Part 2

Meanwhile the outlaws stood aghast at the unexpected and startling turn of events. Thundercloud was the first to recover his speech.

"Great Caesar! who would have dreamt of a bolt? Just listen to the brutes!" as the animals tore along, baaing and roaring in a way possible only to frightened billies and calves.

"I--I--didn't know he'd loaded his pistol. I--I--I thought for sure I was a goon coon," gasped Hawkeye, who, after lying for a minute under the impression that he was mortally wounded, got up, rubbing his face and head, half terrified as his hands became wet with flowing blood, and only reassured after Joe had declared that the blood was from his nose. As a matter of fact, he had sustained a smart blow upon his prominent feature with the pistol wad; his cheeks, also, were scorched with the powder flare.

Red Murphy, who had just grasped the billies' heads when the guns were fired, was thrown down in their mad rush, and had his shins severely barked on the rocky ground.

"Drat the brutes! Oh, I say, here's a go! Listen to the beggars! Ain't they footin' it?"

"To horse! to horse, pals!" cried Thundercloud, making hasty strides to a patch of scrub where they had tied up the horse. In a few seconds the three were mounted and away with a swinging canter, adding their yells to the cries of the beasts. They were soon up to the spot where Jimmy had come to grief, when, thundering down the gully, the horse made a shy at the prostrate coachman, shooting off Thundercloud and Red Murphy. They scrambled up quickly, none the worse for their spill. Hawkeye immediately reined in his steed and rejoined his dismounted companions.

The boys were greatly concerned to find Jimmy in this condition. The affair began to assume a serious aspect. They were no longer outlaws and police: they were pals, and Jimmy was suffering intense pain from his sprained ankle. After a short consultation the boy was placed on the horse, which was led by Sandy. The others followed behind, making a somewhat mournful spectacle. In due course they reached the goatcart, now in possession of Yellow Billy, who had disentangled the team and was waiting for the others to come along. The steer meanwhile continued his career at headlong speed, until he pulled up at the milking yards in an exhausted condition. Mrs. Blain, as the hours sped by, began to get concerned at the non-return of the boys. Concern deepened into anxiety. She became a prey to evil imaginings, as do all our dear mothers. They are lost! ... Some dreadful accident has happened! ... That gun! ... Their legs, arms, necks, are broken! And so on and on, running over the whole gamut of catastrophy.

She goes out to scan the streets, and listens with strained ears for some enheartening sound of footsteps. Lights are out in the village. Even the dogs are sleeping. No shuffle of advancing feet; no rattle of wheels as they grind in the ruts: no sound, indeed, is borne upon the night wind save the mystic noises of the flowing river, which fill the air with a deep undertone. Above this, at intervals, come the splashing sounds of the jumping fish; the smooth splash of the falling mullet, the tail flutter of the rising perch. The wood-duck's soft quack-quack, and the red-bill's chuckle, are to be heard as they move among the sedges. No landward sound!

Stay! a dark shadow swiftly steals along the earth like a spirit of evil omen, and passes through the house, across the street, as it strikes the walls. While from above comes a wail as that of a lost soul.

The poor woman quivers and shivers at the unwonted sight and sound. She knows not that the apparition is the shadow of a black swan, which is sailing high up in the heavens; it crosses the moon, and utters its melancholy note as it wings its flight to the feeding grounds. The mother is now on the outskirts of the town, under the shadows of the trees. Every leaf is a tongue; every tongue whispers--Something! which dries the throat and fills the ears with heart-thumps. "Why did I? ... That gun! ... What will father? ... Why don't they come? ... Which track? ... Hark! Yes, 'tis the galloping hoofs ... Oh, God! it is the steer! ... Riderless! ... This way, then.... On, on, on! ... At last! ..."

"Cheer up, mother ... no harm done ... Jimmy had a bit of a buster an' sprained his ankle.... Scold us, mother, but--don't cry!"

The hour is verging on midnight as five weary lads, four billies, one horse, and one thankful woman straggled into the silent township. All romance, for the moment, had gone out of bushranging.

