CHAPTER VII

LOUGH ANOOR

“A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the Walloping Window-Blind.” _Students’ Song._

FROM that day the spell of the little brown trout laid itself upon the Australians. The basket of fish which they carried home with pride in the evening, and which caused Mrs. Moroney to call upon the saints to protect her, was the forerunner of many, since the weather was kind and Lough Nacurra had profited by its war-time rest to become the happiest of hunting grounds. Day after day, with and without Mr. Burke, whose multifarious duties often called him elsewhere, they visited the little lough in the bog, until they knew all its best spots as well as Patsy himself, and were familiar with every inch of the wooded island where they generally landed for lunch. With the fever of fishing came to them the patience which—curiously enough—accompanies it, making them content to sit hour after hour if rewarded with an occasional rise: since no lough on this side of Paradise could be expected to live up to the first spectacular minutes in which Lough Nacurra had claimed them for its own. Nevertheless, the little lough held well; and trout figured largely on the table for breakfast and dinner, insomuch that Mrs. Moroney confided to Bridget that ’twas the grand guests they were to be keeping down the expense—a remark retailed to Jim by Timsy, in such innocent certainty that his friend would be pleased, that Jim could not find it in his heart to rebuke him for repeating what he was not meant to hear.

Day by day the air of moorland and mountain worked the boys’ cure. Strength came back to them quickly, with long days in the open and long nights of quiet sleep. War seemed very far away. Papers came irregularly, and the younger members of the party were very willing to let Mr. Linton read them and tell them anything startling, without troubling about details. Little by little, the horror of the gas faded; they ceased to dream about it, a nightly torment which had kept them back for the first weeks. The regiment was having a much-needed rest in billets: Anstruther, Garrett, and their other chums were fit and well, and longing for another chance of coming to grips with the enemy. Much of the horror of Gallipoli Mr. Linton succeeded in keeping from them: too many of their school-fellows lay dead upon that most cruel of battlefields, and he suppressed the papers that gave details of the losses. The fog of war always hangs closely: it was easy to make it hide from his boys details of the news that had plunged Australia alike into mourning and into deeper resolve to see the thing through.

For Norah and her father the time was an oasis of peace in a desert of anxiety. Too soon they must send Jim and Wally back, and themselves return to work and wait in London. Now, nothing mattered greatly, and they could try to forget. It was not the least of David Linton’s happiness that each day brought back light to Norah’s eyes and colour to her cheeks.

So they played about Ireland as they had played all their lives in Australia. The Irish blood that was in them made them curiously at home; they liked the simple, kindly country-folk, and found a ready welcome in the scattered cottages, where already Norah had made friends with at least half a dozen babies. Her education developed on new lines: she picked up a good deal of Irish, and became steeped in the innumerable legends of the country, not in the least realizing that in being told the “ould ancient” stories she was being paid a compliment for which the average tourist might sigh in vain,—for the Irish peasant is jealous of his folk-stories, and seldom tells them to anyone not of the country. In the great stone kitchen Mrs. Moroney gave her lessons in the manufacture of potato-cakes, colcannon, soda-bread, and other national delicacies, and, with old Nanny the cook, listened to stories of Australia with frequent ejaculations of “God help us!” while Jim and Wally talked much to Patsy Burke and John Conolly, and to the men in the villages, doing a little recruiting work as occasion offered. They also talked of Australia, since they could not help it, and became at times slightly confused as to the number of men for whom they had promised to find work after the war, on Billabong, if possible. However, as Jim said resignedly if Billabong overflowed with men, there were other places—Australia was large and empty. They could all come.

“Are you there, Norah? Coo-ee!”

An answering “Coo-ee!” came from one of the mouldering summer-houses in the garden, and Wally plunged down the overgrown walk in its direction. Norah was not in the summer-house, which she described as an insecty place, but cross-legged on a sunny patch of grass behind it, surrounded by innumerable letters. The Australian mail had arrived that morning; and, since mails in war time were apt to be “hung up” until a ship could be found to take them, letters were wont to accumulate in alarming quantities.

