The Voiceless Avenger

Otago Witness, Issue 3830, 9 August 1927, Page 8

The Voiceless Avenger

'A NEW ZEALAND story

by

DULCE CARMAN.

(COPYRIGHT.—FOR THE OTAGO WITNESS.)

CHAPTER XI—THE END OF THE DAY. Why do we worry about the road, With its hill or deep ravine? In a dismal path, or a heavy load, We are helped by hands unseen. —Anon. The last of the sheep dashed, madly through the race-gate, and careered across the receiving paddock, bleating- as she went, and Dick Treheme straightened his aching back, and wiped the rolled-up sleeve of his blue shirt across his heated forehead.

The receiving paddock was crowded with sheep, and the day had been a very long and distressingly hot one. The blue shirt sleeve bore unmistakable evidence of having been put to the same use uncounted times before.

But an end comes to everything, and here was the last sheep of all claiming the two excited lambs who rushed joyfully up at the sound of her voice. “That’s that!” said Dick Treherne. “ And well over, too! ” answered one of the three men who had worked with him. “ There is rain in this heat—it will likely be a wet day to-morrow —you mark my words.” “ Yes, there's a damp feeling somewhere,” Dick conceded. “ Shouldn’t be surprised to see a big thunderstorm before morning—the sky looks like it. I expect that is what has made the air so confoundly oppressive all day. I am as limp as a washed out rag to-night.” “ It’s the baching,” declared the oldest of the four men, throwing his shabby coat over his arm. “ When is Mr G-raeme coming home? ’’ “Oh, he has put it off again,” Dick answered wearily. “It seems that Miss Graeme is dying to see Sydney, so he thinks they may just as well go over there for a few weeks, as they have been away from home so long already.’’ “ Well, he has got the money, and only one life to spend it in,” suggested one of the younger men lazily. “ I don’t blame him for getting as much out of it as he can. But I know it is the very devil baching. That's one reason why I got married. There is no doubt a woman about .a place makes a home of it and Kate’s a ripping cook, if I do say so myself.”

“ She is indeed ! ” Dick agreed heartily “ That is one reason why I so seldom accept your invitations to tea, George. I don’t want to lose my figure altogether and I’d defy any man to help over-eating when your wife has cooked the meal.” “ Well, how about it to-night? ” suggested the young husband delightedly. “ She will have a hot dinner ready for me, nothing surer, and you know what it is like going back to an empty whare. There’s no sense in doing it when you haven’t got to. You know Kate’ll. be only too proud to have you.” “ Same here, sir,” spoke up the third man for the first time. My old. woman ain’t nothing like the cook George’s missus is. I don't think it's right for one man to be allowed to keep such a cook as her all to himself, but the welcome ’ud be just as hearty, and I’ll go bail the meal ’ud be better than any wot you’d get for yourself.” “ I haven’t a doubt of it, Joe, and it is very decent of both of you, but I won t accept your kind offers to-night. I’m tired out and not at all hungry, perhaps I’ve got a touch af flu’ coming on. I'll have a bath and tumble in, I think.” “ Then come home with me,’’ the oldest man said abruptly. “ There’ll be hot water ready and plenty of it, and as many clean towels as you want. It’s only a poor place, as you know, but you have ■no doubt what sort of reception you will get from Daphne and her mother.” ** This is very good indeed of you all,” Dick answered in a moved tone. “ I really must come over and see Daphne before long, Bell. It seems an age since I saw the child last. How is she? ” | “ I think she is getting on slowly, | though she seems to flag a bit this weather. But she has had a great pleasure lately. Little Ngaire Chester has give her a great birr French doll. Neither her mother nor I ever seen such a beauty in our lives. It had heaps of clothes and the blessed kid lies all day as happy as a queen, a-dressing and undressing of it.’’ “ Great kid, Daphne,” Dick declared warmly. " I really must slip over and see-, her soon, but not to-night. Bell, thanks. I’m tired out and got the hump. I’ll go straight home and tumble in.” " Well, if you won’t, you won’t, so we’ll be off. So Icng.” The three men turned awav to their respective homes and Dick Treherne gave one last keen glance across the receiving paddock from which the clamour was slowlv dying, as ewe after ewe found her lambs, and prepared to settle for the night. •* We got through the lot,” he told himself, appreciatively. “ I never really expected to. It is just as well too, there is certainly rain in the air. . And now for home sweet home, with the fire out.” He smiled a little wryly as he unhooked his coat from the na.il where it had hung all day, and turned slowly homewards

to where his whare stood cold, fireless.,, inhospitable, with unwashed breakfast dishes, and unmade bed as he had left them at 4 o’ clock that morning, when he had risen from an unrefreshing sleep and gone out into the dew-pearled, nightfreshened world to commence mustering. “ There is no doubt I’m in for flu’ or something, confound the luck,” he muttered, as he walked draggingly over the springy grass and clover. ‘‘ How perfectly rotten.’’ He thought distastefully of the bed that must be put into some semblance of order .before he could slip thankfully into the shelter of the grey bush blankets, remembered thirstily how long it would take to boil the little kettle, and make the comforting cup of tea that his soul longed for. As he crossed the home-paddock, the brown mare came into view, feeding across the path he was taking. An irresistible impulse rose and almost conquered the tired man. He would catch the brown mare, wash and shave himself, and ride over to Northlands. He knew just what sort of a -welcome he would receive from quiet kindly David Northe and gentle little Mrs Chester.