*CHAPTER IV*

*THE GREAT MATCH*

"God bless the grilling days of cricket! They're gone but I shall bless them ever, For good it is to guard a wicket By sudden wrist and big endeavour." NORMAN GALE.

"There's a breathless hush in the close to night, Ten to make and the match to win, A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in." HENRY NEWBOLT.

"Hawkins, stand out!"

"Please, sir, I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

"No, you wasn't doin' nothin', but you have been talking all morning, you tiresome boy! Write out 'disobedient' three hundred times after school."

The fact is, Tom was relating the bushranging episode to a schoolmate, and, like Tom Sawyer, he "laid over" considerably in his recital. While in the act of enlarging he was brought to book in this peremptory fashion by the master, and had to do penance with as little relish as most boys.

"Sorry you can't come out and play, Tom," said Joe Blain, poking his head into the empty schoolhouse after dismissal.

"It's a beastly shame! What are you fellows up to?"

"Goin' to practise for the Dingdongla match. After that we'll have a swim."

"Oh, rot it!" grunted the chagrined prisoner.

"Say, Tom, don't forget to come along to-night an' help pick the team."

"I'll be there, never fret."

"Well, so-long. Wire in, and keep your pecker up."

Dingdongla was an up-river settlement; Tareela a down-river town. The latter named was the older and more substantial place, being the headquarters of the shipping. As a consequence it was instinct with the superior air generally to be met with in places of metropolitan pretensions. In schools, too, the down-river town had the advantage. Its school building was of sawn timber, with a shingle roof. Furthermore, it possessed two teachers, and pine desks. While, on the other hand, the up-river academy was constructed of roughly adzed slabs and a bark roof.

For the Dingdonglas to be thrashed in cricket by the Tareelians was not considered to be a disgrace. _Per contra_, their victory was a splendid achievement, and a great humiliation to their opponents. The latter was fairly beaten by the former last season, and naught would restore their prestige save the administration of an unmitigated licking. So, at least, thought the match Committee, as they conned names, and analysed the merits of the candidates on the name list.

Needless to say, Joe, Tom, and Sandy headed the list of certainties. Yellow Billy came next; for though a very irregular attendant at school, he was a tremendous swiper when he got his eye in. Billy had dragged more than one match out of the fire.

Saturday morning broke fair. Shortly after an early breakfast a cavalcade of about twenty youthful horsemen, followed by two teachers in a gig, were scampering along the bush road to Dingdongla, distant about nine miles up the river. Oh, the merry, merry days of youth! Those are the days of the superlative mood.

It was a merry, roaring, romping, racing crowd of youngsters that tore along the bush track. They jumped fallen timber and gullies; chased the flying marsupial; and spurted in couples for short lengths. There were minor accidents, 'tis true. Pincher Putnan's horse, in a fit of pig-jumping, broke a girth, sending Pincher and saddle to mother earth. Yellow Billy's half-broken brumby fairly bolted in a race, cleared off the road, and rushed through a belt of timber at breakneck speed, towards his native haunts in the Nulla ranges. It was only the superb horsemanship of the half-caste that saved him from being dashed against the trees in the headlong flight.

In due time Dingdongla is reached. The horses are turned out in a maize stubble paddock, where is a fine picking, and the boys stroll on to the ground to have a look at the pitch.

"Whatyer think of the pitch, Joe?"

"You'll have to keep your eye skinned for shooters Rody. The ball'll keep very low. Must keep a straight bat and forward play."

The stumps, like much of the material, were home-made. The Dingdonglas had only one "spring handle"; the others were chopped out of beech boards. The Tareelians were not much better off for material. They, it is true, had two "spring handles,"--more or less battered,--and could boast a pair of wicket gloves, but for the rest were like their opponents, sans leggings and gloves. That, however, was a small item; for every boy who possessed boots doffed them, rolling his trouser legs to the knees and his shirt sleeves to the elbows.

"Got all your men, Wilson?" said Joe to the Dingdonglas' captain.

"Yes, they're all here. May as well toss for innin's, Joe."

"Right you are," responds Joe, ejecting a jet of saliva on a piece of flat wood. "Shall I toss, or you?"

"You toss, Joe."

