Then David Linton tried to speak, and that was a
failure also, as far as eloquence went; but nobody seemed to mind. So,
between hand grips and cheers, they made their way through the welcome
of Cunjee to where the big double buggy of Billabong stood, with three
fidgeting brown horses, each held by a volunteer. Beyond that was the
carry-all of the bush; an express wagon, with a grinning black boy at
the horses' heads--and Norah went to him with outstretched hands.
"Why, Billy!" she said.
Billy's grin expanded in a perfectly reckless fashion.
"Plenty glad!" he stammered--and thereby doubled his usual output of
words.
Willing hands 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.
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