The kiddies, joyful little imps that they were, might draw him out of himself. It was true what George had said; ” baching ” was the very devil. Mother, sister, or wife, there ought to be a woman in every man’s life. He took a few steps towards the mare, then checked abruptly, as his thoughts raced onwards. The girls! There were the twins to consider. He could not go to Northlands after all. He fully realised that the two of them—Rosamond in her sweet gentle loveliness, and Guelda in her new blossomed beauty—stood for something that no other women in the world had ever meant to him. And he was pariah—outcast. He might be murderer, bigamist, married man, any unutterable villain ; there was no way of tolling. There could be no woman at all in his life; only always the, empty whare and cold hearth, and on the rug, in place of a fat girl baby like the one George doted upon, or a sturdy boy with unsurpassing charms like Denzil’s, nothing but a phantom sable dog with gaping jaws and red eyes of hate. And so on to the lonely end.

CHAPTER XII—DICK’S HOUSEHOLD FAIRY. He finds his kitchen contains a fount, Spouting coffee of amber hue, And a mountain of golden butter, sweet And fresh as the morning dew. That doughnuts crisp grow on a vine, And cookies on a tree ; That dishes tumble into the pan, And splash about in glee. —Author Unknown. Dick sighed wearily, and turned once more towards the whare that was now close at hand, and the brown mare fed on contentedly, never dreaming how nearly she had been dragged away from her favourite pasture, and taken along the hard dusty road where a horse was always in danger of the rushing motor-cars she detested.

The young man went on slowly, and opened the v.’hare door with an impatient twist of his wrist, two dogs who were sleeping on the threshold leaping joyously up to meet their master. Dick stooped mechanically to pat the glossy heads, and meet the reproachful gaze of the soft brown eyes. “ Sorry, boys,” he said. “ When you’ve learned to do as you’re told, you can stay with me at the yards as your mother does, but until then ’’

He turned, still fondling one pup’s silky ears and faced the interior of’ his whare, with his big black dog at his heels. What unbelievable thing met his eyes that he halted in the doorway, and gazed So amazedly round his little domain?

The bed was made ; smoothly and comfortably made, with neatly placed blankets and folded rmj as he never placed or folded them. It was the first thing that met his eye, and from it his gaze travelled on and rested upon one unfamiliar detail after another. The dishes had all been washed. He never remembered a time when every one of them had been clean together in all the weeks that he had lived by himself in the little one-roomed shack. It was quite true, however, they were all neatly washed now, and stacked on the cupboard which was sideboard, dressing-room and pantry in one. The one window had been cleaned, the' small stove polished—the floor not only cleanly swept, but washed —the hoards were not even yet dry. All his clothes had been gathered together and hung on the nails in the coiner, behind the tacked-up curtain of gay cretonne which was all that the whare could boast of wardrobe space. It was perhaps the one place where ordinarily no clothes were to be found.

There was a small fire of glowing embers in the grate, and a clean tea-towel (where had it come from?) was spread in lieu of a table-cloth on the tiny table. Bv this time,: Dick’s interest had been keenly awakened, and he recollected

that he had omitted to leave the custom-

ary order for the butcher in the letterbox before setting out in the morning. Consequently there would be neither rump steak nor sausages waiting there to be brought in and cooked. So far as he remembered, the cupboard held nothing more appetising than half a loaf of yesterdays bread, some butter, tea, sugar, condensed milk, and a small piece of cheese that had got too dry and hard to tempt his never too robust appetite. But, on the little table there was set out a quaint variety of things. Two small rock-cakes and two chocolate biscuits on

