The Barrakee Mystery. Arthur W. Upfield

do not look nor do I feel any younger, Mr Ralph,” the bookkeeper countered. “When I first saw you, ten years ago, you were make-believing you were playing the piano on the office typewriter. And now! It seems but yesterday.”

      “That is all it is, too. You are mistaken about the ten years,” the young man said, with a happy smile. Then, returning to his mother, he took her on his right arm and caught the squatter on his left, the last, in turn attaching Kate Flinders; and so aligned, the reunited family slowly returned to the house.

      From Brewarrina to Wentworth and from Ivanhoe to Tibooburra the two women of Barrakee were famous. From the squatter and his manager to the boundary-rider and the sundowner, Mrs Thornton was known as the “Little Lady”. Her unvarying kindness to all travellers, from swagman to Governor-General, was a by-word. The example on which she patterned herself was Napoleon Bonaparte. Her gifts were bestowed with discretion, and her judgements were scrupulously just, but always tempered with mercy.

      Katherine Flinders, her orphan niece, was about Ralph’s age. Her lithe, graceful figure was the admiration of all, and once seen on a horse was a picture to live in memory. The easiest way to purchase a ticket to the nearest hospital was to speak slightingly of either—together referred to as the “Women of Barrakee”.

      A combined light lunch and afternoon tea was set out on the broad veranda, where they found Martha applying the final touches. Her great face was irradiated, though not beautified, by a gigantic smile. She stood beside the table while the small party mounted the veranda steps, her figure encased by a voluminous blue dressing-gown belted at the waist by a leather strap stolen from a bridle. Her poor feet were concealed by highly polished elastic-sided brown riding-boots. Truly on this occasion she was superb.

      The whites of her eyes were conspicuous. The wide grin of genuine welcome revealed many gaps in the yellowing teeth. Her greying hair was scanty. She was nearly overcome with excitement.

      “Well, Martha! Not dead yet?” greeted Ralph gravely, holding out his hand. She took it in her left, her right being pressed to her vast bosom.

      “Oh, Misther Ralph!” she articulated with difficulty, “Poor Martha no die till she look on you once more.”

      “That’s right,” he said with a friendly smile. “I shall be very much annoyed,” he added, “if you die now.”

      The squatter and his wife were content with a cup of tea, whilst their “children” ate a long-delayed lunch. Anticipating the boy’s lightest wish, the Little Lady hovered at his side, her eyes sparkling with happiness, her small finely-moulded features flushed. She and her husband were content to listen to his description of the holiday spent in New Zealand and of his last term at college.

      As a collegiate product he was perfect. His speech and manners were without reproach. There was, however, inherent in him a grace of movement which no school or university could have given him. Of medium height and weight, he sat his chair with the ease of one born on the back of a horse. His dark, almost beautiful face was animated by a keen and receptive mind; the fervid enthusiasm of the mystic rather than the unveiled frankness of the practically-minded man was reflected from his eyes.

      He was to both his adopted parents a revelation. Six months previously he had left them, still a college boy, to return to college. He had come back to them a man, frankly adult. The youthful boastfulness had given place to grave self-assurance—too grave, perhaps, in one still in the years of youth. Never once did he mention football, cricket, or rowing, his previous enthusiasms. If superficial, his knowledge of politics, of the arts, and of the lives of the great, was extensive. The heart of the Little Lady overflowed with pride and exultation: her husband was admittedly astonished by the lad’s mental and physical growth in six short months.

      “Well, Dad, and now that I’ve finished with college, what do you want me to do?” he asked suddenly.

      “Why, dear, you must know what we want you to do, surely?” interposed Mrs Thornton.

      “I was thinking,” the squatter remarked quietly, “that your education and your address indicate the Church.”

      The Little Lady’s eyes widened with amazement. The young man’s face clouded. Kate alone saw the suppressed twinkle in her uncle’s eyes.

      “Would you like to be a parson, Ralph?” she inquired, with a laugh.

      “Surely, Dad, you cannot mean what you say?”

      “What do you want to do?” he asked kindly. “The choice is yours. Whatever path through life you choose, Law, the Church, the Services, or any of the professions—your mother and I will accept.”

      The young man’s sigh of relief was audible.

      “I thought you meant that about the Church,” he said slowly. “I would rather—and I mean no reflection on the Church—I would rather carry my swag up and down the Darling all my life than be a bishop. I would rather be a boundary-rider than an army general, or a bullock-driver than an Under-Secretary. If there is one thing I’ve learned in this last half-year, it is that I cannot be happy away from Barrakee. Down in the city I feel like a caged bird, or an old sailor living out his last days away from the sea. I want to stay here with you three. I want to learn to be a pastoralist, to breed better sheep and grow finer wool. I hope you approve?”

      “Oh, Ralph, dear, of course we approve!” declared Mrs Thornton, leaning towards him with shining countenance. “I should have been heartbroken had you chosen otherwise.”

      Chapter Four

      Dugdale Goes Fishing

      Frank Dugdale, not quite twenty-eight years of age, held the position of sub-overseer on Barrakee Station. Ten years before he had found himself almost penniless and practically without friends. He had no recollection of his mother, and when, on the verge of bankruptcy, his father killed himself, the loss left him dazed and helpless.

      Mr Dugdale senior was the sole representative of Dugdale & Co., Wool Brokers and General Station Agents, and at the time of the crash the son was about to enter the firm. From their schooldays his father and Thornton had been friends, and, whilst lamenting the fact that his friend failed to apply to him for financial assistance, the squatter had offered the youth the opportunities of a jackeroo.

      The offer was eagerly accepted. Dugdale came to Barrakee and resided with the bookkeeper in the barracks. In ten years he had proved his worth. At the time that Ralph Thornton left college Dugdale was renowned for his horsemanship, his knowledge of wool, and his handling of sheep.

      Of average height and build, his complexion was fair and the colour of his eyes hazel. Ralph and Kate were playing tennis when Dugdale passed, smoking his pipe and in his hand a fishing-line. For a moment he watched the flying figures in the golden light of the setting sun, and his pulse leapt as it never failed to do when he beheld Kate Flinders.

      “Hallo, Dug! Are you going fishing?” asked the flushed girl, energetically gathering the balls to serve.

      “No—oh no!” he drawled, with a smile. “I am going kite-flying.”

      “Now, now, Dug! No sarcasm, please,” she reproved, half-mockingly.

      Pausing in his walk he faced her, holding out the line for inspection, saying:

      “I cannot tell a lie, as Shakespeare remarked to Stephen. Here is the kite-line.”

      “Quite so,” she observed sweetly. “But you should conceal the spinner. Also your quotation is hideously mixed. It was Washington who boasted he never told a fib.”

      “And Stephen lived a few centuries before Shakespeare,” Ralph contributed.

      “Did he?” replied Dugdale innocently. “I fear my education is fading out. And what year did the lamented Stephen arrive upon the throne?”

      “In the year eleven hundred.”

      “BC or AD?”

      “AD of course,