“Good gracious, are you still reading?” inquired Wally. “I finished all mine ages ago: not that I ever get such awful bundles as you do. Jim and your father are plunged in business letters, and I’m like Mary’s little lamb, or Bo-Peep’s sheep, or whichever mutton it was that got lost.”

“Poor old thing!” said Norah, absently. “Never mind; sit down and read dear old Brownie’s letter. It takes one straight back to Billabong.”

“Well, that’s no bad thing—though I’d like to see a little more of Ireland,” said Wally, subsiding upon grass. “Poor old Brownie! can’t you see her, Nor, struggling over this in the kitchen at home. She’d be so much happier over tackling a day’s baking.”

“She would, indeed,” Norah assented, her eyes a little misty. She touched the scrawled pages of the old nurse-housekeeper’s letter, her hand resting on it as though it were a living thing. Brownie had been all the mother she had known, and the bond between them was very close. The ill-written sheets brought vividly to her the kind old face, beaming with love as she had always known it.

“Dear Miss Norah,” began Brownie, with due formality. Then the formality slumped.

“My dearie, the place is lost without you all everyone arsks me as soon as the male comes wots in the letters and are you coming back soon the hot whether is over thang goodness and we have had good rain and the place is lookin splendid all the horses are in great condishun and Murty says to tell you Bosun is fit to jump out of his skin Murty won’t let anyone but himself ride him or Garyowin or Monnuk or the chesnet colt and it keeps him pretty busy keepin them all exercised. Black Billy is no better than he was he is a limb and no mistake it will be a mersy when Mr. Jim comes back to keep that boy in order and your Pa too he will not take no notice of anyone else. We are always wonderin and hopin about the war will it soon be over and that old Kyser hung and how are Mr. Jim and Mr. Wally we all know they will fight as well as any Englishman or any two Germans. But the best of all will be when the old war is over and you all come home to Billabong tell Mr. Wally I have not forgot to make pikelits like he likes they will be waiting for him we got their photergrafs in uniform and dont they look beautiful only so grown up I keep thinking of them just little boys ridin the ponies like they always was in short pants and socks and plenty of darnin they give me to do which it was always a pleasure I’m sure do they look after you well in that old London i hope they feed you proply in that big hotel im told their sheets is always damp do be careful dearie. We try to look after everything the way the master and Mr. Jim would like it juring their absence Murty is sendin word about the stock so i will leave that part of it aloan the garden is lookin grand the ortum roses all out just blazin along the walls and fences there are other flowers but its no good i cant spell them not being no hand with the pen but you will know them all without me tellin the dogs are well but they miss you like all the rest of us also the Wallerby and so my dearie no more at present only come back soon we all send our love and hoppin you are well

“BROWNIE.”

Wally put down the letter, after folding it slowly. Norah, who had read it again over his shoulder, put out her hand for it and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. Neither spoke for awhile. Ireland had faded away: they saw only a long low house with a garden blazing with roses—a kitchen, spotless and shining, where an old woman laboured mightily with the pen. She was a fat old woman, plain and unromantic and very practical; but the thought of her brought home-sickness sharply to the boy and girl sitting on the green slope of Irish turf.

“She’s an old brick,” said Wally, presently. “By Jove, Nor, won’t it be jolly to go back when all this show is over! It makes one feel sort of jumpy to think of driving up to Billabong again!”

“’M,” assented Norah, lucidly. Speech was a little difficult just then. Presently she laughed.

“Australian mail-days are lovely, but they always hurt a bit, too. Never mind, we’ll all go home together some day, and Billabong will go quite mad, and it will be worth having been away. What do we do this morning, Mr. Second-Lieutenant Meadows?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Wally answered. “I think you’d better choose your own amusement, Miss Linton-of-Billabong, and I’ll fall in with it meekly. Jim and your father have shut themselves up with piles of business letters and stock reports and things like that, and can’t come out before lunch.”

“Bother the old business!” said Norah, inelegantly, wrinkling her nose, as was her way in deep thought. “Wally, why shouldn’t we try Lough Anoor?”

“That’s rather an idea—especially as Patsy’s engaged to-day, and can’t act as boatman. We could paddle round and try Lough Anoor by ourselves. It won’t do Lough Nacurra any harm to have a rest.”

