It was a delightfully merry evening. Bob had to re-do his punishment and sing several songs, and then he struck.

"I am quite sure Miss Chase sings," he declared. "It's her turn now. Witches ought to be punished even more severely than traitors."

She made no demur, but sat down to the piano and began to sing. But in the middle of her song such a noise began over her head that she dropped her hands laughingly, and exclaimed,—

"How can I sing with that wretched electric bell going on all the time?"

"Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r," sounded shrilly through the room, louder and louder.

"Electric bell?" exclaimed the children with blank faces.

"Oh, you dear new chum," said Mr. Orban, bursting into peals of laughter, accompanied by Bob, "that isn't an electric bell; it's a cicada."

"A cicada!" repeated Miss Chase.

"Yes; a kind of grasshopper, or cricket, you know," Mrs. Orban explained, looking much amused. "He is up there in the roof. I am afraid you will have to stop, for as long as you go on so will he."

"How very ill-mannered of him," said Miss Chase.

"Let's play something instead," said Peter, who was getting sleepy, but would not own it.

He was not really fond of music—Bob's comic songs excepted.

The game was begun, and going merrily, when suddenly there rose on the night air such an appalling howl that Miss Chase started and turned pale. To her astonishment, when she looked round the table, she found that no one but herself was at all disturbed by the sound.

"You to play, I believe, Miss Chase," said Bob, who sat opposite her.

She put down her card, and at that moment the agonized cry came again, apparently from immediately under the veranda. Dorothy gripped her hands tightly together, and again looked round on the unmoved faces. Again the cry resounded.

"Surely," she said, looking appealingly at Bob, "there is something or some one in dreadful pain outside."

Bob laughed.

"I thought you seemed upset, but I didn't like to mention it," he said. "That's nothing but a dingo howling. There'll be a whole pack of them at it presently, I dare say. I'll go out and disperse them as soon as the game is over."

"What is a dingo?" inquired Miss Chase.

"Don't you know that, Aunt Dorothy?" asked Peter in tones of contemptuous astonishment. "Well, it's the commonest thing here.""Peter," said Bob gravely, "do you know what a top hat and a frock coat are like?"

Peter shook his head in bewilderment.

"Don't you?" said Bob, mimicking the small boy's tone. "Well, they're the commonest things in England. I am surprised at your ignorance!"

Peter reddened.

"But I've never seen them," he said.

"Nor has Miss Chase ever seen a dingo," said Bob calmly.—"It is the wild dog of the Bush, Miss Chase. They come prowling round the house at night, looking for food."

The howling grew worse and worse. Bob quietly sauntered out on to the veranda. There were a few shots, and the noise changed to yelps as the dingoes scurried in terror down the hill.

"Don't be worried if you hear them in the distance most of the night," said Mrs. Orban. "I am afraid it will take you some time to get used to our noisy hours of darkness."

When Miss Chase tried to settle down to sleep she remembered these words, and it seemed superfluous to her that she should have been wished "good-night" by every one. A good night was impossible. The dingoes howled persistently in the woods below, and quite close there was the incessant "croak-croak-croak-croak" of tree-frogs, together with many other inexplicable and weird noises.

Nesta slept placidly through it all; but not till there came a lull just an hour or so before dawn did the weary stranger drop into oblivion.

It did not seem to her she had been asleep five minutes, and there was only the faintest glimmer of light in her room, when she was awakened by something new. Just under her window there was a strident laugh.

"Ha-ha-ha!" Then another, "Ha-ha-ha!"

Miss Chase listened in bewilderment.

"What extraordinary people," she thought, glancing enviously at the undisturbed Nesta. "Who on earth can be out at this time?"

She supposed that it must be some of the plantation hands prowling about outside; but she wondered at her brother-in-law allowing them to behave in such a tiresome way when people were wanting to sleep.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha!" jeered the voice outside, as if mocking at her annoyance. Then followed a chorus of chuckles, and Miss Chase sat up in bed, and strained her ears to catch the joke, if possible. But no words reached her. There was a little pause as if some one might be speaking, and then another burst of delighted chuckles, so very funny that they were quite infectious, and Miss Chase smiled in spite of herself.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha! ha-ha-ha-ha!" laughed the voices. Now certainly there were more than one.

"This is too ridiculous," thought Miss Chase, beginning to chuckle softly to herself. "What can they be saying or doing out there?"

At last the hilarity became so boisterous that her curiosity got the better of her, and slipping on a wrapper she opened the window and crept out on to the veranda.

To her surprise there was no one to be seen—not a soul was about either on the veranda or below, though she leant right over, and strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of these queer people.

It was comparatively deliciously cool outside, the grayness before dawn a pleasant contrast to the tropical glare that was positively hurtful to the new-comer's eyes. Going to the corner of the veranda, she gazed away and away towards the now deep gray sea, lying like a bath of mist beyond the dense black of the trees in the valley.

