Part 10

"I want to give her a pretty, dainty print frock," said Aileen, leaning her elbows on the table, and speaking rapidly, with shining eyes. "Not blue--she never wears anything but blue dungaree: pink, I think, with a little white collar and cuffs. And some simple pretty under-things and a petticoat to wear with it, and a pair of nice stockings and neat shoes, and a simple, pretty hat. Is that too much, Tom?"

"If you mentioned how much these glories would cost----" he began, laughing.

"Oh, very little. I'll make all the things myself, and the material will cost hardly anything. I have a hat that will do--she has never seen it: and the shoes and stockings will be very plain. Would about a pound for the whole be too much?"

"I'll give you thirty shillings," he said. "Then you can buy yourself chocolates with what is left. How about fitting her?"

"Oh, I can guess about the dress," Aileen answered. "And she can wear my size shoes, though you would never guess it to see her feet in those enormous boots. I made her put on one of my slippers the other day when she lost a boot in the creek, and we had to dry it after we had fished it up. And I saw her looking at her foot in my slipper with a kind of hungry expression in her eyes. She does love pretty things, Tom; I think one reason why she likes coming here is because I have them."

Tom laughed.

"She likes coming here because she has fallen badly in love with you and Garth," he said. "But she's a good sort, and I'm grateful for all she has taught me. Do you know, I think she tries to imitate you. She looks cleaner, somehow--and I'll swear she brushes that queer short mop of hers more than she used."

"I know she does," Aileen said. "I've seen a difference ever since I told her casually that I gave mine at least a hundred strokes with the brush every night. And she has a tub regularly--she told Garth so--and I know she scrubs her hands. But her terrible clothes don't give her a chance; and, of course, she spends nearly all her spare time on the children."

"She's a queer mixture," Tom said.

"Isn't she? She has mothered those babies, kept house, cooked and washed, cut scrub, fenced and drained paddocks, put in crops, and broken in horses; and she can hardly sew on a button--decently, I mean; she 'clamps 'em on,' she says; she has never made a pudding or a cake, never been to Church, and never ten miles from her home. She told me all the religion she had. 'Mother learnt me to say prayers, so I says 'em; and I learnt the kids. Father, he don't care. The kids goes to school, so they picked up more'n me; but I keep 'em up to the mark. Mother said you say prayers to God, so that's how I know He's there, an' that's all there is about it--there'd have to be Some One somewhere, wouldn't there--no get-out of that!"

"Poor little soul! Well, she's straight enough, whatever her religion may be, and she's bringing up those kids uncommonly well," Tom said. "A man was telling me that young Bill stole some apples, and told a lie about it; 'Possum found it out, and dragged him five miles to the owner of the fruit to own up and ask for a thrashing! Said she couldn't look their mother in the face if they grew up liars and thieves. I believe young Bill has been extremely reliable since!"

"It's like her," Aileen said.

"The same man told me that she can swim like a fish, and handle a boat as well as any fisherman on the lakes. Her father used to own part of a fishing-boat, and she has been out with him on the wildest nights. Yes, you'd certainly call our 'Possum a young lady of mixed accomplishments. But I suppose one would find a good many like her, if one went hunting in the Bush districts. She's just what her upbringing has made her."

"I don't think you'd find many with 'Possum's straight, clean soul," Aileen said slowly. She went to the doorway, and stood looking out across the paddocks to the blue glimpse of the lake, where 'Possum, had she known it, was at the moment fighting one of the toughest battles of her life.

It was at breakfast that morning that Nick O'Connor had announced his intention of taking his small sailing-boat and crossing Lake King to a settler's farm on the farther shore. There were pigs to be looked at: if he approved of them he might even bring a couple home in the boat. Therefore he would need help.

"Suppose you can come, 'Poss?" he said.

"Oh, I s'pose so," 'Possum answered. "I was goin' over to the Macleods' to look how their lucerne's comin' on, but I guess that'll keep till to-morrow. Bertha'll look after the kids."

Bertha nodded. She was a small stout person of few words, who had been born old, and had never become young.

"Right," said her father. "You get in wood, Bill, an' milk in good-time if I'm not back; an' don't you forget them pigs an' calves."