"Call you!" cried Blain, tossing the board with a twirl skywards. "Wet or dry?"

"Wet!" called Wilson, as the wood spun in the air.

"Dry!" exclaimed Joe, as it lay on the ground with its dry side uppermost. "We've won, and go in."

"Tom," said he a moment later, "you and Yellow Billy go in first, an' you take the strike."

The batsmen were soon in their places, and the Dingdongs in the field. The innings opened fairly well for the Tareelians. Yellow Billy got quickly to work, and laid on the wood to some purpose; Tom playing carefully the while.

Facing the Dingdonglas' swift bowler, after a smart short-hit run Billy sent a well-pitched ball for four, a rattling, straight-hit drive. But in trying to repeat the stroke off the next ball he misjudged, and, skying the sphere, was easily caught.

"One wicket for twenty!" of which the half-caste contributed fifteen.

After this the troubles of the batsmen set in. The Dingdongs were strong in bowling talent, and possessed a local Spofforth, whose lightning deliveries shot and kicked in a marvellous fashion. Joe, going in fifth man, stayed the "rot" for a while, but was foolishly run out by his mate.

The Tareelians were all out in an hour for the small total of forty-seven. If the down-river boys were despondent over this score, the up-rivers were correspondingly jubilant. Going to the wickets with plenty of confidence, they rattled up ninety-nine before the last wicket fell; the captain carrying out his bat for a well-earned forty-two.

Adjournment for lunch was now made. We call it lunch by courtesy. It was a big bush feed. This repast was served in the schoolhouse, the rough desks being converted into tables, which were literally covered with good things.

The Dingdonglas' mothers were determined that, whoever won, the boys of both sides should have a rippin' feed. A stuffed sucking-pig, whose savoury odour filled the room, lay at one end. Roast wild duck and a cold pigeon-pie balanced it at the other. An immense round of spiced beef, standing in the centre of the long table, seemed to say: "You may cut and come again." Potatoes and pumpkins smoked in big tin bowls, and all the available space was filled with cakes, puddings, and pies. Needless to say, the onslaught was terrific. They were all sloggers at tuck. Meats, puddings, cakes, tea, and ginger-beer disappeared like magic.

All good things mundane, however, come to an end; especially when the good thing happens to be a dinner. And now, after divers whisperings and nudgings, up stood Captain Joe, amid the cheers of his side.

Joe was silent a moment, nervously looking up and down the board, and heartily wishing himself at the bottom of the deep blue sea. "Mr. Chairman" (addressing the local schoolmaster), "I--we--that is--us fellows from Tareela asked me to tell you--I mean to say, that--that--that--a--it gives us much pleasure--er--er--oh, hang it all!--I--I mean--er--this is the jolliest blow in the way of tuck we've ever had." Joe subsided to the rattle of the knives on the bare board. As soon as the noise ceased, Tom Hawkins jumped up and called: "Three cheers for the Dingdonglas!" which were heartily given.

Half an hour's lounge, and the battle began afresh.

"We've got fifty-two to wipe out before we start even, boys. We can do it, and score plenty more to win the game, if we keep our heads. Anyway, we must have a big try. Billy an' I'll go in first; Tom next, and then Pincher. The order of the rest of you depends on the way things turn out."

"Look here, Billy," continued the captain, as the two batsmen walked to the wickets. "They've got two slashing bowlers, but if we can manage to knock 'em out they've no one else of much account. Get your eye well in before you do any slogging."

"All right, Joe! Do me best."

"Your best means steady play and a big score. I'll take the strike."

If Joe was nervous in public speech it was not observable in action. He played Ginger Smith's fast deliveries with confidence, punishing the loose balls and blocking the straight ones. Billy, too, was playing with unwonted caution, and the score, though slowly, was surely mounting up; until after half an hour's play it stood at twenty-five, with no wickets down. There were no boundaries, and every hit was run out.

"Oh, glory, what a swipe!"

Yellow Billy had got hold of one of Ginger's leg balls with a mighty lunge. The ball seemed as if it would go on for ever, and finally rolled into a gutter. They ran six for it.

