“Oh, Gawd my fathers!” murmured Tom in Jack’s ear. “Think of Easu getting a toss! Easu letting any horse get the soft side of him! Oh, my Gawd, if I’m not sorry for Easu when that crowd o’ Reds sets on to him with their tongues to-morrow.”

  “I’m jolly glad,” said Jack complacently.

  “So am I,” said Lennie. “An’ I did it, an’ I wish it had killed him. I put a pin under the saddle-crease, Tom. Don’t look at me, y’needn’t. I’ve had one up again ‘im for a long time, for Jack’s sake. D’y’ know what he did? He put Jack on that Stampede stallion, when Jack hadn’t been on our place a fortnight. So he did. An’ if Jack had been killed, who’d ha’ called him a murderer? Zah, one of the blacks, told me. And nobody durst tell you, cos they durstn’t.”

  “On Stampede!” exclaimed Tom, going yellow, and hell coming into his brown eyes. “An’ a new chum my father trusted to him to show him round.”

  “Oh well,” said Jack.

  “The sod!” said Tom: and that was final.

  Then after a moment:

  “If the Reds is going over the jumps, you go and get Lucy, Len.”

  “I likes your sperrit, Tom. I was goin’ to anyway, case they get that dark ‘oss.” Lennie threw off his coat, hat, and tie, then sat on the trodden brown grass to take off his boots and stockings. Thus stripped, he stood up and hitched his braces looser, remarking:

  “Jack Grant said he’d bash Easu’s head for ‘im if he said anything to me after I beat ‘im over the jumps, so I was goin’ to risk it anyway.”

  Jack had said no such thing, but was prepared to take the hint.

  The chestnut had been caught and tied up. Down the field they could see Easu persuading Sept to ride a smart piebald filly that had been brought in. Sept was the thinnest of the Reds. The jumping events continued away on the left, the sun was almost setting.

  “Hurry up there for the final!” called the judge.

  Sept came up on the delicate piebald filly which they had brought over from their own place. She was dark chestnut, and with flames of pure white, she seemed dazzling.

  “That’s the dark ‘oss I mentioned!” said Len. “Gosh, but me heart is beatin’! It’ll be a real match between me and him, for that there filly can jump like a ‘roo, I’ve watched ‘er.”

  Joe Low rode up to the jumping yard, and lifted his brumby over. The filly danced down and followed. Lennie was in the saddle like a cat and Lucy went over the rail without effort.

  When the rail was at five feet two, Joe Low’s brumby was done. Lucy clipped the rail and the filly cleared it. Sept brought his creature round to the judge, with raised eyebrows.

  “No y’ don’t,” yelled Lennie, riding down the track hell for leather, and Lucy went over like a swallow: Sept laughed, and came down to the rail that was raised an inch. The filly sailed it, but hit the bar. Lucy baulked. Len swung her round and came again. A perfect over.

  Next! The filly, snorting and frothing, tore down, jibbed, and was sworn at loudly by Easu standing near. Sept whipped and spurred her over.

  But at that rail, raised to five feet nine, she would not be persuaded, though Lucy cleared it with a curious casual ease. The filly would not take it.

  “Say, Mister!” called Lennie when he knew he was winner. “Raise that barrier five inches and see us bound it.”

  He made his detour, brought Lucy along on twinkling feet, and cleared it prettily.

  The roar of delight from the crowd sent Easu mad. Jack kept an eye on him, in case he meant mischief. But Easu only went away to where the niggers were still trying out the buckjumpers. Taking hold of a huge rogue of a mare, he sprang on her back and came bucking all along the track, apparently to give a specimen of horsemanship. The crowd watched the queer massive pulsing up and down of the man and the powerful, bucking horse, all in a whirl of long hair, like some queer fountain of life. And there was Monica watching Easu’s cruel, changeless face, that seemed to have something fixed and eternal in it, amid all that heaving.

  Jack felt he had a volcano inside him. He knew that Stampede had been caught again, and was being led about down there, securely roped, as part of the show. Down there among the outlaws.

  Away ran Jack. Anything rather than be beaten by Easu. But as he ran, he kept inside him that queer little flame of white-hot calm which was his invincibility.