Bill nodded also. He was deeply engaged with his third plate of porridge, and relieved, on the whole, that no more tasks had come his way.

"Then we'll hurry up, 'Poss," said Nick. He got up from the table, his great form seeming to fill the little kitchen. "When'll you be ready?"

"Oh, as soon as you get the boat, I expect," she said. "Just give a coo-ee when you're ready to start."

"Right," said her father. He gathered up pipe, tobacco and matches, and strode from the house, and 'Possum disappeared in the direction of the shed. There was a sick calf to be tended, and instructions to be given to Bertha and young Bill as to its feeding during the day, with a dozen other jobs that needed her before she could leave the house with an easy mind. She was not, indeed, finished when she heard her father's coo-ee, after which there was a wild rush, which did not include time to make any additions to her toilet. Not that it mattered, she reflected; the Simpsons would not be likely to know whether she had a dress on or not. Blue dungaree was good enough for them.

Nick O'Connor, for a wonder, looked at his daughter, when they had pushed out from shore and were gliding gently down the arm of the lake to the broader water beyond.

"That ol' dress of yours has seen its best days, hasn't it?" he said. "Seems to me it's more patch than dress."

"It is so," 'Possum answered. "Can't make 'em last for ever. Anyhow, dungaree lasts twice as long as anything else."

"What else 've you got?" inquired her father.

"Why, I ain't got nothin' else but dungaree, except me oilskin, an' me old thick skirt," 'Possum answered, in some astonishment. "It's the most useful; an' I never have time to put on other clothes. I got three of these--enough to get 'em washed when they want it."

"H'm," said her father thoughtfully. "Well, it looks a bit rum. You'd better get a new one, I think, an' give that ol' rag a rest: it looks about fit to make good floorcloths."

"Right," said 'Possum cheerfully. Even of dungaree, a new dress was a pleasant, almost exciting experience: albeit dungaree when new is more like petrified wood-pulp than anything else, and only ceases to scratch the wearer severely after many washings. She wondered, would she depart from her usual custom of buying a man's jumper for the blouse, and, instead, try to make it a little like some of Mrs. Macleod's working dresses Then, with a shrug, she gave up the idea. She knew she could not fashion the harsh, unyielding material into anything pretty--even if she could sew well enough. "An' you jolly well can't," she told herself. "You ain't the kind to wear pretty things, anyhow."

They had reached the lake, and were running along half a mile from the shore. It was a hot day, with a fitful wind coming in puffs off the land, where, probably, it was scorching things considerably; but here, tempered by their swift motion, and by its path over the water, it was only cool and refreshing, and made their journey an easy matter. 'Possum had done a hard week's work: it was pleasant to sit idly in the boat, watching the water cream away from the bow, and the waves sparkle under the sun's rays. They passed fishing boats, hurrying in to hand over their catch to the Bairnsdale steamer; and one or two motor-launches from the hotels, crammed with gaily-dressed summer visitors bent on a long day's picnic, crossed their bows, the occupants glancing curiously at the unkempt girl in the sailing boat, who drew her battered felt hat over her brows, and concealed herself after the fashion of the ostrich. 'Possum disliked all summer visitors. They were a useful species, in providing a market for eggs and vegetables, but nothing could have induced her to believe that they did not laugh at her.

They reached their destination in good time, and received the usual Bush welcome from Mr. Simpson, a lean and silent settler, and Mrs. Simpson, who was also lean, but not at all silent, as well as from a large horde of little Simpsons, to whom visitors were an infrequent and glorious excitement. Nick disappeared with his host in the direction of the pigsty, while 'Possum remained in the kitchen and nursed the last baby and the last but one, between whom there seemed but a slight difference in point of age. In the intervals of this employment she peeled potatoes, washed cabbages, and gave slices of bread and treacle to any little Simpson who demanded them--which occurred with extraordinary frequency; and later, finding her hostess' bed still unmade, rectified this, and swept the room. Mrs. Simpson was grateful.