There was great cheering among the Tareelians. Mr. Simpson, who umpired, forgot for a moment his impartial office. Flinging his hat into the air, he cried, "Bravo, Billy!"

"Thirty-one an' none out. Only twenty-one to get level!"

The boys were now scoring faster; singles, twos, threes were coming with great rapidity. Joe made his first four, a sweet, square cut.

"Forty-nine an' no wickets down!"

Joe faced the new bowler. The local demon had begun to bowl wildly, and was relieved.

"They'll never bowl them!" cried young Ben Wilde, as Joe took block for the new-comer--a lad with a reputation for slow left-hand twisters. The first ball was pitched on the leg stump; just the ball for Joe's favourite leg glance.

It went for two.

"Only one to make us even!" shouted Tom to his captain. The second ball was pitched in exactly the same spot, and Joe proceeded to treat it in the same fashion. The sphere, however, had a little more twist on it than its predecessor, and, breaking on to the left bail, flicked it off.

There was a great chorus of disappointment among the Tareelians, and hearty cheers from their opponents, as the captain's wicket fell. His twenty-one, got by true cricket, was worth twice that number by reason of the spirit of confidence he had infused.

Billy and Tom carried the score to seventy-three, when the latter was caught for ten. Pincher fell a victim to a very simple ball from an under-hand lob bowler, after making seven. Sandy gave the bowlers some trouble, and got into double figures before he retired. All this while Billy was scoring well, and, when Sandy's wicket fell, had made fifty runs. All the boys scored less or more; and when the innings closed had compiled a total of one hundred and thirty-seven, of which Billy made seventy-one and not out. This was a grand achievement, and the half-caste was carried off the ground amid great applause.

This left the Dingdongs eighty-six runs to win, which they failed to do by seventeen runs, Sleepy Sam stumping no less than three off young Ben's slow lobs.

There was great cheering as the victorious cricketers rode in the dusk of the evening through the main street of Tareela, after a grand day's fun.

*CHAPTER V*

*THE BIG FLOOD*

"The day is cold and dark and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall; But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary." LONGFELLOW.

Drip, drip, drip!

Croak, croak, c-r-o-a-k!

Quack-quack, quack-quack!

"Heigho!" grunted Tom Hawkins, as he turned over sleepily in bed. "Is it ever goin' to stop rainin'?"

For some days a steady rain had been falling, soaking the ground. Every gully was a rivulet, and every depression a lake.

"Tom!" cried a feminine voice from an interior room. "Get up!"

"Bother those frogs an' ducks!" muttered the lad, full of sleep in the grey of the early morning. "Like ter choke 'em! waking fler----"

"Tom!" cried a masculine voice, as a hand rattled the door of the lad's bedroom, and a boot gave a drum-like accompaniment on the lower panel. "Git up this minit an' run the cows in, or I'll----"

But Tom had jumped out of bed as nimbly as one of the frogs, between whose croak and his father's bass voice he seemed unable, in his sleepy condition, to discriminate.

"All right, father! I'm dressing," shouted Tom, as the word "dowsing" fell on his ear. There had been times in master Tom's past when a sudden application of cold water was deemed necessary to expedite his slow movements.

"Dad's too mighty smart! Thought I'd nick him with that button," growled Tom, as he stuck his legs into his pants; said button being an iron tee snip, fastened so as to act as a bolt.

"Jemima! ain't it dark! Must be very early," muttered the reluctant boy, as he strove to lace his boots. "Drat it! Shan't wear 'em; too wet."

"My crikey!" cried he as he stood outside. "Must have been rainin' cats an' dogs, an' lakes an' seas."

His moleskins were rolled up to his thighs, while a cornsack, hooded at the bottom, and stuck on to his head like a nun's veil, gave him fair protection from the driving showers.

"I wonder if it's goin' to be a flood?" The thought was not unpleasant to the lad. It produced, indeed, a certain exaltation of spirits, forcibly expressed in Tom's vernacular by, "Ge-willikins! but won't we have fun!"

Heavily laden clouds, in interminable succession, were drifting from the sea, forming, as they swung overhead in batches, an endless series of smart showers. It had been an exceptionally wet week, and for the preceding twenty-four hours had rained without ceasing.

