CHAPTER III.

Mat bids farewell to the Forest—The _Young Austral_—Tim and Jumper on board.

At length, shortly after midnight, as far as he could judge by the moon, Mat arrived once again at Braken Lodge, and knocked up Burns, who, though astonished to see him at that hour, immediately routed out the old housekeeper to light a fire, brew some coffee, and get provisions, whilst he found a change of clothes for Mat, and bound up his wound with a healing ointment. And all these things he did without asking our gipsy any useless questions, wherein he showed his sense.

After Mat had thoroughly refreshed himself, he said,—

“Now, Mr. Burns, I’ll just stretch out afore the fire—that’ll ease my limb—and tell you all about it.”

He then related shortly but accurately every detail from the time of their parting in Boldre Wood down to the termination of his fight with the hound, adding that he was very sorry for the loss of the game-bag, which Burns said did not matter a snuff.

“Perhaps not for itself,” continued Mat, “but they might trace you by it.”

Burns listened with intense interest to the narrative, and remarked,—

“_I_ should have shot that hound, I know I should; but then, you see, I would not have thought of that dodge of yours of tying him up; besides, I could not have done it, I’m not so quick and handy.”

“And now,” went on Mat, “I’ll ask you a favour: help me to get away in that ship you spoke of this very night, and the matter’ll blow over, for they can’t really prove anything ’gin you.”

Burns looked at his watch; then pondered awhile over this suggestion. At last, after several vigorous puffs at a black clay pipe which he was smoking, he spoke:—

“It would be a very mean trick to send you out of England because _I_ have broken the law—for I find it’s true what you said,—were it not that a few hours ago, before all this happened, you were wishing to be off as soon as you could earn some money. Now promise, if I help you to start, never to go back on me by saying, when you find what a hard life it is out there, ‘If it had not been for Burns I might have been home now.’”

“Yes, I promise,” answered Mat eagerly.

“Then I’ll start you fair. You shall have enough money to keep you until you can look about, and the gun you stuck to so bravely is yours. You must get more clothes in London, and I will write a line to the captain for you to take; I will also send a letter to my brother on the Darling Downs about you, and give you his address. And now come round to the stable; you have no time to lose if you wish to catch the mail at Southampton. You can leave the horse at the station inn there.”

When bidding good-bye, the gipsy wrung Burns’ hand and said,—

“I thank you for what you’re doing for me; it’s just what I’ve set my heart on this long time, and if hard work will do it, I shall make it a first matter to pay you back the money as you’ve started me with. And there’s one thing, let them know at my camp all about my going. It won’t go no farther, anything you tell ’em; and bid good-bye for me to my old dad, and mother and sister, and tell my brother—we’re twins, you know—and I can’t abide not saying good-bye to him,—tell him all about Broomfield’s colt, and—”

Here Mat’s feelings entirely failed him, wearied with pain both in body and mind, he clambered stiffly on to the horse. Burns called out,—

“I’ll tell them all you say, and send your brother to see you off; there’s time yet before she sails.”

“Thank you for that,” replied Mat. And, waving his arm, rode off, with his gun on his back, and a bundle of things strapped to the bow of the saddle.

As Mat rode along, he found plenty of time to ponder over the events of the last few hours. Curiously enough, he first considered the matter of the forsaken colt, and its owner, Broomfield.

“He’ll think it mean of me,” he mused, “when he finds I’ve bolted clean away, and left the colt; but, after all, he ‘jacked out’ when we once settled to work our way to Australia together. Burns he’s behaved like a man, and I’m a lucky chap; ten guineas to start with, and passage found me; yes, and I’ll work to pay him back, and send some money to the old folk.”

Thus soliloquizing, he found himself at the station, and had just time to put up his horse and feed him, when the train came in. Buying a ticket, he jumped into an empty compartment, and though it was the first time he had ever travelled by rail, his fatigue was so great that he fell asleep at once, and only woke up as the train drew up at the London terminus. Here he procured a cup of coffee, and then made his way in a cab to the Docks, whilst the great city was still asleep.

With some difficulty the driver of his hackney carriage found the _Young Austral_. On going on board Mat was told that the captain would not be there for some hours, and that the ship would possibly leave the docks next evening. So leaving his gun and bundle on board in charge of a good-natured mate, and telling him that he was expecting his brother, he hobbled out to get his leg dressed again, and to look at the shops, which were just being opened.

Strolling down Wharfgate Street, Mat encountered an old man in the act of taking down his shutters. Perceiving that it was a bookseller’s, he asked the owner whether he had any good novels.

“Yes, plenty,” was the reply. “Come in; what will you have? Dickens, Thackeray, or something racy?”

“Why, zomething what’s useful on a long voyage,” answered Mat, who was somewhat puzzled for an answer.

“You don’t look much like a sailor,” remarked the shopkeeper, “more like a youngster bolted from home.”

“Well, what if I have? I want some books all the same.”

“Here you are, then; take this second-hand lot for three shillings.”