“No; we’ve fished it pretty steadily lately,” Norah agreed. “It would be rather fun to try a new place. I’d like to take Timsy, if you don’t mind, Wally. He’s such a jolly little chap, and it would be a tremendous treat for him.”

“Good idea!” agreed Wally. “Great man, Timsy; he’ll take charge of us and run the whole show, and be entirely happy. Will you find him, Nor, while I get the rods and basket?”

Timsy was never difficult to find, when the seekers were the Australians. He was digging his bare brown toes into the gravel by the front door when Norah and Wally emerged from the garden.

“Are you busy to-day, Timsy?” asked Norah, gravely. One of the things that Timsy liked about these people from the other side of the world was that they always treated him as an equal in age and sense, and did not “talk down” to him. He had bitter memories of an English visitor who had addressed him as “Little boy,” and of an elderly lady who had patted him on the head, and called him “dear.” His blood still boiled when he thought of it.

“I am not,” he replied. “I’m after catching all the chickens me mother wants,—and ’twas themselves give me a fine hunt. Chickens do be always knowing when they’re wanted to be kilt.”

“Then you can’t blame them for running,” said Norah. “No more jobs, Timsy?”

“There is not, miss. Me mother’s after telling me to get out and play.”

“Mr. Wally and I are going to fish Lough Anoor,” Norah said. “We haven’t been there yet, and we don’t know much about it. Would you care to come, too, Timsy?”

Swift delight leaped to the small boy’s eyes.

“Is it me? Sure, wouldn’t I be in your way, miss?”

“Why, you’ll be very useful,” said Norah. “You’d to come?”

“Like!” said Timsy. Words failed him, and he could only beam at them speechlessly. As they disappeared into the house they heard suppressed yelps of joy, and presently, from the front windows, beheld Timsy energetically turning handsprings on the path, in the effort to relieve his overcharged feelings.

They took the track across the bog leading to Lough Nacurra, skirted it, following a sheep-path along the shore, and mounted a rise. Below them lay the little lough they sought, a jewel in a setting of gently-rolling hills. In one corner a number of queer, gnarled objects showed above the surface of the water.

“What are those, Timsy?” Wally asked.

“They’s ould limbs of trees, sir; the lough does be low, and them ould things sticks out. Me daddy says there was a mighty big forest here, one time: there’s bog-wood everywhere in this part. There’s a small little landing-stage near them, where the boat is.”

They plunged down hill. Arrived at the boat, Wally whistled long and low.

“It must be a boat, I suppose,” he said, doubtfully. “Timsy said it was, and he ought to know. But—Did you ever see anything quite like it, Nor?”

“I did not,” Norah said.

The boat was flat-bottomed, clumsily and heavily built. The paint which had originally declared her a white vessel had long ago peeled off or faded to a yellowish grey. She squatted on the water like a very flat duck, and water lay in her, and evidently had lain long. There were no oars, and nothing that could be used to bale. Altogether, no craft could have looked less tempting.

“Well, Jim reckoned the boat on Lough Aniller bad, and the Nacurra one only fit for a museum,” Wally said. “I’d like him to see this one: it would do his old heart good. Timsy, how does one row a boat in this country when there are no oars?”

Timsy, thus appealed to, gave as his opinion that the paddles would be up at Michael McCarthy’s house, beyant; further, that if Patsy knew how the said Michael McCarthy had the boat left, he’d have him destroyed. “Let ye sit down, sir, and Miss Norah, too,” concluded the small boy, shouldering the burden of the responsibility. “I’ll slip up and bring the paddles and a baling-tin down in no time at all.”

“You won’t,” said Wally, firmly. “I’m in this job, Timsy. Come along and we’ll interview Mr. McCarthy.”

That gentleman, however, was from home, his place being taken by a lame son, who produced two oars which were not even distantly related to each other, remarking that his father was wore out with keeping the boat in order for the gentry, and none of them coming anigh her. When Wally demanded a baling-tin, he cast about him a wild glance which finally rested on an excellent tin dipper which presumably belonged to his mother.

“Herself is away with the hins—let you take it,” he said, thankfully. “Hiven send she do not come back on me before you’d be gone!”

