  They were all under a shadow at “Gillong.” Teddo was leaving the line. Teddo, whom they remembered as long as they remembered anybody, was going to leave the district. His contract had run out, and a new man would soon take over the coach line, and a coach and four would take the place of Teddy’s sulky, for many passengers were travelling by the new railway line, and were clamouring for better accommodation than Teddy’s line of vehicles. Miss Gibson had hinted pretty plainly that there was to be no holiday in connection with Teddy’s departure. “I do certainly think we ought to get a holiday the day he leaves,” said Eileen. “Yes, indeed, he has been a good friend to us,” sighed Mollie. “Yes, Teddo’s been a good friend to us,” agreed Eva. “Yes, Teddo’s been a weal good fwiend to us,” echoed Doris. Then Baby burst into tears, and said that she wanted Teddo to “tay wit dem.” “I’ll never forget that letter,” said Eva. “And how well he kept the secret,” said Mollie. “And how he never even as much as hinted that he had a secret,” went on Eileen; “never by a word or a look did he ever mention that letter.” “No, he can’t be beaten,” said Mollie. “We’ve got a lot to thank Teddo for. Fancy asking a new man to post a letter like that and keep our reply!” “It couldn’t be done,” said Eileen, in tones of finality. “And to think we can’t get a measly holiday in honour of his going.” “What did Miss Gibson say?” asked Eva. “Did you ask for one, Mollie?” “I didn’t exactly ask,” said Mollie; “but I mentioned something about it, and she said we had too many holidays; that she only taught about half the time she should, and that birthdays were always coming along, and that there was to be no more holidays or no more birthdays till the end of the year.” “End of the year!” they all echoed in amazement. “Why, it’s only August now, and my birthday comes in September,” declared Eileen. “And mine comes in November, an’ I’m goin’ to have one whether she likes it or not,” said Doris, on the verge of tears. “What! no more holidays?” asked Willie, as he came in. He always came and joined the group when he thought there was anything extra on. “No, dere’s to be no more birthdays or no more excuses for holidays till the end of the year, and it’s only de middle now!” cried Doris. “Oh, dear! and mine’s at the end of this month!” cried Willie, “and I suppose she won’t let me have one, either. Jolly hard on a fellow when he comes all the way from Sydney, and don’t get a holiday on his birthday.” He looked very glum. “I’ll tell you what!” cried Eileen, excitedly. “I’ll give up my birthday for Teddo—there you are! Surely we can get one day between now and the end of the year, so we’ll beg off one for Teddo.” “Oh, Eileen! will you?” they all cried. “That’ll be lovely!” “That will be great!” said Willie. “But I’ll tell you what—mine comes sooner than yours, so I’ll give mine up. There you are!” “Oh, Willie, you’re splendid!” cried Eva. “Do you really mean it? True?” “Of course it’s true. We’ll all go to old school on my birthday, same’s if it was just any other day,” he said, stoutly. “‘Oh, no, Willie!’ I said first, and perhaps when it comes to the time you might be sorry and want yours,” said Eileen. “You can ‘cry off’ if you don’t want to give yours.” “No, I won’t cry off,” said Willie, stoutly. “I’ll stick to my word.” “You’re grand, Willie,” cried Eva. “I didn’t think it was in you,” cried Eileen. “Here, shake hands.” They all solemnly shook hands, and Willie felt quite a hero. “Oh, you don’t know me yet,” he said, cheerfully. “An’ p’raps, after all, you might get yours given to you just the same, Willie,” said Doris, hopefully. “No,” answered Willie. “I won’t take it. I give up all claims to it. It’s only fair to give Teddo a day when he’s leaving the district.” Then he marched out of the room, and felt like a martyr for a good cause. After all, they got the holiday, and the funny part of it was that Teddo wasn’t there until the evening; so they played all day, and prepared a big tea in Teddo’s honour for the evening. Just all the children and Teddo were present, and speeches were made and toasts were given till Teddo was almost in tears and wondered whatever he had done to win such regard from the assembly. “Good luck to you, Teddo! Wherever you go you will carry all our good wishes with you, and may you never lose your kind heart,” cried Eileen. “Never forget that five little bush girls are in your debt, Teddo,” cried Mollie. “We’ll never forget you.” “Good old Teddo!” cried Doris. “Good luck to you, Teddo—all your life!” said Eva. “I’ll let oo take my ole dollie, Teddo, if oo like,” said Baby, as she solemnly held her spoon in the air. “Bless your little heart an’ soul, Baby,” cried Teddo. “I wouldn’t take it from you for the world. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll send you a beauty from Queensland.” “Oh, dood Teddo, dood Teddo!” chuckled Baby; “send me a pitty noo dolly.” “We’ll all miss you dreadfully, Teddo,” said Mollie. “There’ll be no one to tell us all the news on mail days now.” “And no one to tell us when the little Smith girls down the creek have new dresses,” said Eva. “Or no one to tell us about the buck-jumping horses at the station,” said Willie. “Ugh! it’ll be a bit off without you.” For Teddo had always brought along a little fund of news for each one. “By Jove, Teddo, old man, we will miss you!” went on Willie. “We’ll hate coach days to come, and not see you rattling down the road. It won’t seem the same at all without you. Good luck, wherever you go!” They all cheered Willie’s speech, and then Teddo rose to his feet. “I’m not much of a hand at a speech,” he said, “but I must say a few words and thank everyone of you for the nice things you have said. I think the five of you are the nicest little girls in the world, and Willie’s one of the nicest chaps, and wherever I go I’ll never forget you. It was real bosker of you to give me this spread, and Teddo never forgets old friends—never. I’ll always remember the lot of you; and I’m not much of a hand with the pen, but I’ll write you all a letter from Queensland—you see if I don’t!” “Me, too, Teddo,” said Baby. “Ess, you, too, Baby.” “Oh, do, Teddo, do!” came a chorus of voices. “We’d love to get your letters.” “Yes, I’ll write, right enough. Teddo don’t make promises to break them.” There was great cheering then, and cries of “Hear, hear.” “We know that, Teddo—we know that,” came the chorus again. “And I say again that I’ll never forget you,” he went on, “and I hope you’re always happy and contented and get on real well all your lives.” They filled the room with shouts and cheering when Teddy finished his speech, and Willie waved a big handkerchief and shouted, “God save the King”; and then Mother, Dad and Miss Gibson came in, and Teddo’s health was drunk in lemon syrup by all. After some more talking, he bade them all good-bye, and rode through the silver moonlight away through the frosty air under the sparkling stars of the winter’s night. The children’s voices followed him, singing “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” “Good-bye, Sydney Town,” and any other songs that came to their minds at the time; and after each song there would be “Three cheers for Teddo.” So Teddo started the first stage of his journey that took him away among strangers in the big State of Queensland, and his little bush friends would not see him again for many years to come. But as they grew up they all retained memories of the kindly red-headed Teddo, and from time to time a very carefully-written letter would come from him from some far-off town with a most outlandish name, and many a time the map of Queensland was searched to find “where Teddo was now”; and, though other mailmen came and went, there was never another such as Teddo on the line. “A letter had come for Willie from his Mother.” |
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