s were tossing their luggage into the wagon--unfamiliar
luggage to Cunjee, with its jumble of ship labels, Continental hotel
brands, and the names of towns all over England, Ireland and Scotland.
There were battered tin uniform cases of Jim and Wally's, bearing their
rank and regiment in half effaced letters: "Major J. Linton"; "Captain
W. Meadows"--it was hard to realize that they belonged to the two
merry-faced boys, who did not seem much changed from the days when
Cunjee had seen them arrive light-heartedly from school. Mr. Linton ran
his eye over the pile, pronouncing it complete. Then Evans was at his
side.

"The motor you sent is ready at the garage in the township if you want
it," he said. "But you wired that I was to bring the buggy."

"I did," said David Linton, with a slow smile. "I suppose for
convenience sake we'll have to shake down to using the motor. But I
drove the old buggy away from Billabong, and I'll drive home now. Jump
in, children."

He gathered up the reins, sitting, erect and spare, with one foot on the
brake, while the brown horses plunged impatiently, and the volunteers
found their work cut out in holding them. Norah was by him, Evans on her
other hand; Jim and Wally "tumbled up" into the back seat, as they had
done so many times. David Linton looked down at the crowd below.

"Thank you all again," he said. "We'll see you soon--it's not good-bye
now, only 'so-long.' Let 'em go, boys."

The volunteers sprang back, thankfully. The browns stood on their hind
legs for a moment, endeavouring to tie themselves in knots; then the
whip spoke, and they came to earth, straightened themselves out with a
flying plunge, and wheeled out of the station yard and up the
street. Behind them cheers broke out afresh, and the band blared once
more--which acted as a further spur to the horses; they were pulling
double as the high buggy flashed along the street, where every house and
every shop showed smiling faces, and handkerchiefs waved in welcome. So
they passed through Cunjee, and wheeled to the right towards the open
country--the country that meant Billabong.

There were seventeen miles of road ahead, but the browns made little of
them. They had come into the township the evening before, and had done
nothing since but eat the hotel oats and wish to be out of a close
stable and back in their own free paddocks. They took the hills at a
swift, effortless trot, and on the down slopes broke into a hand-gallop