Page 26 of My Brilliant Career

‘Yes, that will do,’ he said; and she struggled to be put down.

Three jackeroos, an overseer, and two other young men came in, were introduced to me, and then we began dinner.

O’Doolan sat on a high chair beside Mr Beecham, and he attended to all her wants. She did everything he did, even taking mustard, and was very brave at quelling the tears that rose to the doll-like blue eyes. When Mr Beecham wiped his moustache, it was amusing to see her also wipe an imaginary one.

After dinner the jackeroos and the three other men repaired to a sitting-room in the backyard, which was specially set apart for them, and where they amused themselves as they liked. My host and hostess, myself, and the child, spent the evening in a tiny sitting-room adjoining the dining-room. Miss Beecham entertained me with conversation and the family albums, and Harold amused himself entirely with the child.

Once when they were absent for a few minutes, Miss Beecham told me it was ridiculous the way he fussed with the child, and that he had her with him more than half his time. She also asked me what I thought of her nephew. I evaded the question by querying if he was always so quiet and good-tempered.

‘Oh dear, no. He is considered a particularly bad-tempered man. Not one of the snarling nasty tempers, but —’

Here the re-entry of the owner of the temper put a stop to this conversation.

Harold gave O’Doolan rides on his back, going on all fours. She shouted in childish glee, and wound up by curling her small proportions on his broad chest, and going to sleep there.

Mrs Benson had sent for little O’Doolan, and Harold took her home next day. He invited me to accompany him, so we set out in the sulky with O’Doolan on my lap. It was a pleasant drive of twelve miles to and from Wyambeet. O’Doolan was much distressed at parting from Mr Beecham, but he promised to come for her again shortly.

‘One little girl at a time is enough for me to care for properly,’ he said to me in the winning manner with which, and his wealth, unintentionally and unconsciously made slaughter among the hearts of the fair sex.

16 WHEN FORTUNE SMILES

‘Now, Harold, you have compelled Sybylla to come here, you must not let the time drag with her,’ said Miss Beecham.

It was the second day after my arrival at Five-Bob. Lunch was over, and we had adjourned to the veranda. Miss Beecham was busy at her work-table; I was ensconced on a mat on the floor reading a book; Harold was stretched in a squatter’s chair some distance away. His big brown hands were clasped behind his head, his chin rested on his broad chest, his eyes were closed, he occasionally thrust his lower lip forward and sent a puff of breath upwards to scatter the flies from his face; he looked a big monument of comfort, and answered his aunt’s remarks lazily:

‘Yes, aunt, I’ll do my best;’ and to me, ‘Miss Melvyn, while here, please bear in mind that it will be no end of pleasure to me to do anything for your enjoyment. Don’t fail to command me in any way.’

‘Thank you, Mr Beecham. I will not fail to avail myself of your offer.’

‘The absurdity of you two children addressing each other so formally,’ said Miss Beecham. ‘Why, you are a sort of cousins almost, by right of old friendship between the families. You must call me aunt.’

After this Mr Beecham and I called each other nothing when in Miss Beecham’s hearing, but adhered to formality on other occasions.

Harold looked so comfortable and lazy that I longed to test how far he meant the offer he had made me.

‘I’m just dying for a row on the river. Would you oblige me?’ I said.

‘Just look at the thermometer!’ exclaimed Miss Augusta. ‘Wait till it gets cooler, child.’

‘Oh, I love the heat!’ I replied. ‘And I am sure it won’t hurt his lordship. He’s used to the sun, to judge from all appearances.’

‘Yes, I don’t think it can destroy my complexion,’ he said good-humouredly, rubbing his finger and thumb along his stubble-covered chin. The bushmen up-country shaved regularly every Sunday morning, but never during the week for anything less than a ball. They did this to obviate the blue — what they termed ‘scraped pig’ — appearance of the faces of city men in the habit of using the razor daily, and to which they preferred the stubble of a seven-days’ beard. ‘I’ll take you to the river in half an hour,’ he said, rising from his seat. ‘First I must stick on one of Warrigal’s shoes that he’s flung. I want him tomorrow, and must do it at once, as he always goes lame if ridden immediately after shoeing.’

‘Shall I blow the bellows?’ I volunteered.

‘Oh no, thanks. I can manage myself. It would be better though if I had some one. But I can get one of the girls.’

‘Can’t you get one of the boys?’ said his aunt.

‘There’s not one in. I sent everyone off to the Triangle paddock today to do some drafting. They all took their quart pots and a snack in their saddle-bags, and won’t be home till dark.’

‘Let me go,’ I persisted; ‘I often blow the bellows for uncle Jay-Jay, and think it great fun.’

The offer of my services being accepted, we set out.

Harold took his favourite horse, Warrigal, from the stable, and led him to the blacksmith’s forge under an open, stringybark-roofed shed, nearly covered with creepers. He lit a fire and put a shoe in it. Doffing his coat and hat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and donning a leather apron, he began preparing the horse’s hoof.

When an emergency arose that necessitated uncle Jay-Jay shoeing his horses himself, I always manipulated the bellows, and did so with great decorum, as he was very exacting and I feared his displeasure. In this case it was different. I worked the pole with such energy that it almost blew the whole fire out of the pan, and sent the ashes and sparks in a whirlwind around Harold. The horse — a touchy beast — snorted and dragged his foot from his master’s grasp.