a saucer, one banana on another saucer, a paste jar, occupying place of honour in the centre of the table, was filled with marguerite daisies and pink-tipped, crimson, and golden ferns. Dick’s unbelieving eyes turned towards the fireplace. He had previously half unconsciously noted the cheery red glow of the fire that gleamed between the bars, but now he saw the steam fronr-the little | blue enamel kettle, and saw too that the tiny oven door stood ajar, and on the oven shelf stood a plate, covered over with another to keep its contents moist. Tiredness and depression all forgotten, Dick strode across the little room and lifted the covered plate from tile oven. A savoury smell rushed up to greet his nostrils as he removed the covering plate, and his curious eyes beheld two slices of golden-brown toa'st, temptingly spread with toasted cheese. “ Well, I’m dashed,” he said aloud. “ How in the name of creation did all this happen? Are there fairies after all? or was it—could it be ? Swift before his mental vision rose the pictures of the two girls who were seldom far from his thoughts. Rose—Guelda —. Could either or both of them have taken pitv upon his loneliness to that extent? Then he looked more closely at the spread table and laughed at his own conceit. He had seen the way Rose handled flowers. These marguerites and ferns were not her handiwork. He recalled Guelda s featherlight little cakes—these were surely not made by the same hand. And why the one banana? Dick shook his head in puzzled fashion. “It beats me, Sweep,” he confessed to the black dog which pushed an affectionate muzzle into his master’s hand. “ I’ve not the least idea in the world who has been playing the good Samaritan, so I think I will just leave the problem for the present and eat my tea before it spoils.” The dog whined a soft acquiescence, and Dick washed himself at the tap, drew a chair up to the small table, and found that he enjoyed the simple little meal with a new and entirely unexpected appetite. The little cakes in particular intrigued him —there was a newness of flavour about them that he found it hard to indentify, but quite delightful. He ate them slowly and lingeringly—enjoyed every mouthful to the uttermost. They were quite tiny cakes —he found himself wishing that 'the unknown fairy had allowed him more than two. “ Here’s hoping the unknown fairy comes in this direction again very soon. Sweep, old man,” he said aloud to the black dog, as he reached across the table for the solitary banana. His sleeve caught and crumpled the corner of the tea-towel that was doing duty for a table-cloth, and once again his attention was arrested. The tea-towel was coarse, and very clean, and it had a wide red border. Dick remembered that the towels he had used and seen in use, on various occasions at Northlands were all entirely white—no coloured border of any kind about them. He never remembered having seen a bordered tea-towel at Northlands —therefore it could not possibly be one, or both of the twins, who had played the part of fairy godmother towards him. “ I needn’t have been fool enough to think it, Sweep,’’ he told the black dog, with a bitter laugh. As though they would take the trouble. Guelda has too much to bother about ever to think of it and Rose has never been brought up to the housewifely arts.” He had held aloof from Northlands ever since the coming of Guelda’s twin, and so he had not seen enough of the sisters to really realise just how big a difference they were making in one another’s lives. He had chanced to see Guelda, with a fascinating little pull-on hat crushed over the waves and curls of her shorn head, at the wheel of the powerful grey car that had come into her life with the advent of her sister. Guelda, whose lovely eyes were fixed so intently on the road ahead that she had no glance to spare for the silent watcher on the hillside. And with her in the car had been the owner of the lovely thing—his blue eyes also fixed on the road ahead, his strong hand occasionally reaching out to guide the small brown ones grasping the steering wheel. Dick realised that Guelda had travelled far and learned much since the day when she had saved him from a dreadful death on the water worn rocks in the Wairakei Gorge. He had realised, too that this friend of Rose’s was much at Northlands, and Ngaire had casually mentioned one day, that Roy and Guelda were great chums. He had not troubled to ask who Roy was, and the child had not happened to mention the young main’s surname. Dick knew quite well that she referred to the owner of the car which was scarcely a day absent from the long stretch of white road which led up to the Northlands gates. But he did not see Rose, in the hot little kitchen, enveloped in one of her twin’s big pinafores, anxiously mixing and baking scones and pastry and little cakes, and ready to cry with disappointment and vexation if they did not come out of the oven as light and crisp and flaky and golden-brown as Guelda’s were | wont to do. Roy knew. He had found the clue that he was following had proved to be

nothing much more than a Will o’ the I Wisp, and instead of abandoning it, and ! going back to the city, he had devoted much of his time to Northlands, where he was a very welcome visitor. It amused him to see the unfolding of the two girlnatures, as they came into contact with each other —the eager reaching-out of Guelda for the pleasures that all her life had been denied her—the quiet acceptance by Rose of the stay-at-home, dutiful daughter’s part. It was seldom that he took them both out in the car. Sometimes Rose was his companion, but either motoring or riding, it was oftenest Guelda who was by his side. If he cared less for her society than that of her sister, he never showed it by word or deed, and if it hurt Rose to be left behind she never betrayed the fact in any way whatsoever. Sometimes, watching Guelda’s glow’ing face as she bent to the wheel of the car, or the vivid rose in her cheeks as Maru raced madly along the mountain roads, the man was seized with a feeling of compunction as he remembered the fireflushed cheeks of the girl who was left behind in the hot little kitchen. But he recollected always, that so far Rosamond’s life had lain wholly in the sunshine, and so turned again to the light-hearted enjoyment of fhe hour. But to-day Roy was far away, and Dick was busy with the sheep, and the unknown fairy had crept into the desolate whare, and left warmth and comfort and happiness behind her. Dick sat lazily on in front of the fire the cheery little fire of red embers that someone’s kindly fingers had kindled in the stove. He lighted a cigarette, with a sigh, as he realised that he had only five left,’ which would certainly mean a visit to the township to-morrow. Presently he would have a bath, and tumble into the bed that was so temptingly smooth and neat. If he had been a normal fellow, with no fatal gap in his life, he would have ridden over to Northlands fo” a smoke and a yarn and some music, but as things were, he was better away. Besides, the rain clouds had been working up while he was at tea, and already lightning had begun to flicker, and thunder to mutter sullenly away in the east. “ There’s going to be a daddy of a storm, Sweep, old man!” Dick murmured conversationally. “ Odd how often a drought breaks so—and what a lucky chance that we stuck to the sheep and got them finished to-night. I had a hunch there was something in the air.” He smoked on, half drowsing in the comfortable warmth, until the black dog roused from a doze, and sat up with a rising crest and a warning growl in his throat.