  He patted Stampede’s arching neck, and told Sam to saddle him. Sam showed the whites of his eyes, but obeyed, and Stampede took it. Jack stood by, intense in his own cool calmness. He didn’t care what happened to him. If he was to be killed he would be killed. But at the same time, he was not reckless. He watched the horse with mystical closeness, and glanced over the saddle and bridle to see if they were all right.

  Then, swift and light, he mounted and knew the joy of being a horseman, the thrill of being a real horseman. He had the gift, and he knew it. If not the gift of sheer power, like Easu, who seemed to overpower his horse as he rode it; Jack had the gift of adjustment. He adjusted himself to his horse. Intuitively, he yielded to Stampede, up to a certain point. Beyond that certain flexible point, there would be no yielding, none, and never.

  Jack came bucking along in Easu’s wake, on a much wilder horse. But though Stampede was wild and wicked, he never exerted his last efforts. He bucked like the devil. But he never let himself altogether go. And Jack seemed to be listening with an inward ear to the animal, listening to its passion. After all it was a live creature, to be mastered, but not to be overborne. Intuitively, the boy gave way to it as much as possible. But he never for one moment doubted his own mastery over it. In his mastery there must be a living tolerance. This his instinct told him. And the stallion, bucking and sitting up, seemed somehow to accept it.

  For after all, if the horse had gone really wicked, absolutely wicked, it would have been too much for Master Jack. What he depended on was the bit of response the animal was capable of. And this he knew.

  He found he could sit the stallion with much greater ease than before. And that strange, powerful life beneath him and between his thighs, heaving and breaking like some enormous alive wave, exhilarated him with great exultance, the exultance in the power of life.

  Monica’s eyes turned from the red, fixed, overbearing face of Easu, to the queer, abstract, radiant male face of Jack, and a great pang went through her heart, and a cloud came over her brow. The boy balanced on the trembling, spurting stallion, looking down at it with dark-blue, wide, dark-looking eyes, and thinking of nothing, yet feeling so much; his face looking soft and warm with a certain masterfulness that was more animal than human, like a centaur, as if he were one blood with the horse, and had the centaur’s superlative horse-sense, its non-human power, and wisdom of hot blood-knowledge. She watched the boy, and her brow darkened and her face was fretted as if she were denied something. She wanted to look again at Easu, with his fixed hard will that excited her. But she couldn’t. The queer soft power of the boy was too much for her, she could not save herself.

  So they rode, the two men, and all the people watched them, as the sun went down in the wild empty sea westward from hot Australia.

  CHAPTER IX

  NEW YEAR’S EVE

  I

  New Year’s Eve was celebrated Scotch style, at Wandoo. It was already night, and Jack and Tom had been round seeing if the visitors had everything they wanted. Ma and a few select guests were still in the kitchen. The cold collation in the parlour still waited majestically. The twins and Harry were no longer visible: they had subsided on their stomachs by the wood-pile, in the hot evening, and found refuge in sleep; for all the world like sailors sunk dilapidated and demoralised after a high old spree. But Ellie and Baby were at their zenith. Having been kept out of the ruck most carefully upstairs, they were now produced at their best. Mr. Ellis was again away in Perth, seeing the doctor.

  Tom and Jack went into the loft and changed into clean white duck. They came forth like new men, jerking their arms in the stiff starched sleeves. And they proceeded to light the many chinese lanterns hung in the barn, till the great place was mellow with soft light. Already in the forenoon they had scraped candle ends on the floor, and rubbed them in. Now they rubbed in the wax a little more, to get the proper slipperiness.

  The light brought the people, like moths. Of course the Reds were there, brazen as brass. They too had changed into white suits, tight round the calf and hollow at the waist, and, for the moment, with high collars rising to their ears above the black cravats. Also they sported elastic-sided boots of patent leather, whereas most of the other fellows were in their heavy hob-nailed boots, nicely blacked, indeed, but destitute of grace. With their hair brushed down in a curl over their foreheads, and their beards brushed apart, their strong sinewy bodies filling out the white duck, they felt absolutely invincible, and almost they looked it. For Jack was growing blind to the rustic absurdities, blinded by the animal force of these Australians.