The cows depastured in a paddock that ran back from a creek to the timbered country. The creek itself was bank high and running strongly. It was only by climbing along the branches of a dead limb, which spanned the water, that Tom managed to reach the kine.

It was no small task to get them to face the stream. Small as was the creek in width, it was deep enough to make a swim, and the roaring, turbid, and muddy stream frightened the creatures. But for the fact that the calves were in a pen at the milking yard all Tom's efforts would have been futile. Their mooing and baaing, however, made a loud appeal to the maternal breast. Finally, when the old red poley, the mother of twins, made a plunge, the rest followed.

During the morning the river rose steadily, and large quantities of drift-wood passed down the stream. With the rubbish was a good deal of heavy timber, and--what Tom had predicted--pumpkins. This was an indication that the river up-stream had overflowed its banks in places, and was sweeping the low-lying farm lands. Tom spent the morning in fishing out the floating vegetables that came within reach of his hooked pole. Meanwhile the rain continued, and looked as though it might last for forty days and nights.

"I'll pull over to the township this afternoon," remarked Mr. Hawkins at the midday meal. "I'm anxious about this rise. Looks as if we're goin' to have an old man flood. Might get some information about the state of things up-river. If I leave it till to-morrow 'twill be a tough job gettin' acrost, as the timber's comin' down pretty thick now, an'll be worse by an' by."

"Be sure'n bring tea and flour back with you. No knowing how long the rise'll last."

"Can I go with you, father?"

"Yes; I'll require you to steer. It'll be a pretty stiff job, I reckon."

The crossing was not without peril. The current ran fierce and strong. The landing-place on the other side was protected, in a measure, by a headland up-stream. Out from the influence of that, however, the boatmen felt the full force of the current. The water seethed and foamed. The violence of its rush created great whirlpools, which accentuated the difficulty of keeping the boat's head up-stream. Logs and driftwood patches had to be dodged, and, what with fighting the current and outflanking the timber, by the time the river was crossed the boat had drifted quite half a mile down-stream. On gaining the other side they found a shore eddy, in which they were able to paddle up-stream with ease, until they came to a point of land about two hundred yards below the town wharf. As they lost the eddy here, and would have to encounter the full force of the flood when round the point, Mr. Hawkins wisely determined to tie up the boat in the slack water.

When Hawkins arrived at the store, where many of the townsfolk had congregated, he was informed that news had been brought down by the mailman that morning to the effect that heavy rains were falling at the head of the river, and that when the New England waters came down in full force the river might rise to the "high flood" marks.

Cooees could now be heard from the settlers in the low-lying portions, adjacent to the township. They proceeded from those who had neglected to move before being surrounded, and who were without boats. The police were busily engaged in rescuing families by boat. Many townsfolk were engaged on the same merciful errand.

All through the day the waters, fed by the flooded creeks, continued to rise, and as evening approached anxiety deepened. Things were so serious that Mr. Hawkins, whose farm, be it said, was situated on comparatively low-lying lands, acting upon the advice of his friends, returned home almost at once. After hoisting the most valuable of his possessions to the rafters, and securing them there, he returned to the township with his family; gaining it as dusk was deepening into dark. The family was distributed among neighbours, Tom and one of his sisters being quartered at Mr. Blain's.

A group of men and boys throughout the day had lined the bank of the river, in the vicinity of the Government wharf, which was submerged. They were engaged in gauging its rate of advance by pine laths scaled to inches.

Towards evening the wind, veering from east to south-east, increased in violence. Laden with torrential showers, it smote the earth in great gusts, streaming through roofs and walls, and taxing the ingenuity of housekeepers to find dry spots for beds.

The wind and flood waters, travelling in opposite directions, conflicted with great violence. The roaring, boastful wind, as it lashed the racing, defiant waters into angry waves, and the universe-filling sounds of the seething, surging flood-waters, as they wrestled with and overbore all opposing forces, made storm music, compared with which the artifices of man touch the infinitely puny. Darkness and the blinding rain had driven most of the river watchers indoors. A few, however, braved the elements, among them the minister and the lads.