CHAPTER XII

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*DOWN THE RIVER*

"When the full moon flirts with the perigee tide, On a track of silver away we ride,-- Oh, glorious times we have together, My boat and I in the summer weather." ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

The boat was sighted from Robinsons' some time before its nose grated on the shingle at the landing-place.

Isaac, the younger son, a giant in stature and a prime favourite with Joe, was at the landing-stage. Seizing the bow what time it touched land, he half lifted, half dragged the boat two-thirds of her length out of the water, and made her fast to an old stump.

"Mother's so glad you've come, sir. She wants to talk with you about that boy of Maguire's, who's bin givin' us a lot of trouble."

"Won't be able to stay long, Ike. We've got to be at Beacon Point to night. We just put in for a cup of tea and a bite. Mother's inside, I suppose? I'll go in and have a chat with her."

"You'll find her in the kitchen, sir. When we saw you roundin' Piccaniny Point we knew you'd be here for tea, and mother's lookin' after things."

"I hope she won't go to any trouble. A mouthful is all we want."

"Well, you know mother, sir. She feels that nothin' is near good enough."

"Any pancakes for tea, Ike?"

"Pancakes! Why, of course. That's what mother's makin' now. She knew that'd be the first thing you'd be askin' fur, Joe."

"Rather, Ike!" said Joe, pursing his mouth and drawing in his breath with the peculiar, half-whistling, unwriteable sound which boys instinctively make when visions of goodies arise. More especially when such goodies come within measurable distance of consumption.

Master Joe had a healthy boy's appetite. The rowing exercise gave additional spice to his hunger. Pancake was at that moment the gate of entry to the boy's very material heaven.

"Tea won't be ready fur a few minutes, Joe. Let's go down to the barn. I was just goin' to rub some more mixture inter the skins when I seen your boat roundin' the point. Sorry you're goin' on, my son. When I seen you on the river I ses to meself, ses I, 'By George! Joey an' I'll have a great night at the 'possums.' I wish to goodness you'd been stayin'. There'll be a grand moon ter night, an it's very temptin'."

"By gum, ain't it just! It'd be simply, rippin'. 'Member last time I was down? That was a grand bit of sport we had. Forty-seven was it, or forty-nine? I know it took a dashed long time to skin 'em."

"Forty-seven it was. We'd do over fifty to-night."

"Well, as mother says, 'What can't be cured must be endured.' By dad! that's a grand wallaby skin! Where'd you get it?"

"Got it larst night." Ike had the Colonial drawl to perfection. "I was up at the top end of the scrub cultivation paddick, mooseying around after some cockatoos that'd bin skinnin' the corn. It was just about dusk, an' I was waitin' in the corner for the cockies, as I knew they'd soon be leavin' fur their roosts, an' my bes' charnse at 'em was on the wing. They're so 'tarnal cute, yer know, yer carn't git 'em on the corn."

"I know. Didn't I try my best to stalk 'em the last time I was down, Ike! I got three altogether, you 'member, an' you said it'd be a crest apiece to take home to the girls."

"Waal, as I was sayin', I'd sarcumvented the ole boss cockie, which was keeping watch in the dead gum-tree that stood in the middle of the patch, an' was posted in the middle of the corner expectin' them ter fly over every minit. But ole Pincher, who was chevyin' about, starts this ere boss outer the pumpkin vines; they're death on pumpkins, yer know. The dorg made a dash at 'im, an', by jings! he did streak. Greased lightnin' wasn't in it with 'im. I tried to draw a bead on 'im, but, what with the dusk an' the bushes an' stumps, I couldn't get a good line. I banged away one barril, but was yards off, I reckon.

"Pincher, he disappeared in a brace of shakes, an' I made sure the vermin ud get through a 'ole in the fence. I was makin' for 'ome, 'cause the cockies, yer know, 'ad all gone. All of a suddent I heers a yelp, an' knew ole Pinch 'ad somehow 'eaded 'im. Reckon 'e missed the 'ole, or the dorg'd never got near 'im. Anyhow, 'e was a-streakin' a bit now, an' Pinch at 'is 'eels. He was makin' fur the maize agen. I lined 'im this time all right, though it was a longish shot; about sixty-five I reckon; an' dropped 'im clean at the very edge."

"It's a prime pelt, anyway."

"Yaas, 'e was a grand ole buck fur a wally; about the biggest I've got this season."

"How many skins have you taken, Ike?"

"Two more'n I'd 'ave six dozen."

"Gettin' a good price for 'em?"

"Waal, Jack Croft, 'e offered me nine shillin' a dozen fur 'em. There are about twenty kangaroos among 'em. Jack reckoned it was a stiff price, an' 'e sed 'e'd not offer anythin' near it but fur the kangaroo skins, which 'e 'ad a fancy fur."

"Old Jack can put it on, you know."

"Oh, I know Jack all right! Me an' 'im's 'ad dealin' afore. Jacky's not too bad, but 'e knows 'ow to draw the long bow. Anyway, ole Eb Dowse's boat'll be along nex' week. He's sent word ter say as 'e'd do a deal with me fur 'em."

"Better wait an' see what Eb'll shell out for 'em, Ike, I reckon. German Harry, up the river, says he can always knock a shillin' a dozen more out of Eb than Jack."

"I ain't hurryin', Joe."

Just then the welcome supper cooee reached their ears. The boys lost no time in getting to the supper-table. Joe instinctively eyed the contents. Cold streaky bacon; a big dish of fried pumpkin and potatoes; a mountain of home-made bread, sliced; a basin of prime butter; Cape gooseberry jam galore, and amber-tinted honey in the comb. What more could any hungry lad desire?

Mary Robinson, a great tease, caught Joe's glance, and said, with an amused smile, "No pancakes to-night, Joe."

Joe was abashed for the fraction of a second. Quickly rallying, he laughingly said, "Tell another, Mary, while your mouth's hot."

"Very well, my boy! If you don't believe me ask our black tom-cat. He chased a mouse into the batter and upset the bowl; so there!"

"Mary, Mary!" remonstrated Mrs. Robinson. "There's only a grain of truth in the pound of fiction she's giving you, Joe. The cat, it is true, did chase a mouse; but it did not jump into the batter, nor was the bowl upset. The pancakes are cooked, with currans in 'em; just the sort you like; and they're keeping hot by the fire."

"Thanks awfully, Mrs. Robinson; I believe _you_ anyway. As for Mary, she's like Sandy M'Intyre's old, toothless sheep-dog."

"How's that, Joe?" interjected Ike.

"Bark's worse than her bite."

"My stars! what originality, what refinement! Sandy's razor is not in it with master Joe Blain for sharpness. I'll remember this, though, the next time you ask me to go out to the scrub with you for passion fruit. Anyhow, there's no resemblance between you and Sandy's wonderful barker."

"_Indeed!_"

"No; your bark's noisy enough, but your bite's a hundred times worse--especially when pancakes are about."

With this "Roland" Mary ran out to the kitchen to get the teapot.

Joe made a royal repast, topping off with the hot pancakes at a rate which caused his father to dryly remark: "Too much pancake won't help the boat along, my boy."

Tea finished, the visitors prepare to continue their voyage. With Ike's powerful assistance the boat is shoved into the water, and her nose pointed down-stream. In due time Beacon Point is reached.

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