Dick threw up his arm in instinctive defence, half expecting to see a phantom dog, with gleaming fangs, and red, glaring eyes of hate, leaping at his throat. But instead there came swift, uneven footsteps on the gravel patch outside the whare, and after a hasty knock the door was thrown wide open by an impatient hand. “Oil!” said a trembling girl’s voice thankfully, “ you are at home, Mr Treherne ?”

One of the twins stood there in the darkening shadows. Rose . . . Guelda .... Rose . . . . ! With her back to the light it was impossible to tell which it was. But the girl herself solved the mystery’ unconsciously’ with her next words. “We are in such terrible trouble — will you help us? Lots of the men are out. It is getting so dark, and it is beginning to rain. Rose and Lyn are lost! Lyn is so little—and Rose is a stranger here, you know, and sure to be terrified out of her wits. They have been gone for hours—we are beginning to be afraid that they’ are bushed.”

CHAPTER XTIL—THE MAGIC OF THE BUSH. Under their feet in- the grasses My clinging magic runs. They shall return as strangel's They shall remain as sons. Over their heads in the branches Of their new-bought ancient trees I weave an incantation And draw them to my knees. —Rudyard Kipling. When Rose and Lyn set forth on their walk, summer was in the sky and in the air—summer even in the cool green glades of the bush. Guelda and Mrs Chester were busy cooking for a coming picnic— Ngaire had ridden to the township to pet her pony shod. , On her wav back, she was going to stop and see the little invalid girl who had saved the English child from drowning when she was new to the ways of the bush.

So Ngaire was unavailable as a playmate for the whole afternoon, and as Terry was suffering from a slight bilious attack, Lyn was very much at a loose end, when Rose proposed that he should go for a walk with her. The little lad agreed most cheerfully to his cousin’s proposal that he should show her some of the prettiest places he knew of. “There are lots of lovely places in the bush!” he/ said cheerfully. “Me and Ngaire often go into the bush. We get lots of ferns and take them to Daphne—she and her mother love them. The ferns are great in the bush. You can get cream and red and gold ones as well as green—and maidenhair, it grows in a sheet all over the banks of the creeks. Guelda is dippy about maidenhair.” “Do vou mean that all those things grow wild in the bush?” Rose demanded incredulously. “ ’Course they do ! Don’t you know all about the bush?” inquired the small youth unbelievingly. “No I’ve never seen much of the bush, Lyn. I’ve always lived in the towns, you see.”

“ Haven’t you had hard luck?” the child said pityingly. “ I wouldn’t bo away from the bush for all the smoky and jostly old towns in Maoriland, and Ngaire and Guelda wouldn’t either. Say we go straight into the bush now, and get Guelda some maidenhair. She'd love it.”

“ You are quite sure you know the way, Lyn?” “Oh—quite sure! Ngaire often goes in with me. The maidenhair is not very far in, you know.” The long stretch of white road was both stony and dusty, and it was with great relief that Rose climbed over the wire fence, and felt the grateful shade of the big trees fall around her. “How delightful!” she said eagerly. “ Oh, Lyn ! I had no idea it was half so lovely. Look at that sweet little bird—why ! it’s almost tame.” “Oh —that’s just a fantail!” Lyn enlightened his cousin’s astounding ignorance airily. “ They’re as common as anything. You can nearly catch them sometimes. There’s another over there on that pepper tree. But wait till vou see the bush-robins—they’re the fellows, all pale grey and black velvet. They say they are brown and red in England, but they couldn’t be lovelier than ours.”

“Lots of things are different!” Rose said. “ For instance, English mistletoe has the loveliest big white berries on, and ours out here is small and pink.” “ Well—but—” defended Lyn, “ English mistletoe grows on apple trees and oak trees, I know, because Ngaire had it in her school journal. We’re not strong on oaks in Maoriland, and we’ve heaps of other uses for apple trees instead of just growing useless mistletoe on them.”

