The Milk-Cart Boy

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume VII, Issue 6, 1 March 1903, Page 450

The Milk-Cart Boy

By EDITH M. CARMAN

POSSIE was a thin slip of a girl, with a small, brown, sensitive face, brown, tangled hair and dreamy, dark eyes. To her wonder-loving, fanciful little nature, life on the bush station, " Toi-Toi," was strangely unsatisfying. At thirteen she had outgrown the eagerness which took her small sister and brother every morning to the roadfence, to watch the milk-carts rattle past on their way to the creamery.

It was the only diversion, the only unalloyed pleasure that the long days held for the two wee mites, and every morning they rode proudly down from the milkstatid to the big gate that opened on to the road, Bran proudly grasping the reins, and Cherry the whip, which was too heavy for her chubby hands to wield.

And the gracious, wonderful person who allowed this delightful thing (with Dad's permission, of course) was the " Milk-cart Boy."

He was a personage in himself, this milk-cart boy, who called himself Ted Brown. His figure was so well shaped, his hair so sunny, his honest gray eyes and his smile so winning, his grammar so irreproachable. Even Dad said that " the boy had seen, and was made for, better things." Mother understood, and Dossie, but to Cherry amd little Brandon to be a milkcart boy appeared the consummation of bliss.

It was Dossie who firmly believed that the milk-cart boy was not Ted Brown, in spite of all he might say, Dossie alone who knew that the boy's life held a sorrow and a great regret.

That was because on Christmas Day, when she had slipped away from all the merry-making to dream of Christmas fairies in a dear iittle dell she knew of, she found a grnyclad figure stretched upon the moss. It was the milk-cart boy, and for a moment Dossie felt aggrieved .

It was so particularly her own, this little nook where the sunshine came in patches throa^i gaps in the green canopy of above, where a crystal-clear creek rippled along between its fern-clad banks, and the waving Diinga ferns and trails of wild clematis hung over and shaded the cool, clear water that the bush-birds loved to drink.

And this boy, stretched beneath the big rata, was an intruder in this fairylike spot.

And yet he looked so sad — so very sad that Dossie's tender little heart was touched. Down she slid on to the moss beside him, heedless of her fragile laces and ribbons.

" Poor boy !" she said, pityingly ; " won't you tell me what is wrong V

The boy lifted his head hastily. Her approach over the yielding grass had been so noiseless that he was not aware of her presence till she spoke. But — her appeal ? She was small for her age, and he — well, he was seventeen, and at that age, a girl four years his junior seemed an almost impossible confidant. But there was nobody else — and lie felt instinctively that, with Doris Kenyon, child as she was, a promise was a, thing to be kept, not broken.

" Won't you tell me what it is ?" Dossie repeated, wistfully. "Is h because you are someone else, and not Ted Brown at all V*

The boy gave a violent start, and his brown lingers clenched tightly. His voice shook in spite of himself. " Not Ted Brown ? What do you mean ? Who told you ? How could you possibly know V " I'm sorry/ Dossie said ; *' I. only guessed. Yoiu're like a storybook. Won't you you tell me who you are ? I wouldn't tell a soul.' The boy hesitated. He felt that he must confide in some one, and lie also felt that this thin atom of a girl could be trusted implicitly. " Well/ he said, slowly, " I ran away." Dossie nodded her dark head wisely." " Why, of course ! " she said. " When they're not stolen, they always do run away." " They wanted to send me to college, and I hated to go. I want to do great things, not to grind all day, so 1 ran away. I thought it would be fun, but " The pause was expressive. " You haven't told me your name yet ? " Dossie said, calmly. " You won't tell ? " " I promised ! " with dignity. " I beg your pardon. I'm Maurice Cheriton/' Dossie clapped her hands. " I thought you might be a Roland or Ferdinand, but Maurice is a lovely name. I knew you weren't a milk-cart boy." Maurice made a little grimace. " Thank Heaven ! " he said, fervently. Dossiers dark eyes were glowing with excitement. " Of course you'll g*o home now. They always do." " I shall consider that you are. my Christmas Princess," said the boy, h alf in jest and half in earnest, " Will you ? How lovely ! But you can't go on being a milk-cart boy now that you're not Ted Brown ?" Perhaps it suddenly struck Maurice thai a more fitting occupation could be found for a colonel's son, amd he flushed.

"As soon as your father gets someone to take my place, I will go home/ he promised. " Dossie — Dossie — Dqris I" The summons echoed and reeohoed through the bush glades, and the radiance died out of tlie dark eyes as Dossie started to her feet. " i must go ! Someone is calling ! As you're not really a milk-cart boy "—she stooped over his hand and kissed it, then sped away, while Maurice lay listening to the musical tinkle of the creek over its stony bed, and regarding his favoured hand curiously. A month later, to his great annoyance, Mr Kenyon lost, for no apparent reason, the best milk-cart boy he had ever employed. Dossie went down to the gate with her hero, and kissed him good-bye, no one being near to see. " Good-bye !" she whispered ; " don't forget I was the Princess who found you." " 1 will never forget," the boy answered. And so Ted Brown disappeared from " Toi : Toi," and Maurice (Jheriton returned to his home. The Colonel was not angry. He had not even been anxious when he learnt that his only son had disappeared. " A Cheriton can take care of himself," he said, when the mother's tender heart feared for her boy. The old soldier admired the Cheriton spirit and pluck that enabled Maurice to stand out for six months, but upon one point he was immovable. When he did return, Maurice was to go to college, so to college Maurice went. The Colonel went to Mr Kenyon and told him the whole story, and a friendship sprang up between the two families, which finally resulted in Maurice spending half his holidays at home and half at " ToiToi " with hi§ Christmas Princess. Then came the year of the terrible bush-fires, and Maurice, just home from college, heard that " Tpi-Toi" was surrounded. Nobody could get to or from the homestead through the fiercely-raging flames. Rescue