"There's some people comes into the house and they wouldn't lift a finger to do a hand's turn for you," she remarked. "But I do say you're not like that, 'Possum O'Connor. I never seen your equal for findin' out things to be done. It's a comfort to see how that baby takes to you, like. She ain't been well, an' she howls the whole blessed night an' most of the day. Makes you fair tired. Not as what you ain't always tired, with seven of 'em under your feet all day. But a woman's born to be tired, so it ain't no use to grumble. Delia O'Hea, across the lake, she grumbles, an' her husband he up an' hit her the other day. Said he was full up. I wouldn't blame him, neither. Well, thank goodness, Jim ain't never lifted a hand to me yet. I wouldn't advise him to, neither--he's smaller'n me. Well, ain't you got any news, 'Possum? Might as well be in the Equator for all the news we get here."

"No, I don't think there's any," 'Possum answered, dancing the last baby until it roared with joy. "I never go anywhere, except to sell aigs an' veg'tables. Sellin' flowers, too, this year. Mrs. Macleod put me up to that."

"Oh, tell us about the Macleods," Mrs. Simpson begged, pausing, rolling-pin in hand, in smoothing out dough. "Jim, he saw Mr. Macleod at the sales one day with your father, an' he said there was none of old Gordon's style about him. Said he was a toff, all right, but none o' your stand-off toffs. Jolly, too, Jim said, an' didn't mind sayin' straight out that he didn't know a thing about calves. Nor he didn't neither, Jim said."

"Well, you wouldn't expect him to," 'Possum said. "And it don't matter not to know anything, if you know you don't know. It's when you think you do that you fall in."

"That's right," agreed Mrs. Simpson, falling anew upon the dough. "Tell us about Mrs. Macleod, 'Poss. I s'pose she's a toff, too. Does she dress very swell?"

"Yes, she's a toff," 'Possum said slowly. "But she dresses as plain as you or me, almost. Just print things, an' not one scrap of trimmin'."

"No trimmin'! But I s'pose she has lace collars an' things?"

"No, she hasn't. I never see her with a bit of lace on. Just plain white collars. Washes an' irons 'em herself, too--leastways, she did till she got ol' Mrs. Todd to do the washin'. But she irons 'em. I seen her."

"Fancy her dressin' like that, an' comin' straight from Melbun," said Mrs. Simpson, marvelling on such misuse of opportunities. "But what's she wear when she goes out, 'Poss?"

"Well, sometimes she just wears her old prints. If it's cold she puts on a coat an' skirt--made most awful plain."

"An' a trimmed hat?" said her hostess eagerly.

"No. Her hats is plain, too."

"Well, I never! She must look queer!"

"No, she don't," said 'Possum hotly. "She--she'd look lovely, no matter what she had on. An' even if her clothes is plain, they're just right. You'd say so, if you saw 'em on her."

"Is that so? Well, I s'pose I would, if you say so, but I must say I do like a bit of trimmin'," said Mrs. Simpson. "I seen a picksher of a dress in a paper Jim brought home the other day: marone, it was, with a vest an' collar of tartan silk, an' some cawffee lace on it, an' big pearl buttons. My, it did look a treat! You'd think any one comin' from those big shops in Melbun 'ud have lots of dresses that sort. But is she as pretty as all that, really, 'Poss?"

"She's awful pretty," 'Possum said. "Very tall, an' yeller hair, an' blue eyes. An' whatever she puts on seems just like it ought to be."

"Go on!" said Mrs. Simpson, greatly interested. "Fancy, now! An' she's doin' her own work?"

"My word, she is. Inside an' outside, too--an' she's got that place a picksher," said 'Possum. "An' the veg'tables she grows! you'd ought to seen them. Works in the garden like a cart-horse. An' fowls, an' all sorts. They're goin' to make money off that place, you take my word!"

"Lor'!" said Mrs. Simpson. "Jim was sayin' you've been workin' there, 'Poss?"

"I been doin' a bit o' ploughin' an' odd jobs."

"An' they do treat you nice?"

"Couldn't treat me nicer, not if I was a member of Parliament!"

"Go on! Well, that sort is real toffs, an' no mistake! An' what about the kid?"

"He's a darlin'," 'Possum said. "I never seen a boy with such nice manners. Well, you'd hardly believe it, but that boy's seven, an' I ain't seen 'im rude to any one yet!"

"Well, I never!" said her hostess feebly.