With this pious hope echoing in their ears, the marauding party withdrew, Timsy racing ahead with the dipper, lest “herself” should make an untimely appearance and demand her cherished vessel. When Norah and Wally arrived at the boat he was baling furiously, and clung to his job until he was too breathless to argue the question further with Wally.

A flat-bottomed boat, built on elementary principles, is not the easiest thing to empty. They tilted her sideways, getting very wet in the process, and wielded the dipper until it scraped dismally against the boards; but a large residue of water still lingered, defying anything but a pump or a bath-sponge, equipment which they lacked. When they restored her to an even keel the water slapped dismally across the sodden bottom boards.

“I’m afraid we’ll never get her dry,” Wally said, ruefully. “Tell you what, Norah—I’ll put in a few bits of wood, and you can put your feet on them; that will keep them out of the water, at any rate.”

Wood is scarce in Donegal. There was not a bit to be found except the tough lumps of bog-wood sticking out of the water, and of these Wally managed to secure enough for his purpose.

“They aren’t lovely,” he said, looking at the uneven logs. “Still, they ought to keep your feet dry, and that’s something.” He worked the unwieldy boat round until her stern pointed to the shore, so that Norah could get in without being compelled to walk along the wet floor. Timsy hopped in, bare-legged and cheery, and they shoved off, moving gingerly among the half-submerged wood, which threatened momentarily to rip a hole in the rotten flooring.

“I’d hate to say a word against Ireland,” Wally remarked. “But you’d wonder why they’d build the landing-stage in the very middle of a submerged forest.”

“The stones did be a thrifle more convanient there.” Timsy offered as a solution.

“Well—maybe. Still it would be no great lift to take them a little further,” said Wally. “Does the boat never get snagged, Timsy?”

“She do, sir. Many’s the time me daddy’s mended her, and he at home. There’s no one to do it now, till I get a bit bigger—Patsy he’s destroyed with work, he says, and he can’t be lugging tools all this way, says he. And that Michael McCarthy, he’s no use at all in the world.” Timsy knitted his brows, a worried little figure. “It’ll be a good thing when the ould war is over and all them Germans kilt. Then me daddy’ll come back and fix everything.”

“Would you rather he hadn’t gone, Timsy?”

The small boy’s lip trembled.

“’Twas awful when he went. Me mother cried, and so did old Nanny and Bridget. But me mother and me daddy they says there’s no dacint man can stop out of it. I wisht I was big enough to go too. Will they take drummer-boys in your regiment, Mr. Wally? I’m pretty big when I howld meself straight.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got to be a bit bigger yet, old man,” Wally told him. “But you’ve got to be here, to keep an eye on the place; it must be a great comfort to your daddy to know you’re here, to look after your mother. There must be a certain number of fellows at home to mind Ireland in case the Germans should send troops here, you know; so we leave those at home who are too young or too old to march fast, and carry heavy loads, and do rough digging. You’re doing your bit as long as you’re helping at home.”

“Is that so, truly?” said Timsy, much cheered. “And could I go when I’m bigger?”

“Of course you could, if the war is still there,” Wally answered, cheerfully. “Only we hope it won’t be. You’ll be able to fight much better in the next war if you have your daddy home to train you first. It isn’t every fellow who can have a sergeant all on himself to train him, you know.”

“I’d be in great luck, wouldn’t I?” said the small boy, hopefully. “But sure, we’ll all be in the heighth of luck once we get daddy home.”

Wally had poled the old boat out of the submerged trees, with many a bump and scrape that made him look apprehensively at the boards. The gaunt and stunted tree-ghosts ceased, and the water deepened, so he took to the oars. They pulled up against a freshening breeze to the head of the lough, where Wally shipped the paddles thankfully.

“That’s a great pair of oars,” said he. “One weighs a ton and the other only a hundredweight, so pulling becomes a matter of scientific adjustment. Well, we’ll drift down, Nor, and see what Lough Anoor holds.”