Rose laughed, and failed to pay proper attention to her footing, for she caught her foot in the loop of a twining vine, and nearly fell forward. “ You want to look out for those fellows,” Lyn cautioned her seriously’ as she ruefully rubbed her bruised instep. “ They’re supplejacks, and mighty strong, tough fellows too. I always think they are haunted, you know—like Mr Treherne! ” he lowered his voice and gazed round about him fearfully. “ How— -haunted ? ” Rose asked with, interest. “ Well, Mr Treherne is haunted by a dog—you knew that, didn’t you? Guelda or Ngaire or mother must have told you about it some time or other.”

“Oh, yes! They have told me something or other about this Mr Treherne and some phantom dog who never barks, but it seems too impossible.” Lyn nodded. “ It’s a bit steep,” he admitted; “like a fairy tale when a fellow’s grown too big to believe in fairies. But it’s true all the same. It

can’t be bunk, because all the dogs around Mr Treherne when the ghost dog comes are scared stiff. You can't fool a dog, Rose.” “I never tried; but I will take your word for it, Lyn. Tell me about the supplejacks: that may be easier to understand.” “Oh! You know before the English came to Maoriland all the bush used to belong to the Maoris. They say that in those long-ago days a Maori killed his best friend very meanly and treacherously, and buried him in the bush. The forest god—Tane Mahuta —• was very angry, for the Maori who had been killed was a very good and wise man. So Tane Mahuta gave orders that the murderer was not to be allowed to escape. The paths hid themselves, and the shrubs and vines closed up so that he could not find his way out into the open again. The Maori had buried the man he killed under some supplejacks,

and big drops of blood fell on the vine and changed into the blood-red clusters of berries that the supplejack bears today. “He ran all ways through the bush trying to find a way out into the cleared country, and every’ time he came to any supplejacks, although there was not a breath of wind, the black canes rattled as a warning that he was coming, and the trees and undergrowth bent down and crowded closer, and would not let him pass.” The little lad paused for breath, and Rosamond eyed the smooth black canes distastefully. “How horrid, Lyn! What a dreadful thing for a little boy to know. I shall never be able to pass a supplejack again without shuddering, I am sure.” “Huh! I know lots of worsen things than that. You have to when you're a, man.” “ And what happened to the man in the end ? ” asked Rose with uneasy curi-

osity. ■ “Oh, the bush killed him. x’.dn’t you guess? He was found days afterwards hung up in a big clump of supplejacks not very far from the place where he had buried the man he killed.” “How gruesome! I don’t think I want to go very far into the bush, Lyn. If we got lost I think I should go mad.” “ Oh, we couldn’t get lost if we tried —the ferns are not far enough in from the edge. Why’, even Terry comes alone for them sometimes.” “ Well, if a baby like Terry does it, it ought to b all rierht for us,” conceded. Rosamond relievedly. “ I’d love to see pink and gold and scarlet ferns, not to mention maidenhair, growing wild.” The next couple of hours slipped away unnoticed —-warm, moist, heavy with the intoxicating smell of the bush—hours of shadowless enchantment. It was with the lengthening of the shadows that Rosamond felt a little shiver run tlirough her, and realised that the afternoon was waning, and that here in the shadows of the big trees it would soon be dark. “ We will have to he going home now. old fellow! ” she said cheerfully. “ We’ve

had a perfectly gorgeous time, but if we stay any longer dad and auntie will be worrying about us. Won’t Guelda be pleased with air we are bringing her?” “ We’ve made a jolly good haul,” the little lad said in a satisfied tone, glancing at the piles of delicately tinted ferns and the huge ' unch of maidenhair lying on the leaf-strewn ground beside them. “ The very best maidenhair I’ve ever seen grows just under that waterfall where the spray keeps it wet, and all the dust washed off. I’ve never seen it so green anywhere else.”

“I’m quite sure I never have,” agreed his cousin musingly. “ The great problem is—how we are going to fret them all home fresh. They will wither at once if we carry them in our warm hands—these coloured ferns always do —they are terribly delicate, sensitive things.” “ But we got all the bark and moss round their roots just as they were growing!” gloated Lyn. “ Guelda’ll be as pleased as a puppy with two tails. There’s such a lot of them, too —even if some die, there will be plenty, left, and Ngaire will be able to take some to Daphne.” Oh! There will be plenty for everyone, but I believe it is going to rain.” The girl looked round her uneasily. “It is getting dark very quickly, and it has turned so cold all at once. Don’t you feel it? If we could see the sky properly I am sure we should sec rain clouds working up. Let’s take our hats, Lyn—there is not enough sun now to matter, and we could half-fill them with damp moss, and lay the ferns on that. I’m sure they would travel in perfect safety

“ Good egg!” said Lyn approvingly. " You don’t have half bad ideas for a girl, Bose. Ngaire and Guelda are iust the same, but I’ve no use for other girls —silly, giggling things. Give's vour hat, we’ll have to hurry. It feels like thunder when you stop to think about it, and we’ve no coats. We’d be drenched to the skin in no time—and that would worry mother.”