"No. An' he looks after his mother as if she was a bit of china an' might break. He'd look after me, too, if I'd let him. Many's the time when I've been workin' there on a hot day he come down the paddock to me with a billy of tea or a bottle of lemon syrup. An' they'd no more let me go without havin' me afternoon tea than they'd fly!"

"Brings it out to you?"

"Not they; they come an' haul me into their sittin'-room. My word, you ought to see it--all pickshers, an' books, an' flowers, an' a lovely pianner. An' she plays a fair treat."

"But aren't they awful well off?"

"No, they ain't. They got jolly little money. They had plenty in Melbourne, but he had to give up his billet there when they come here. An' they say they don't care a button, 'cause the kid's gettin' strong, an' he nearly died in Melbourne."

"Don't s'pose they would," said Mrs. Simpson, rescuing the last-but-one baby from the wood-box, and bestowing it outside the door, with a spank and a kiss, both of which it received without emotion. "Oh, lor'! here's your dad an' Jim, an' I'll bet the potatoes ain't cooked!"

Dinner at the Simpsons', being complicated by the seven little Simpsons, was a long and stormy affair, from which 'Possum and her father escaped before it had raged its way to a close. Nick O'Connor had bought a pig, and was anxious to get home. Mr. Simpson conveyed it to the water's edge in a wheelbarrow, tied in a sack, through a hole in which its head protruded, while it emitted the agonized shrieks peculiar to pigs. It redoubled these on being dumped into the boat, having, apparently, an aversion to a sea-faring life; and under cover of its wails 'Possum and Nick screamed their farewells to their host, and pushed off.

The breeze was still choppy, and they made but slow progress, tacking frequently. On land, it had been very hot, and the Simpsons' crowded kitchen had been stifling. Even on the lake, when the breeze fell, the sun was hot enough to make Nick throw off his coat. They zigzagged backwards and forwards across the lake; the boat went sluggishly, and both her passengers were sleepy. The only wakeful individual was the pig, who had ceased to yell, more from lack of breath than from any pleasant inclination, and was steadily employed in widening the hole cut for its head.

A sharp puff of wind came off the land. Simultaneously, the pig freed himself from the sack, and started for home, oblivious of the fact that his hind legs were still tied together--a fact which checked its first leap, and sent it rolling, with an ear-splitting yell, against Nick's legs. That gentleman awoke with a start, and instinctively put the helm over, just at the wrong moment. The gust of wind struck them suddenly, and the boat heeled over, too far to right itself. The sail struck the water, and in an instant Nick, 'Possum and the pig were struggling together in the waves.

The pig's troubles were quickly over. The rope round its hind legs, knotted by the capable Mr. Simpson, held firmly, and the water soon choked its cries as it sank for the last time. 'Possum and her father swam to the boat, which lay on its side, and clung to it, looking at each other.

"Well, of all the born fools!" spluttered Mr. O'Connor, a vision of soaked wrath. "I oughtn't to be let out. D'you know what happened?"

"I don't--I was asleep," 'Possum admitted. "First thing I knew, I was swimmin'."

"Well, you'd a right to go to sleep, but I hadn't," said Nick furiously. "That darned pig got loose, an' barged into me just as the wind struck us. Now we're in a lovely fix, an' I've lost a jolly good pig, an' it hardly paid for an hour. And me hat. Well, I ought to be kicked for a careless fool!"

"Can't be helped," said 'Possum cheerfully. "It was awful easy to go to sleep, sittin' still after havin' dinner in that hot kitchen."

"All very well for you to talk--you ain't got to pay for the pig!" said her father morosely. "I say, you climb up on the boat."

'Possum scrambled upon the boat, which lay on its side, held in position by the sail under the water. Then her father tried to follow her example; but the little craft ducked so ominously under his great weight that he slipped back into the lake.

"That'll never do--she won't hold both of us," he said.

"Then I'll get off," said 'Possum. "I can easy hold on."

"You will not," said her father decidedly. "Sit where you are, an' behave yourself. Tell you what--I'll work round an' stand on the mast: that'll be some support, an' it'll divide the weight better."

He made his way round the bow until he could feel the mast with his feet, and gingerly stood on it. It creaked, and the boat swayed over; and for a moment Nick prepared to jump off again. Then, however, as the boat showed no further sign of sinking, he sighed with relief.

