boco" by name, completely knocked up, poor devil! He could go no more, so we took off his load and set him free. We never saw him any more. The next part after leaving the nag was rugged and steep, then over sharp rocky ridges; in fact, the roughest country that could be travelled over was the track to-day. Found lots of water in holes in a creek. The scenery very fine. The sides of creek eighty to a hundred feet high.


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 We had to go through some long water-holes, and in passing through, old "Nano" the camel fell, nearly done up, and would not or could not rise. We had to send to camp, which was not very far from this, and unpack the brute, and carry all the things into camp. Just before we got there we had to make them jump down five feet, a sort of a fall in the rainy season. They did it very well, and we got to camp all right, but weary and glad to rest. We lost for a time to-day Mr. McKinlay's carpet-bag and Kirby's valise. They must have been torn off by the branch of a tree. We had to go back for them, which detained us a long time. We, with the camels, passed another horse done brown, and left to take care of himself, the softest and most useless of the lot, though he cost £50. There are two more horses on the give-up system, and will have to be left behind should we have any more severe country to go through. I fear it won't change yet, for there is nothing but ranges to be seen. Everywhere we seem to be in the midst of a mountainous district with grand scenery; but we have no time to think of pictures. I said to one of our fellows, "What magnificent scenery!" "D—— the scenery, I want my dinner." Horrid broth! Went nineteen miles to-day, sixteen on our course, so did not do so badly. Having to go such long stages for water, and through such a country, plays old Harry with


text: Page:Vanity Fair 1848.djvu/89

title: Page:Vanity Fair 1848.djvu/89