"What a queer, unreal world it seems," she was thinking, "and yet to little Peter this is all reality, and England nothing but a dream."

"Ha-ha!" said a voice from immediately below, so loudly as to sound almost insulting.

Miss Chase jumped, looked about in astonishment—and saw no one.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha-ha!" repeated the mocker.

"I wonder if he sees me, and is laughing at me now?" thought the girl.

She gave a little shiver. It was not a very pleasant sensation to feel herself spied upon by an unseen watcher, and she began to beat a hasty retreat towards her own window again.

"Ha-ha!" laughed the unseen one, with such a note of triumph that now she was certain the humour was at her expense. It annoyed her, and at the same time it rather frightened her. Was it possibly a madman?—for assuredly the chuckles became madder and madder as they increased. Besides which, what sane person would be out of bed and giggling at such an hour? The thought of a lunatic or two at large lurking round the house was discomforting indeed. In England, with fast-barred doors and windows that are supposed to be unassailable, it would not be pleasant; but here—where what might be called the "front door" was nothing but the flimsiest of French windows, the windows themselves utterly powerless to keep any one out—the English girl found this new suspicion particularly disagreeable. She wondered whether she ought not to go and rouse Mr. Orban. Perhaps he ought to be warned, she reflected, so as to be ready in case these maniacs burst into the house, intent on the mischief they were so evidently gloating over in anticipation.

"I wish I knew what to do," she thought in great agitation.

"Ha-ha! ha-ha-ha-ha!" responded the laughers with maniacal glee.

"Why, Aunt Dorothy," exclaimed Nesta, as Miss Chase entered the room in a hurry, "what have you been doing?"

Nesta was sitting up in bed. She had evidently awakened, and discovering her aunt's absence, was wondering about it. It comforted Miss Chase to have some one to speak to; but, determined not to frighten the child, she said as steadily as she could,—

"I was only trying to find out what those people are laughing at out there. It seems such a strange time to be so amused. I suppose they must be some of the coolies going to work."

"People!" repeated Nesta blankly.

"Yes—listen!" said Miss Chase; and as another burst of thick-toned mirth reached them, "There—don't you hear that?"

Nesta rolled down into her pillow, and fairly shouted into it."What is the matter with the child?" asked Miss Chase in bewilderment.

"People!" gasped Nesta, as soon as she had any voice to speak with. "Those aren't people; they're birds!"

"Birds!" said Miss Chase. "Impossible. You must be asleep still, or you didn't hear what I said."

"Yes, I did," Nesta replied. "You mean those funny fat chuckles and ha-ha's? Well, those are birds—the laughing jackasses. I can show them to you in a minute."

Out they both went on to the veranda, and in the fast-increasing light Nesta pointed out some trees below, on which sat groups of brightly-hued birds, not unlike kingfishers in appearance, but very much larger. They had without doubt the funniest faces Miss Chase had ever seen. Not only did they laugh aloud—they positively grinned, so comic was the expression of their wide beaks. She laughed herself till the tears ran down her cheeks, and Nesta put her head down on the veranda railing and wept with laughter too.

The sun was up now, there being practically no twilight either before sunrise or after sunset in North Queensland. The glory of the scene sobered Miss Chase, and she stood watching.

The glee of the birds was explained. They sat and laughed as they watched for their prey, then pounced down upon the unwary locusts or lizards they had marked, and returning to the tree, sat chuckling triumphantly over the capture before eating.

"It is really rather horrid of them, isn't it?" said Miss Chase.But Nesta did not sympathize.

"Nobody minds," she said, "especially about locusts being eaten—nasty things. When there is a plague of them it means ruin to father; they destroy every blade of sugar-cane."

Over the tree-tops in the valley below appeared a cloud of shimmering whiteness, moving swiftly round the base of the hill.

"What is that?" asked Miss Chase curiously.

"White cockatoos," said Nesta, with a yawn; "they're changing their feeding-ground—white cockatoos with bright yellow crests. But, I say, don't you think you had better go back to bed? You're looking awfully tired."

"Is that one for me and two for yourself?" said Miss Chase lightly. "Personally, I would rather dress and go for a walk in the wood down there."

"I don't think you had better," Nesta said, shaking her head doubtfully. "We aren't allowed to go there alone. It is awfully easy to get lost; and then there are snakes and things. You might get into a mangrove swamp too—or you might meet black-fellows."

"Well, really," laughed Miss Chase, leading the way back to bed, "you don't give a very flattering description. Why, at home I'm often up at sunrise, out all by myself in the woods. You don't even meet poachers, for they take good care not to be seen."

"I think England must be splendid," sighed Nesta.