seemed impossible. Nothing could save the Kenyons except the rains which would not come. It was sunset when the news reached " Cheriholme/' and before an hour had passed, Maurice was riding in the direction of the conflagration on the fleet young thoroughbred that had been his Christmas present from his father. On and on he rode, through the warm, still blackness of the summer night — on and on, past bush and paddocks, confident that love could find a way where sympathy had failed. At last he reached the smoke — heavy, brown, and so thick that he could scarcely breathe. Here, too, a new difficulty arose. His horse, hitherto so willing, refused to face the fire. Precious time was spent in coaxing, but at last the frightened animal gave in to his rider's indomitable will, and, gathering his limbs well under him, rushed wildly into the fire. It was a never-to-be-forgotten ride. The terrified horse plunged and tore madly at his bit. On all sides trees were falling, their trunks a mass of glowing red. The wind swept the heavy smoke aloft, and it hung in dense clouds above the glare that could be seen for miles. A few moments of scorching 1 , intolerable heat, and the horse and rider, singed and burnt, and almost maddened by the stinging sparks, emerged into the little fire-lit hollow where lay the homestead Maurice sought — so far unharmed. Mr Kenyon, unaccustomed to face danger, had regarded escape through the raging fire impossible, until Maurice's opportune appearance proved that it was not so. There was time for little questioning, and but a hurried planning. In a very few minutes Mr and Mrs Kenyon were mounted on the only two available horses — Mr Kenyon with Bran, wrapped in a wet blanket, in front of him, Maurice with another bundle that meant Cherry. Dossie had insisted on be-

ing the one to wait till Maurice could return. They had great difficulty in getting the frightened horses to face the rush and roar of the flames, but Maurice led the way, and after a few awful minutes, which seemed an eternity, they were able to breathe once more the cool, calm night air. Mr Kenyon dismounted, and set Bran on the ground, and Maurice prepared to hand Cherry to her mother, but, overcome by the heat, the smoke, the scorching flames, and anxiety for her eldest daughter. Mrs Kenyon swayed and fell fainting into her husband's arms. Bran screamed, and Cherry began to sob in a broken-hearted way, but Maurice did not hear them. " I must go back for Dossie," he said. "If 1 don't— if we don'tr— they are expecting you at home, and you'll give them my love, and tell them that I did my level beat, and that Royal is a Briton \" He stroked his horse's smokeblackened neck, and swung round to face the smoke for the third time. There was not a second to be lost, for little dark-eyed Dossie was alone. She had been left in that horror-haunted valley to face, unaided the almost inevitable death that was sweeping down upon her. Maurice set his teeth as he thought of her little slender figure in the grip of the cruel flames. Royal faced the fire nobly. Now that lie understood what was required of him, he would go till he dropped. " Till he dropped !" What a volume of meaning lay in those three small words. He had come many miles, and Maurice had not spared him. Twice he had passed without much injury through the raging fire. Still lie bore himself bravely, but he staggered, and Maurice, recognizing- the mighty spirit that refused to give in, prayed that it might not fail until his work was done. And so, slower this time, the circle of flames, ever growing wider, was passed once more.

Dossie was waiting on the verandah, all unharmed as yet, although the flames had leapt the drive width. Maurice lifted her to his saddle. " You must ride astride," he said. " Fll lead him. He will not carry a lady." " You walk ! Ah, no, Maurice ! Let me !" she cried. Maurice shook his head. He felt half stupified with the smoke. The cool of the night air was soothing to his burnt arms and face — vaguely he dreaded the pain that the heat would bring into them. But there was Dossie to savesoon it would be impossible. So, for the last time, the blinding, sickening smoke was faced. But progress was slow this time — very slow — and Royal was not so obedient as when his master was in the saddle. After a few minutes Maurice noticed witfi dismay that Dossie seemed quite stupified. He had to hold her in the saddle and let Royal go his own way through the almost impenetrable smoke. The flying sparks caught the flimsy muslin of Dossiers hat. Maurice threw it away. Her hair blazed. Maurice took off his coat and crushed out the flames — and his shirt-sleeves flared up and went out. His arms ached intolerably, and Dossie was quite senseless, but somehow safety was reached at last. As Maurice stood on the verge of the fire, a big drop of water splashed on to his up-turned face.

Another fell, and another. Soon a steady rain was falling. The drought' had broken — the country was saved. Maurice muttered a thanksgiving as with his last remnant of strength he lifted Dossie from the saddle, and laid her on the parched grass. He had a vague idea that he ought to find some water, but before he could move something in his brain seemed to snap, and he fell beside her. And so they found them lying, side by side, in the drenching rain— Dossie with her white, wet face turned towards Maurice, and he with one badly-burnt arm thrown protectingly around her. By their side stood a shivering, spiritless, scorched horse, which they found hard to recognize as the fiery-tempered Royal who had started on the mad journey only a few short hours before. Dossie soon revived, and remembered little of that dreadful ride — Royal also was soon himself again. The new growth of hair made him forget even the horrors of that night-mare journey, but Maurice was ill for many weeks. The rain did not come in time to save " Toi-Toi," and but for the boy's pluck several lives must inevitably have been lost. But Maurice had not neglected the opportunity of doing something great that had come to him, and of all the heroes of that dread time few could surpass Maurice Cheriton — ex-Ted Brown — the Milk-car b Boy !

Note. — The incidents related in this story actually occurred