  Jack sat down by Herbert, who was pleasant and mild after his illness, always a little shy with the English boy. But the other Reds had taken possession of the place. Their bounce and brass were astounding. Jack watched them in wonder at their aggressive self-assertion. They were real bounders, more crude and more bouncy than ever the Old Country could produce. But that was Australian. The bulk of the people, perhaps, were dumb and unassuming. But there was always a proportion of real brassy bounders, ready to walk over you and jump in your stomach, if you’d let them.

  Easu had constituted himself Master of the Ceremonies, and we know what an important post that is, in a country beanfeast. Wherever he was, he must be in the front, bossing and hectoring other people. He had appointed his brothers “stewards.” The Reds were to run the show. There was to be but one will: the will of the big, loose-jointed, domineering Easu, with his reddish blonde beard brushed apart and his keen eyes spying everything with a slight jeer.

  Most of the guests, of course, were as they had been all day, in their Sunday suits or new dungarees. Joe Low, trim in a clean cotton jacket, sat by the great open doors very, seriously blowing notes out of an old brass cornet, that had belonged to his father, a retired sergeant of the Foot. Near him, a half-caste Huck was sliding a bow up and down a yellow-looking fiddle, while other musicians stood with their instruments under their arms. Outside in the warm night bearded farmers smoked and talked. Mamas sat on the forms round the barn, and the girls, most of them fresh and gay in billowy cotton frocks, clustered around in excitement. It was the great day of all the year.

  For the rest, most of the young men were leaning holding up the big timber supports of the barn, or framing the great opening of the sliding doors, which showed the enormous dark gap of the naked night.

  Fire-eating Easu waved energetically to Joe, who blew a blast on the cornet. This done, the strong but “common” Australian voice of Easu, shouted effectively:

  “Take partners. Get ready for the Grand March.”

  For of course he plumed himself on doing everything in “style,” everything grand and correct, this Australian who so despised the effete Old Country. The rest of the Reds straightaway marched to the sheepish and awkward fellows who stood propped up against any available prop, seized them by the arm, and rushed them up to some equally sheepish maiden. And instead of resenting it, the poor clowns were glad at being forced into company. They grinned and blushed, and the girls giggled and bridled, as they coupled and arranged themselves, two by two, close behind one another.

  A blast of music. Easu seized Monica, who was self-consciously waiting on the arm of another young fellow. He just flung his arm round her waist and heaved her to the head of the column. Then the procession set off, Easu in front with his arm round Monica’s waist, he shining with his own brass and self-esteem, she looking falsely demure. After them came the other couples, self-conscious but extremely pleased with themselves, slowly marching round the barn.

  Jack, who had precipitated himself into the night rather than be hauled into action by one of the Red stewards, stood and looked on from afar, feeling out of it. He felt out in the cold. He hated Easu’s common, gloating self-satisfaction, there at the head with Monica. Red cared nothing about Monica, really. Only she was the star of the evening, the chief girl, so he had got her. She was the chief girl for miles around. And that was enough for Easu. He was determined to leave his mark on her.

  After the March, the girls went back to their Mamas, the youths to their shoulder-supports; and following a pause, Easu again came into the middle of the floor, and began bellowing instructions. He was so pleased with the sound of his own voice, when it was lifted in authority. Everybody listened with all their ears, afraid of disobeying Easu.

  When the ovation was over, the boldest of the young men made a bee-line for the prettiest girls, and there was a hubbub. In a twinkling any girl whom Jack would have deigned to dance with, was monopolised, only the poorest remained. Meanwhile the stewards were busy sorting the couples into groups.

  Jack could not dance. He had not intended to dance. But he didn’t at all like being left out entirely, in oblivion as if he did not exist. Not at all. So he drifted towards the group of youths in the doorway. But he slid away again as Ross Ellis plunged in, seized whom he could by the arm, and led them off to the crude and unprepossessing maidens left still unchosen. He felt he would resent intensely being grabbed by the arm and hustled into a partner by one of the Reds.

  What was to be done? He seemed to be marooned in his own isolation like some shipwrecked mariner: and he was becoming aware of the size of his own hands and feet. He looked for Tom. Tom was steering a stout but willing mother into the swim, and Lennie, like a faithful little tug, was following in his wake with a gentle but squint-eyed girl.