"I wonder if you would really think so," Miss Chase responded. "Mr. Cochrane gave you a very dismal picture of it, remember.""Oh, but Bob has never been there. Besides, he was only exaggerating, because he doesn't want us to go, you know."

Miss Chase gave such a graphic account at breakfast of her early morning experiences that every one at the table shouted with laughter. The jackasses were alluded to ever after as Aunt Dorothy's lunatics.

"To talk of serious things," said Mr. Orban, half way through the meal, "we shall have to be fearfully careful with the water. The second tank is almost empty, and I doubt its lasting till the rains come."

"That's bad," said Bob.

"Things are bad," said Mr. Orban. "I hope the rains will hurry up, or we shall have the cane catching fire. We should lose every bit of the crop if that happened."

"Dear me," said Miss Chase, "you seem to have fearful difficulties to contend with. Nesta was talking about locusts only this morning."

"Locusts will destroy the young crop," said Mr. Orban. "If it escapes them, fire may destroy the old. Too much rain and too little do equal damage. We've had a good many unprosperous years, with one thing and another."

"It looks grand burning," said Eustace.

"A sheet of flame, and your heart in the middle of it, never seems very grand to the man whose year's work and hope is being burnt under his very nose," said Mr. Orban.

The children had seldom seen their father look as worried as he did then. It seemed to Eustace there was trouble in the air."Can't you put out a fire in the cane once it begins?" asked Miss Chase with interest.

"No," was the answer; "you can only try to stop it spreading by cutting as wide a path as possible between the burning part and the sound. It takes all hands to do it, though, and some of the coolies can't be got to work for love or money. It is a nasty business when it happens."

Bob started off home early; not quite so early as he had meant to, because when his horse was brought round ready saddled, he found it had lamed itself somehow in the stable. He therefore borrowed a horse from Mr. Orban, and left his own to rest for a day or two.

Generally when Bob took his departure after a particularly jolly time there was a good deal of depression about. But to-day, with the arrival of Aunt Dorothy's boxes up the hill, low spirits disappeared as if by magic.

The contents of those boxes kept every one occupied the whole day. What with the excitement and curiosity over the many presents—the clothes, useful things, and games stowed quaintly into the packing-cases together; what with every one's amusement over Miss Chase's frequent astonishment at the commonest things of their everyday life, time slipped cheerily away towards evening. The children never remembered such happiness in their quiet existence before, and Miss Chase felt half inclined to weep when she saw what simple things were joys to them.

"Herbert and Brenda would laugh at them if they saw them," she thought gravely.Brenda's photograph was very much admired. She was a beautiful girl indeed, with a proudly-carried head, and just the suspicion of a scornful curve to her lips.

Nesta suppressed a sigh as she looked at her cousin's clothes, for Nesta loved pretty things. She let out little bursts of admiration that amused her aunt considerably.

"She looks a regular angel," Nesta said. "I never saw any one so lovely. Isn't she simply perfect, Aunt Dorothy?"

"She is a very nice girl," was all Miss Chase could be brought to admit.

"And she goes to school," murmured Nesta, gazing lingeringly at the lucky girl, who seemed to have everything heart could desire. "I just want to see her more than everything in the world."

"Perhaps you will some day," said Miss Chase, wondering silently how much of the compliment Brenda would return could she see a photograph of this rough-headed, ill-dressed little cousin of hers; for Brenda was particular—at least over her friends at school.

Eustace gazed silently at the portrait of Herbert. He had no word to say about the immaculately-dressed English boy, photographed in his best suit, his highest collar, and pet tie. At least he made no public comment; but when Nesta bothered him later for an opinion, he said shortly,—

"He looks an ass."

"Oh, he doesn't," Nesta said warmly, ready to admire everything English.

"I think so," Eustace said imperturbably."Then you're a silly, jealous boy," said Nesta in fiery championship.

"Who wants to have clothes like Brenda?" was the instant retort, "and go to school like Brenda, and be just like Brenda? But I'm certain I don't want to look like Herbert anyway. He looks a stuck-up ass."

"He—he looks like a gentleman," spluttered Nesta.

"Oh, shut up," said Eustace. "Can't a gentleman look an ass? Who is that riding up the hill?"

His quick ears had caught the sound of hoofs, and glad of a pretext to change the subject he went and leant over the balcony.

Nesta was at his side with a pounce.

"Hulloa!" he shouted a few seconds later; "here is something queer."

"What is it, Eustace?" called his mother from within; and soon every one was on the veranda, staring eagerly down the hill.

Coming up at a leisurely trot was a riderless horse—saddled, bridled, but alone.

The watchful party waited in breathless astonishment till it was close to the house. Then Eustace said sharply,—

"Mother, it's the horse Bob went away on this morning! There's been some accident."

Back to contents