So the bargain was concluded, and Mat found afterwards that the old man had given him a liberal selection of all sorts of literature. Strolling on he entered a second-hand clothes shop, where he concluded his purchases with the addition of a few clothes and necessaries; and some hours later returned to the ship, the mate of which accosted him with,—

“Heart alive! If ’twasn’t for your ‘duds,’ I’d a thought you’d been the same youngster that came here an hour ago, but he’s down below overhauling the ship.”

So down jumped Mat, and found his brother and Jumper.

“Hullo, Tim,” he shouted, “this is splendid! How quick you’ve got here—brought the old dog to take care of you, eh?”

“No, fact is, father thought you ought to have Jumper to take care of _you_, amongst the niggers; and I’ve brought your clothes and some tools, and I didn’t forget the axe, and the ‘print,’ that Garrett the smith made for you; maybe you’ll want to print yer mark on to a horse out there. And I got all the books the squire gave you, and a lot more Mr. Burns shoved into a box for you. _He_ drove me to the station in his own trap, else I’d never a’ caught the train.”

For the rest of the day, and indeed far into the night, the brothers sat up; for Mat had not only much to relate concerning his late adventures, but also many instructions to give Tim with regard to colts, which he had undertaken to break in; besides, there were innumerable messages to be conveyed to his family and friends, more especially to the squire. At length their conversation was interrupted by the voice of the mate singing out,—

“Now then, youngsters, turn in, you can find bunks in the emigrants’ quarters to-night.”

Whilst looking for these night quarters they passed the doctor’s cabin, and Mat had his leg dressed; this he had forgotten to have done ashore. The doctor, a kindly hearted Irishman, told him he must lie up as much as possible for some days, or he would have—so Mat told his brother afterwards—“hurryslippiness.”

Next morning the emigrants began crowding on board, and Mat and Tim found plenty to occupy and amuse them in scanning the new arrivals, and witnessing in particular the various farewell takings of the Irish families.

“It’s pretty nigh time for us to part too,” said Mat, “for the day’s wearing on, but I’ll write a letter home for you to take.”

Having finished this epistle, he gave it to his brother, and grasping his hand said,—

“Good-bye, Tim, we’ve been long mates in t’vorest, mind and write to me when I give you the address.”

Another grasp of the hand, and Tim walked slowly down the planks for the shore, and Mat thought that he had seen the last of him, and was turning away, when back he came, crying,—

“Where’s Jumper?”

But Jumper could not be found amongst the crowds of people and heaps of deck gear.

Tim ran ashore, calling and whistling, but came back without having found him. Then they attempted to search the ship all over, but no result: at length they bethought them of looking into a cabin, into which Tim had entered on first coming on board. With some difficulty they found it, when there, sure enough, they found the faithful beast, with his paws stretched over Mat’s bundle which Tim had deposited there.

But so much time had been lost in the search, that upon ascending to the deck again, they found the vessel on the point of being tugged down the river by a small steamer.

Tim was in despair, which being observed by one of the sailors, the man inquired what ailed him.

“Why, I want to go ashore.”

“Oh! is that all,” laughed the sailor, “you can get away in one of the shore-boats, or the pilot’s, later on, for that matter.”

So Tim resigned himself to the situation, which so far pleased him, in that he should now enjoy a few more hours of his brother’s society.

After some hours towing the tug cast off, and they found themselves scudding down towards the channel under a fair breeze. Night was coming on, so the brothers turned in for a short sleep, intending to wake in good time for Tim to get away with the pilot: but when they came on deck again, at daylight the next morning, what a sight met their view! To their judgment they were far out in a tempestuous sea, whilst between them and the distant shore they descried what appeared to be a heap of furious foam-swept whirlpools.

After viewing this strange scene for a moment, Tim anxiously asked his brother whether he thought they could find the pilot; in vain they looked about for such a personage.

“But that’s the captain, no doubt,” said Mat, pointing out a weather-beaten man on the poop, and before he could be prevented, Tim had walked up to and commenced addressing the skipper with,—

“If you please, sir—”

“Don’t bother me,” answered the latter, without looking at him, “till I’m clear of Portland Race—get off the poop.”

“But I want to go ashore.”

“So you will,” said the captain in a tone which admitted of no further argument, “so you will, in about three months’ time, please the pigs—_go_.”

Following the direction of the captain’s eyes, Tim saw that they were fixed alternately on the whirlpools which had attracted the attention of his brother and himself, and the sails of his ship. Feeling that he had made a mistake, he returned dolefully to Mat, who was for’ard, saying,—

“It’s all up, I’m in for the whole journey.”

“Never mind,” answered his brother, who was secretly rather pleased, “we must make the best of it, and we’ll talk to the captain, if we see a good chance, but it musn’t be _yet_ a good bit.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much,” said Tim, “if it wasn’t for the old folks; they’ll think I’m lost in London.”

Shortly after this conversation, the emigrants were divided into “messes,” and Tim found from inquiries he made that he was indeed in for the _whole trip_.