  Jack became desperate. He looked round quickly. Mrs. Ellis was sitting alone on a packing case. At the same moment he saw Ross Ellis bearing down on him with sardonic satisfaction.

  Action was quicker than thought. Jack stood bowing awkwardly before his hostess.

  “Won’t you do me the honour, Mrs. Ellis?”

  “Oh, dear me! Oh dear, Jack Grant! But I believe I will. I never thought of such a thing. But why not? Yes, I will, it will give me great pleasure. We shall have to lead off, you know. And I was supposed to lead with Easu, seeing my husband isn’t here. But never mind, well lead off, you and I, just as well.”

  She rose to her feet briskly, seeming young again. Lately Jack thought she seemed always to have some trouble on her mind. For the moment she shook it off.

  As for him, he was panic-stricken. He wished he could ascend into heaven; or at least as high as the loft.

  “You’ll help me through, marm, won’t you?” he said. “This dance is new to me.”

  And he bowed to her, and she bowed to him, and it was horrible. The horrible things people did for enjoyment!

  “This dance is new to him,” Mrs. Ellis passed over his shoulder to a pretty girl in pink. “Help him through, Alice.”

  Feeling a fool, Jack turned and met a wide smile and a nod. He bowed confusedly.

  “I’m your corner,” said the girl. “I’ll pass it on to Monica, she’ll be your vis-à-vis.”

  “Pick up partners,” Easu was yelling with his domineering voice. “All in place, please! One more couple! One more couple!” He was at the other end of the barn, coming forward now, looking around like a general. He was coming for his Aunt.

  “Ah!” he said when he saw Mrs. Ellis and Jack. “You’re dancing with Jack Grant, Aunt Jane? Thought he couldn’t dance.”

  And he straightway turned his back on them, looking for Monica. Monica was standing with a young man from York.

  “Monica, I want you,” said Easu. “You can find a girl there,” he said, nodding from the young fellow to a half-caste girl with fuzzy hair. The young fellow went white. But Monica, crossed over to Easu, for she was a wicked little thing, and this evening she was hating Jack Grant, the booby.

  “One more couple not needed,” howled Easu. “Top centre. Where are you, Aunt Jane? Couple from here, lower centre, go to third set on left.”

  Easu was standing near the top. He stepped backward, and down came his heel on Jack’s foot. Jack got away, but an angry light came into his eyes. His face, however, still kept that cherubic expression characteristic of it, and so ill-fitting his feelings. Easu was staring over the room, and never, even looked round.

  “All in place? Music!” cried the M. C.

  The music started with a crash and a bang, Mrs. Ellis had seized Jack’s arm and was leading him into the middle of the set.

  “Catch hands, Monica,” she said.

  He loved Monica’s thin, nervous, impulsive hands. His heart went hot as he held them. But Monica wouldn’t look at him. She looked demurely sideways. But he felt the electric thrill that came to him from her hands, and he didn’t want to let go.

  She loosed his grasp and pushed him from her.

  “Get back to Ma,” she whispered. “Corner with Alice.”

  “Oh, Lor!” thought Jack. For he was cornered and grabbed and twisted by the girl with the wide smile, before he was let go to fall into place beside Ma, panting with a sort of exasperation.

  So it continued, grabbing and twisting and twirling, all perfectly ridiculous and undignified. Why, oh, why did human beings do it! Yet it was better than being left out. He was half-pleased with himself.

  Something hard and vicious dug him in the ribs. It was the elbow of Easu, who passed skipping like a goat.

  Was Easu making a dead set at him? The devil’s own anger began to rise in the boy’s heart, bringing up with it all the sullen dare-devil that was in him. When he was roused, he cared for nothing in earth or heaven. But his face remained cherubic.

  “Follow!” said a gentle voice. Perhaps it was all a mistake. He found himself back by Mrs. Ellis, watching other folks prance. There he stood and mopped his brow, in the hot, hot night. He was wet with sweat all over. But before he could wipe his face the pink Alice had caught and twirled him, taking him unawares. He waited alert. Nothing happened. Actually peace for a few seconds.