Page 31 - An Australian Lassie

CHAPTER VIII

THE FTGHT

Betty was in the belt of bush that lay between the wicket-gate of her home and the road. Her idea was to be
sufficiently near to home to gather from the sound of the voices that might call her if she were really needed
and yet to be so far from sight that the continual "Betty, come here," and "Betty, go there," could not be.

She had come home as soon as school was out, come home leaving Cyril and Nancy behind her, flung herself
beneath the shade of one of her favourite old gum trees, and begun to write.

When Mr. Bruce was busy over a story, or an article, or a book, every one in the house knew. Then the study
door would be closed and the window only opened at the top; then the children would be banished from the
side garden into which the study looked, and from the passage outside the study door; then Mrs. Bruce would
carry his meals to him upon a tray, and he would have strong black coffee in the early evening. And then at
last a neatly folded missive, gummed and tied with thin string, with a mysterious "MS. only" inscribed in one
corner, would be carried to the post by either Cyril or Betty.

When Dot wrote a story, as she very frequently did now-a-days, portions of it would be carried into the study
for her father to see, and her mother would proudly read page after page of the neat round hand, and wonder
where on earth the child got her ideas from.

But when Betty wrote her stories, no one in the house--excepting Cyril, of course--knew anything about it! no
one kept the house quiet for Betty, and no one wondered wherever she got her ideas from. And yet she had
quite a collection of fairy stories and poems of her own composition. She and an exercise book, or a few
scraps of paper and a stumpy bit of pencil were to be seen sometimes in very close companionship.

But for all that no one did see; or seeing, they did not understand.

Still Betty wrote her stories--not necessarily for publication like her father--nor as a guarantee that the
scribbling genius was within her, like Dot--but for the love of story writing alone.

Her fairy story to-day had to do with the bold and handsome Waratah which ran mad in the bush behind her
home, towards Middle Harbour. Her fertile fancy had suggested many roles for these flowers to take.

Tt occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poem which should stir Cyril--not one of her
sort of poems, about streams and flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one that would make
Cyril say "By Jup-i-ter, Betty," and learn it off by heart without any asking.

For a space she laid down her story, which began, "Once upon a time," and asked herself what there was that
she could make a poem of for Cyril.

"Tt must be something brave," she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, a man--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a
soldier-- T think a soldier would suit Cyril!"

She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding her pencil ready to write. As she looked she
became aware of a small figure running along the road, and entering the bush track. Tt was Cyril, and Cyril in
woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the first thing she did was to throw down her paper and
pencil and run to meet him.

As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face and she heard, ever and anon as he ran, a
great sob, half of anger and half of fear, come bursting from his lips.