“ Oh, Lyn—l never thought of thunder ” —a. look of keen anxiety crept into the girl s lovely eyes—“ I’m so terrified of storms—one _in the bush would kill me, I think, besides, isn’t it very dangerous? Think if the lightning struck a tree quite near us.”

The little boy eved her curiously as she turned away, and began digging moss with a piece of broken wood which lay beside her. The feverish haste with which she worked, and the crimson snot of colour which burned on either cheek, fascinated him at first, and then affected him so much that he shivered and looked round him half-furtively. Away in the east where the grey storm clouds had been massing came a sullen rumble of thunder.

“ You are not half so plucky as Guelda 1” he said a little scornfully, tearing up moss by the handful and stuffing it into the crown of his gigi hat. “ Guelda’s not frightened of thunder —she loves it!” In spite of himself the clear voice shook a little as he ended the sentence.

“I’m not as strong as Guelda!” the girl answered apologetically, “ I’m not so used to things. Guelda would always be much braver than me—she is made so. But all the same—” her lips set firmly, “ for all that I’m not going to leave the ferns behind.”

They ■worked on in silence for a few moments, and then Lyn spoke suddenly. “ Isn’t it funny—l feel just as if somebody was watching us. Do you?” Rosamond glanced d->wn at him swiftly. “ I’ve been feeling that something was wrong. I don’t know what. I thought perhaps it was just the bush itself. I— I suppose it sounds silly to you, Lyn, who have been used to it for so long, but I don’t think the bush likes me. It’s so big, and so—so quiet, and I tfiink I’m frightened of it.” “It does sound a bit kiddish!” the boy assented. “ Now. Guelda just loves every inch of it—and I’m sure it loves her too, it always lets her find all sorts of lovely things in it that it never lets anyone else see until she comes along.” “Of course, she is so much more used to it!” Bose apologised. “When I have been here longer—” she broke off suddenly with a sharp note of alarm in her voice. “What is the matter, Lyn?” The boy gave a whistling breath between his clenched teeth, and grasped his cousins arm with painful intensity. “There is somebody, Rose! We really have been watched. It wasn’t just fancy. There he is—a swagger! Oh, isn’t he an awful looking man?” The child’s voice shook uncontrollably, and the girl drew her slender figure up proudly, fighting back the sick fear that assailed her, by the knowledge that her twin would have faced the situation fearlessly.

ft is quite all right!” she said in a swift undertone. “He is a horrid looking wretch, right enough, but I won’t let him hurt you, Lyn. See—we will stand just where we are. It is fairly open here, and if he tries to stop us we will dodge one each side of him and cut through the buSii. It ought to bring us out somewhere near Graeme’s, I should think, and Mr Treherne will help us—he is sure to be there by this time.” For a moment they stood there motionless—the slender upright girl’s figure and the sturdy, erect little form of the small boy. Their eyesfivere fixed with almost mesmeric intensity on the evil, leering face of the man who had halted for a second or two on the edge of the little glade. ° Once more, from the eastern skv, there came a sullen rumble of thunder—surely nearer, now. Second after second dragged by, and each seemed to be interminably long. To the tensely waiting girl and boy it

seemed as though a century had passed before the huge feet in their broken boots moved a little nearer—and once again from the eastern sky the thunder crashed.

Rosamond found it impossible to remove her eyes from the ugly face, with its unshaven chin, cruel, thin red line of mouth, and small, deep-set, cunning eyes. She realised despairingly that she was like a small bird that had been charmed by a snake. The man hitched his trousers higher, and spat contemptuously into the bushes as he came slowly forward.

CHAPTER XIV—THE RATTLING OF

THE SUPPLEJACKS. The simplest act may prove the truly brave, The smallest skill may serve a life to save. —Anon.

The man advancing into the middle of the little glade was not young. Soon his birthdays would number 40, and for all of those long years he had been an object of hatred and dislike. Born in the Sydney slums—the offspring of an expert shop-lifter and a common pickpocket—left to shift for himself at an age when most children were still in the nursery, Bob Travers had found every man’s hand against him—every man his enemy. He had commenced a long career of villainy by robbing fruit stalls and baker’s carts, and by torturing all the unfortunate cats and puppies and other defenceless small animals who were luckless enough to fall into his unwashed hands.

Once, almost as a baby, he had made his teeth meet in the hand of a man who had mercifully put an end to the agonised writhings of a cat whose back had been broken by a motor lorry—pitiful struggles which had delighted the small boy’s heart beyond measure. As he had grown, so had his crimes increased in magnitude. Rosamond—standing so still and white in the little bush glade, was not by any means the first girl to stand in front of him like a charmed bird in the grip of a snake’s mesmerism. And there had not always been, as on this occasion, room for the girl to dodge.