That the little lough held trout was made clear within the first five minutes, when a fish rose at Norah, who struck too hard and missed it, to her intense disgust. Luck favoured her, however, for it was a hungry trout and came at her gamely on the next cast, this time departing with an annoying mouthful of steel and feathers instead of the plump fly he had hoped to engulf. He came to the surface after an exciting few minutes, and, being very thoroughly hooked, survived three ineffectual attempts by Wally to get the landing-net under him. The fourth landed him in the bottom of the boat, both operators slightly breathless, while Timsy, scarlet with excitement, jigged on his seat and uttered sage counsel which no one heard.

“Awfully sorry, Nor,—I nearly lost that fellow for you,” Wally exclaimed. “Scooping up a jumping fish with that old net is much harder than playing him, I think: I have the utmost respect for Patsy every time he uses it. Never saw him make a mistake yet. I say, young Norah, what’s the good of my putting down a floor of bog-wood for you? Your feet are soaking!”

Norah glanced down, still flushed with the pride of capture.

“I’m sorry, truly,” she said, laughing. “You see, I can’t possibly play a fish sitting down; I’ve just _got_ to stand up. And I tried to stand on those old lumps of wood, but they simply turned over and deposited me in the water. Never mind, Wally, it isn’t the first time I’ve had wet feet.”

“Don’t go and collect a cold, or your father and Jim will have my blood,” said Wally, doubtfully. “You’ll have to land and run about if you get chilly.”

“If I said, ‘Land my grandmother!’ it would be rude, so I won’t,” said Norah, who was casting again vigorously. “Quick, Wally, there’s a rise near you!”—and Mr. Meadows forgot prudence in the excitement of trout. At the end of the drift the basket held four fish, while a fifth had made his escape at the very edge of the boat, and was doubtless in some snug hole, reflecting on the Providence which helps little trout by entrusting the landing-net to inexperienced hands.

The wind had risen, and to pull the heavy, water-logged old boat up the lough was no easy task. There was no rudder, and she steered very badly, her awkwardness intensified by the unequal oars. The waves slapped against her side, and occasionally flung in a little cloud of spray, and she leaked fast. Norah baled energetically, with poor results.

“She’s a noble vessel,” said Wally, pulling with a will. “Feel her wallow in the trough of these silly little waves. I guess we’ll call her ‘The Walloping Window-Blind,’ Nor, after the boat in the song. Can you swim, Timsy?”

“I cannot, sir,” said Timsy, grinning. “Sure that one won’t sink on us.”

“Blest if I know,” Wally answered, doubtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised at any old thing she’d do. Anyhow, Miss Norah and I can rescue you if she goes down; and the water isn’t very cold. Timsy, did you ever hear the sergeant’s opinion of this boat?”

Timsy’s grin widened.

“I did, sir,” he said, with probably prudent reticence. “Sure, there’s no one does be liking her in these parts. She’s not an aisy puller at all.”

“True for you,” said Wally, panting. “Thank goodness, here’s the end of the lough. Hurry up, Nor, she’ll drift back quickly before this wind, and they ought to be rising.” His flies whistled out over the dancing water.

“If you’d let me have the net itself I could be landing the fish for you,” said Timsy, eagerly. “I’ve landed ’em for me daddy many a time—he taught me.”

“Good man—what the sergeant taught you is good enough for us,” said Wally. “Stand by, then—I’ve got a beauty on. He’s pulling like fury.” He played the fish dexterously, his keen, brown face eager. “Come on, you monster—I’d bet he weighs a pound, Norah! Ready, Timsy?—he’s about done—ah, good kid!” as the small boy slipped the net under the struggling fish with all the deftness of Mr. Burke himself. “Oh, a beauty! And to think we used to imagine that a hand-line was sport!”

“You live and learn,” said Norah, sagely. “That’s the biggest yet, Wally, and didn’t he fight! Oh, I’ve got one!—be ready, Timsy.”

Timsy crouched, alert, his hard little hand gripping the net. The fish was a strong one and fought hard for his life; again and again he ran the line out, even when almost at the side of the boat. Norah reeled him in at last, almost done, but still fighting.

“Oh, be careful, and he lepping!” Timsy uttered. “If you take the strain off when he’s hooked slightly he’ll get off on you. Isn’t he the great fighter entirely! Quick, miss, I’ll get him!”