"You wouldn't call it exactly comf'table, but it's better than hangin' on in the water," he said. "Can you see any sign of bein' picked up?"

'Possum scanned the lake.

"Not any one in sight," she said. "We're a bit off the usual track, aren't we? Do you reckon we'll drift into shore? It ain't far away."

"I don't," said Nick. "We're out o' the way o' currents, as well as boats. Still, you never can tell where people'll cut across the lake; an' them hotel launches ought to be comin' home about this way. Well, we just got to stick it out. I'd give a dollar if me matches an' baccy hadn't got wet!"

The slow hours of the afternoon crept on. No one came near the castaways. Once or twice their hopes rose high, as a fishing-boat or a launch crossed the lake; but they were not seen, and their shouts died unheeded on the water. It seemed extraordinary that they should not be perceived, for the shore was not a mile away, and houses looked peacefully down upon them; it was maddening to see the cheery smoke curling upward from the chimneys, and to realize how near lay deliverance.

They changed places after a while. Nick's great height made his position on the mast unbearably cramped, and when he had slipped off twice, 'Possum became firm.

"It's silly," she said. "I can stand on that stick quite easy; it's different for you, an' you six feet four. Why, it doubles you up something cruel." She descended into the water, and occupied the position on the mast before the cramped man could regain it.

"I b'lieve the boat'll hold you all right, if you get up gently," said she. "Go on--you're about due for a rest."

Nick scrambled to her former seat, the boat merely swaying beneath him. He looked at her gratefully.

"My word, it's good to sit down!" he said. "That place is a fair terror, 'Poss; I ain't goin' to let you stay there long. Hot above an' cold below, it is--your feet an' legs is near froze, an' on top you're gettin' sunstroke. You just tell me when you want a spell."

"Oh, I'll stick it all right," said 'Possum. "I had a mighty long spell already." They relapsed into silence. There was nothing to talk about.

They shouted, from time to time, until they were hoarse and weary; but no one heard them, and at last they ceased. Nick was growing very weary. Once he slipped off, half asleep, and 'Possum had to swim after him and bring him back to the boat. He seemed half-dazed, and a sick fear came over her that the heat of the sun on his bare head had been too much for him. She splashed water over his face, and he became more alive.

"Thought I might swim ashore," he said thickly. "But I s'pose I'd better get back." He climbed laboriously upon the boat once more, and 'Possum returned to her perch on the submerged mast.

The sun went down slowly, a red ball of fire, into the lake. It was a relief to be without its fierce rays; but as the short Australian twilight deepened into dusk the wind blew coldly on their soaked garments, and they shivered. O'Connor opened his heavy eyes, and looked at his daughter.

"I dunno how you can keep on there," he said. "I'm near done, an' I'm twice as comf't'ble up here. Well, if you come out of it an' I don't, 'Poss, there's a sort of a will in the drawer where I keep the strychnine for the foxes. It'll fix up all about the farm."

"I say, chuck it, Dad!" 'Possum said unsteadily. "You ain't goin' to give in."

"Not if I can help it," he said. "But I'm not far off done."

There came across the water the dull beat of a screw and a red light showed faintly through the dusk. It was the Bairnsdale boat hurrying down to her night's rest; and the sight galvanized the weary castaways into fresh efforts. But the steamer passed them half a mile away, deaf to their shouts. Her gleaming lights fell across them as in mockery before she throbbed away towards the Entrance.

"Well, that does me," O'Connor said, after a long, silent pause. "I'll drop off soon, 'Poss. Then you come an' perch up here."

"I won't," 'Possum said, with a sob. "You ain't goin' to give in, Dad. Think of the kids--I can't manage them boys."

"I'm near done, 'Poss."

"No, you're not. The Sale boat'll be along in less than an hour now. She'll pick us up, I bet you."

"It'd be a miracle if she did," Nick said. "What with the row of her engines, an' her passengers all talkin', how on earth's any one to hear us in the dark? It's no good, my girl. I'll drop off."

"If you do, I'll only come in after you, an' finish the way you do," said 'Possum between her teeth. "It ain't like you, Dad, to be such a jolly old coward. You _got_ to hang on, for the kids' sake."

"I'll try a bit longer," said her father meekly. "But I'm dead beat, 'Poss."