He was used to the look of helpless fascination that looked out at him now from the girl’s lovely eyes, and he moved as slowly as possible, that he might enjoy her terror to the utmost. And there was the kid as well! He was only a little chap, but he was sturdy and well set up, altogether a bright looking specimen, who could not be contemptuously thrown into the discard. You never knew with a kid like that! He remembered one who had fought like a demon until a blow on the temple put him -definitely out of action. He’d often thought of that kid, and wondered if he had killed him like the girl with glazed eyes and tangled hair whom the kid had fought so manfully to defend—the girl whom Bob Travers had struck savagely out of life because she had refused to give up the money which he had seen her father entrust to her care.

The memory of that girl had never troubled Bob Travers in the least. There were plenty of women in the world—one more or less was of very little consequence—but the boy . . it was odd how often he thought remorsefully of the boy.

It had upset all his plans, that little incident, and made his absence from Sydney a positive necessity. There followed a day when he struck an inoffensive citizen a murderous blow with a length of lead piping, and collected a quite satisfactory amount of money from his victim s various pockets before he pushed the unconscious man from the platform of a rapidly moving train, and watched him roll down a steep siding, while Bob Travers wiped his hands, hitched up his trousers, and set calmly off to a new life in New Zealand.

From then till now he had lived upon what he had been able to beg or steal or bully out of defenceless women on lonely bush farms. Never for a single day had he done any honest toil, or earned a mouthful of the good food which somehow came to him easily and plentifully enough. Nature had made his face so true an index to his character, that the women of whom he demanded food were only too anxious to give him all he asked tor, and money as well in many instances —and were only too thankful to sink into a chair with trembling knees and hurried breathing of passionate relief when the garden gate slammed behind him, and his uncouth figure slouched off ie stretches of rough road. Wherever Bob Travers came into a district there was inaugurated a reign of terror amongst the women-folk of the outlying farms, and yet, with it all. he proved to be strangely elusive when searched for by irate men with dogs and shotguns.

He displayed, in the cunning way in which he covered his tracks, and effaced himself when necessary, a quality of brain-power which directed into other channels would have taken him far in life..

This present district was a new one to him, and—following his usual custom, upon arriving in any new surroundings, immediately after he’ had fed and rested he had commenced to seek for a secure hiding-place before beginning operations. Having been successful in this, he was drowsing away the peaceful summer afternoon when the sound of voices reached his ear. and lie tracked the speakers with a noiseless, cat-like agility that was nothing less than astounding in a man of his bulky and unwieldy build.

He watched for several moments, himself carefully hidden from sight, before he made his presence known. He was not going to hurt them—unless, of course, they foolishly proved obstinate, but the girl could give him valuable information about the district, and she might have jewellery or money about her. Even from the edge of the glade, he could see what an exquisite little wrist-watch she was wearing—and the glittering string of cut amber beads round her neck was real, he could swear. Amber was always worth something when it was good. ’ But—no violence! It would be an unlucky start in a new district, and, besides—there was the boy at her side, with his keen eyes and bright, intelligent face. And there was always the memory of that other boy lyipg so still and white on a lonely backblocks road in far Australia. Odd how the memory of that boy always haunted him! The boy—and the young man whom he had knocked senseless and flung from a moving train—out of his lurid past, these were the only two ghosts who ever arose to haunt him. It seemed to Rosamond as though an eternity passed before the man reached her side, and halting a few paees away said peaceably: “Could you tell me the time, miss?” The ruse acted, as it had acted many times before. Rosamond gave a little sigh of relief. Reassured by the quietness of the man's tone and the innocence of his question the girl removed her eyes from his face, and glanced down at the watch on her wrist. With incredible swiftness the man took one step forward, and crushed both her arms in his loathsome hands.

“ Don’t yell, or I’ll lay you out,” he growled between his clenched and blackened teeth. “ Keep your head and you’ll not get hurt. I want your pretty little tick-tick; and you might as well give me the beads as well while you’re about it. They’ll pop for a trifle—and keep yer mouth shut—d’ye hear? Yapping isn’t healthy when I’m around. You lost the things in the bush if anyone wants to know.”

The girl gave one terrified gasp and jump, and then, realising how useless struggling would be against the iron grasp which held her, she stood, sick and white, almost faint, with the disgust that overwhelmed her at the closeness of the gross, unwashed body of her assailant.