He dived at him with the net. The trout leaped to one side, a wave hiding his flashing golden-brown body; and Timsy, following a thought too far, overbalanced, and shot head first into the water. Wally, casting in the bow, did not see. Norah had a moment’s vision of the slight childish body as the brown water closed over him. He had not uttered a sound.

“Wally, quick—the oars!” she gasped, dropping her rod. The boat was drifting fast before the wind. She watched, knowing that Timsy would be far beyond their reach when he came to the surface. Then the little head appeared for an instant and she sprang into the water.

A year earlier, Wally would have followed without a thought. But training and experience had steadied him; he knew that in the boat he would be far more use than in the rough water, with the wind taking the ‘Walloping Window-Blind,’ their one refuge, swiftly away from them. He flung himself at the oars and steadied her, watching, his heart in his mouth. Norah swam like a fish, he knew; but the water was rough, and Timsy would be a dead weight, even supposing that she had been able to grip him.

Then, to his utter relief, the two heads broke the water together. He heard Norah’s voice: “Hold my shoulder, Timsy—you’re all right. Don’t be scared.”

“I’ll be beside you in a second, Nor,” Wally shouted. “Just keep paddling.” He pulled the clumsy boat frantically up the lough, and let her drop down to Norah, shipping the oars as he reached her. Leaning over, he gripped Timsy firmly.

“Hold on to the kid, and I’ll pull you both to the boat,” he said. “Can you catch it?—I’ve got him.” He waited until Norah’s hand gripped the side. “That’s right—let him go. Come on, Timsy.” He hauled the silent small boy into the boat and turned back to Norah. “Hang on to me, old girl—thank goodness we can’t pull this old tub over.”

There was a struggle, and Norah came over the side, scrambling in with difficulty.

“Is Timsy all right?”

“I am, miss,” said a small voice, between chattering teeth.

Wally flung off his coat, and wrapped it round the child.

“Poor old chap—that will keep the wind off you a bit,” he said. “Norah, get hold of the oars and pull in—you’ll be nearly as quick as I would be, and it will keep you warmer. My Aunt! that kid hung on to the landing-net all the time! Well, you are a good sort, Timsy!”

“I dunno why would I let it go,” shivered Timsy. “Bad enough for me to be such an omadhaun, to be falling in—and herself going after me! Me mother’ll be fit to tear the face off me!”

“She’ll be too glad to see you alive,” said Wally, reassuringly. “We’ll——”

Timsy interrupted him with a cry. He caught Norah’s neglected rod.

“Howly Mother, but the fish is in it yet!” he shouted. “Oh, will ye come, please, sir!”

They landed the trout between them, Timsy recovering some measure of his self-respect by being allowed to use the net.

“He had it nearly swallowed—if he hadn’t, he’d have been gone this long time,” he chattered, watching Wally disengage the hook. “Isn’t it the grand luck we’re in! and he the beautifullest trout! Oh, why would I want to be falling in, and the fish rising!” He looked wistfully at Norah. “Tis all wet ye are, and the day spoilt on ye,” he said, sadly. “You won’t never take me out again, Miss Norah.”

“Won’t we just!” said Norah, smiling at him through a tangle of wet hair. “We don’t get out of friends because of a trifle like that, Timsy.” She brought the “Walloping Window-Blind” floundering against the shore. “There! it would warm an iceberg to pull that old tub. Come along, Timsy, and I’ll race you home.”

Wally put a detaining hand on her arm as he turned from securing the boat.

“Sure you’re all right, Nor?”

“Right as—as anything,” said Norah, laughing at the anxious face. “I believe you’re growing careful, Wally—what’s come to you?”

“It’s all very well,” said Wally, unhappily. “Do you think it’s jolly for a fellow to see you pitching into a beastly lough? And I’m going home dry, and you and the kid wet. If there was any sense in it I’d jump in and get wet, too!”

“Only there isn’t,” said Norah—“and it was lucky for the two wet ones that you were dry in the boat. An old and hardened warrior like you ought to have more common sense.”

“I suppose I ought,” said Wally, relapsing into a smile. “Only . . . Oh, well. Now we’ve got to run, or we’ll never catch young Timsy.”

_Jim and Wally_] [_Page 118_

_Jim and Wally_] [_Page 128_