l it seemed that he was really
one of the Billabong family. Years had knitted him and Jim and Norah
into a firm triumvirate, mates in the work and play of an Australian
cattle-run; watched over by the silent grey man whose existence
centred in his motherless son and daughter--with a warm corner in his
affections for the lithe, merry Queensland boy, whose loyalty to
Billabong and its people had never wavered since his childhood.

Then, just as Jim had outgrown school and was becoming his father's
right-hand man on the station, came the world-upheaval of the European
War, which had whisked them all to England. Business had, at the
moment, summoned Mr. Linton to London; to leave Norah behind was not
to be thought of, and as both the boys were wild to enlist, and Wally
was too young to be accepted in Australia--though not in England--it
seemed that the simplest thing to do was to make the pilgrimage a
general one, and let the chums enlist in London. They had joined a
famous British regiment, obtaining commissions without difficulty,
thanks to cadet training in Australia. But their first experience of
war in Flanders had been a short one: they were amongst the first to
suffer from the German poison-gas, and a long furlough had resulted.

Mr. Linton and Norah had taken them to Ireland as soon as they were
fit to travel; and the bogs and moors of Donegal, coupled with
trout-fishing, had gone far to effect a cure. But there, unexpected
adventure had awaited them. They had made friends with Sir John
O'Neill, the last of an old North of Ireland family: a half-crippled
man, eating out his heart against the fate that held him back from an
active part in the war. Together they had managed to stumble on an
oil-base for German submarines, concealed on the rocky coast; and,
luck and boldness favouring them, to trap a U-boat and her crew. It
had been a short and triumphant campaign--skilfully engineered by
O'Neill; and he alone had paid for the triumph with his life.

John O'Neill had died happily, rejoicing in for once having played the
part of a fighting man; but to the Australians his death had been a
blow that robbed their victory of all its joy. They mourned for him
as for one of themselves, cherishing the memory of the high-souled man
whose spirit had outstripped his weak body. Jim and Wally, from
exposure on the night of the fight, had suffered a relapse, and
throat-trouble had caused their sick-leave to be extended s