The man bent slowly to the unfastening of the wristlet watch, and in that second of time Lyn. roused to action. In his pocket, one of Rosamond's own presents to him, was a sharp pocketknife—the very first pocket-knife he had ever owned. Mrs Chester only allowed him to carry it on state occasions, believing that he was still too young to be trusted with so dangerous a plaything. But it was Lyn’s, dearest treasure, and never again after to-day would he be forbidden to carry it. In his pocket was the precious knife, and behind him, as he took one terrified step backwards, was a big clump of lawyer vines, with their cruel, clutching claws. In the instant that the man stooped to the unfastening of the watch Lyn drew the knife from his pocket, and, with trembling fingers behind him, felt for and severed one of the thick lawyer stems.

Bob Travers raised his head with a snarl.

“ It's a patent catch—undo it! ” he ordered harshly, and in that second the boy sprang forward and lashed him in the face with the long lawyer stem — twice —three times—drawing the poisonous thorns across the ugly face, ami leaving bleeding furrows behind.

With a furious oath the man flung away the girl’s wrist, and turned to meet this new assailant. Just so had the other boy fought for bis sister long ago—but here was a weapon that caused intolerable pain (and Bob 1 ravers, like all bullies, was craven at heart) —and in that other case had been only the brave little fellow’s fists, wielded with the utmost force of a boy’s puny strength. And Lyn was seized with a wild Berserk madness. “ Run—Rose—run he screamed in wild excitement. “ Run—keep on running. Don’t look back for me—l’m coming!” He hit once more—and still once again for luck—while the blinded man made futile grabs at him, and Rosamond raced over the mossy ground with trembling knees and catching breath. As Bob Travers cleared his eyes of blood and turned like an angry bull to the chase, Lyn's sturdy little figure, was speeding after that of his cousin—out of sight now, but betraying the direction of her flight by the breaking of twigs and rotten wood as she dashed heedlessly onwards. Bob Travers charged madly after them into the darkening bush. It was impossible to see far ahead now—the storm-clouds were massing heavily overhead, the sharp crackle of the thunder was incessant. Flashes of lightning lit up the bush-aisles vividly, leaving them only the blacker by contrast. The man’s _ face smarted painfully, and the streaming blood trickled into his mouth, maddening him by its salty taste. They should pay— yes! to the uttermost—and there would be no clue to point to him, for nobody knew that he was in the district—if he was careful nobody need ever know. In his haste, and the gathering darkness, he tripped over an arching root, and fell to the ground, half-stunning himself on a fallen log. The few seconds that the mishap delayed him were of incalculable value to the fugitives—who also had the advantage of Lyn’s intimate knowledge of this corner of the bush.

The man heaved himself up to his feet and stood still, listening keenly. He realised that it was raining now—huge drops pattering down on the upturned leaves and ferns and washing clean bright patches on their dusty surfaces. The lightning wag more frequent and very

vivid—soon the storm would break in all its fury. In which direction was his quarry now ? He heard a far-off crackle of breaking branches, but in the darkness it was impossible to tell accurately from what direction it came. There was not a breath of wind, and in the uncanny stillness the black canes of a clump) of supplejacks rattled continuously for a moment, then still»fi into silence again. Far and wide the man searched, in the grip of the drenching rain that soon descended in a torrent —he was wet to the skin, and the chase seemed vain, but Bob Travers when injured was implacable in his hatred, and a monomaniac in his lust for revenge. He realised that he was bushed, but apparently so were the two he sought, for he could hear at intervals the slight sounds of disturbed vines and bushes which told that his quarry was still seeking an outlet—had not yet escaped irrevocably from his clutches.

He pressed on doggedly through the darkness, the wet shrubs showering the moisture from their laden branches upon him as he passed. Time passed—and ever and anon the man was diverted from his path by the unaccountable rattling of the black supplejack vines, which quivered without reason where no wind was, and rattled where nothing had pressed between to displace them. The eeriness of the bush in the darkness, and the wild crash of the storm overhead began to sap the man’s nerve, and at each unaccountable rattling of the bewitched canes he glanced nervously back over his shoulder. The sound of breaking twigs was much closer now—he must be gaining upon his quarry, and so thinking, he sprang forward in the direction of the sound. Then out of the blackness behind him there rang a child’s wild scream, followed by a girl s voice and a sound of rending branches.

Once more silence again, and Bob I ravers turned in the direction whence the sound had come, just as a vivid flash of lightning lit up the bush glade where he stood. The storm had now reached its zenith, and the booming peal of thunder followed at once—-directly overhead. In the ghostly whiteness of the lightning Bob Travers stood aghast for an endless second, and then, with a beast-like howl of anguish, turned and plunged madly into the black depths of the bush.

The lightning faded, ami all was dark as before, but the man had seen enough. On the edge of the glade, wide eyes°of wonder fixed on his own distorted, bleeding face, stood the man whom he had long since counted dead in far lhe clutching vines and saplings tore at his skin and ragged clothes as he forced his way frenziedly onward, and the smooth canes of the supplejacks rattled and whispered together as he passed between them, deeper—ever deeper into the heart of the bush. And presently all was silent, save the crash and roar of the storm. (To be continued.)