The Dingo Boys Part 1

The Dingo Boys.

by G. Manville Fenn.

CHAPTER ONE.

"HAVE I DONE RIGHT?"

"Better stay here, squire. Aren't the land good enough for you?"

"Oh yes; the land's good enough, sir."

"Stop and take up a run close by. If you go yonder, the piggers'll eat you without salt."

Here followed a roar of laughter from the party of idlers who were busy doing nothing with all their might, as they lounged about the wharves and warehouses of Port Haven.

Emigrants' guide-books said that Port Haven was a busy rising town well inside the Barrier Reef on the east coast of Northern Australia, and offered abundant opportunities for intending settlers.

On this particular sunny morning Port Haven was certainly not "busy,"

and if "rising," it had not risen enough for much of it to be visible.

There were a few wooden buildings of a very rough description; there was a warehouse or two; and an erection sporting a flagstaff and a ragged Union Jack, whose front edge looked as if the rats had been trying which tasted best, the red, white, or blue; and upon a rough board nailed over the door was painted in white letters, about as badly as possible, "Jennings' Hotel;" but the painter had given so much s.p.a.ce to "Jennings'," that "Hotel" was rather squeezed, like the accommodation inside; and consequently from a distance, that is to say, from the deck of the s.h.i.+p _Ann Eliza_ of London, Norman Bedford could only make out "Jennings' Hot," and he drew his brother and cousin's attention to the fact--the 'el' being almost invisible.

"Well, who cares?" cried his brother Raphael.

"So's everybody else," said their cousin, Artemus Lake. "I'm melting, and feel as if I was standing in a puddle. But I say, Man, what a place to call a port!"

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Norman. "Of course we're not going to stop here. Are we going to anchor close up to that pier thing?"

"Pier, Master Norman?" said a hard-faced man in a glazed straw hat, "that's the wharf."

"Gammon! why, it's only a few piles and planks.--I say, Rifle, look there. That's a native;" and the boy pointed to a very glossy black, who had been squatting on his heels at the edge of the primitive wharf, but who now rose up, planted the sole of his right foot against the calf of his left leg, and kept himself perpendicular by means of what looked like a very thin clothes-prop.

"If that's a native," said Raphael, "he has come out of his sh.e.l.l, eh, Tim?"

"Yes," said Artemus, solemnly. "Australian chief magnificently attired in a small piece of dirty cotton."

Captain Bedford, retired officer of the Royal Engineers, a bluff, slightly grey man of fifty, who was answerable as father and G.o.dfather for the rather formidable names of the three bright, sun-burned, manly lads of fifteen to seventeen--names which the boys had shortened into "Man", "Tim," and "Rifle"--overheard the conversation and laughed.

"Yes, that's a native, boys," he said; "and it is a primitive place, and no mistake, but you're right: we shall only stop here long enough to load up, and then off we go inland, pioneers of the new land."

Man tossed up his straw hat, and cried "hooray!" his brother joined in, and the sailors forward, who were waiting to warp the great vessel alongside the rough wharf, joined in the cheer, supposing the shout to be given because, after months of bad weather, they were all safe in a sunny port.

At the cheer three ladies came out of the companionway, followed by a short, grey, fierce-looking man, who walked eagerly to the group of boys.

"Here, what's the matter?" he cried. "Anything wrong?"

"No, uncle," said Norman. "I only said 'Hooray!' because we have got here safe."

"Did mamma and the girls come out because we cheered?" said Rifle.

"Hallo, here's Aunt Georgie too!"

He ran to the cabin entrance, from which now appeared an elderly lady of fifty-five or sixty, busily tying a white handkerchief over her cap, and this done as the boy reached her, she took out her spectacle-case.

"What's the matter, Rifle?" she said excitedly. "Is the s.h.i.+p going down?"

"No, aunt, going up the river. We're all safe in port."

"Thank goodness," said the lady, fervently. "Oh, what a voyage!"

She joined the ladies who had previously come on deck--a tall, grave-looking, refined woman of forty, and two handsome girls of about twenty, both very plainly dressed, but whose costume showed the many little touches of refinement peculiar to a lady.

"Well, Marian, I hope Edward is happy now."

The lady smiled and laid her hand upon Aunt Georgina's arm.

"Of course he is, dear, and so are we all. Safe in port after all those long weeks."

"I don't see much safety," said Aunt Georgie, as she carefully arranged her spectacles, and looked about her. "Bless my heart! what a ramshackle place. Surely this isn't Port Haven."

"Yes; this is Port Haven, good folks," said Captain Bedford, joining them and smiling at the wondering looks of all.

"Then the man who wrote that book, Edward, ought to be hanged."

"What's the matter, aunt?" said Norman, who hurried up with his cousin.

"Matter, my dear? Why, that man writing his rubbish and deluding your poor father into bringing us to this horrible, forsaken-looking place!"

"Forsaken?" cried Captain Bedford, "not at all. We've just come to it.

Why, what more do you want? Bright suns.h.i.+ne, a glittering river, waving trees, a glorious atmosphere, and dear old Dame Nature smiling a welcome.--What do you say, Jack?"

The sharp, irritable-looking man had joined them, and his face looked perplexed, the more so as he noted that the girls were watching him, and evidently hanging upon his answer.

"Eh?" he cried; "yes; a welcome, of course. She's glad to see our bonnie la.s.sies fresh from Old England. Here, Ned, give me a cigar."

"Thank you, Jack, old fellow," whispered the captain, as he took out his case. "For Heaven's sake help me to keep up the poor women's spirits.

I'm afraid it will be very rough for them at first."

"Rough? Scarifying," said Uncle John Munday, puffing away at his cigar.

"No business to have come."

"Jack! And you promised to help me and make the best of things."

"Going to," said Uncle Jack; "but I didn't say I wouldn't pitch into you for dragging us all away from--"

"Bloomsbury Square, my dears," said Aunt Georgie just then. "Yes, if I had known, you would not have made me move from Bloomsbury Square."

"Where you said you should die of asthma, you ungrateful old woman.

This climate is glorious."