My Brilliant Career by Miles Franklin (book recommendations TXT) 📕

of you two children addressing each other so formally,” said Miss Beecham. “Why, you are a sort of cousins almost, by right of old friendship between the families. You must call me aunt.”

After this Mr. Beecham and I called each other nothing when in Miss Beecham’s hearing, but adhered to formality on other occasions.

Harold looked so comfortable and lazy that I longed to test how far he meant the offer he had made me.

“I’m just dying for a row on the river. Would you oblige me?” I said.

“Just look at the thermometer!” exclaimed Miss Augusta. “Wait till it gets cooler, child.”

“Oh, I love the heat!” I replied. “And I am sure it won’t hurt his lordship. He’s used to the sun, to judge from all appearances.”

“Yes, I don’t think it can destroy my complexion,” he said good-humouredly, rubbing his finger and thumb along his stubble-covered chin. The bushmen upcountry shaved regularly every Sunday morning, but never during the week for anything less than a ball. They did this to obviate the blue⁠—what they termed “scraped pig”⁠—appearance of the faces of city men in the habit of using the razor daily, and to which they preferred the stubble of a seven-days’ beard. “I’ll take you to the river in half an hour,” he said, rising from his seat. “First I must stick on one of Warrigal’s shoes that he’s flung. I want him tomorrow, and must do it at once, as he always goes lame if ridden immediately after shoeing.”

“Shall I blow the bellows?” I volunteered.

“Oh no, thanks. I can manage myself. It would be better though if I had someone. But I can get one of the girls.”

“Can’t you get one of the boys?” said his aunt.

“There’s not one in. I sent everyone off to the Triangle paddock today to do some drafting. They all took their quart pots and a snack in their saddlebags, and won’t be home till dark.”

“Let me go,” I persisted; “I often blow the bellows for uncle Jay-Jay, and think it great fun.”

The offer of my services being accepted, we set out.

Harold took his favourite horse, Warrigal, from the stable, and led him to the blacksmith’s forge under an open, stringybark-roofed shed, nearly covered with creepers. He lit a fire and put a shoe in it. Doffing his coat and hat, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and donning a leather apron, he began preparing the horse’s hoof.

When an emergency arose that necessitated uncle Jay-Jay shoeing his horses himself. I always manipulated the bellows, and did so with great decorum, as he was very exacting and I feared his displeasure. In this case it was different. I worked the pole with such energy that it almost blew the whole fire out of the pan, and sent the ashes and sparks in a whirlwind around Harold. The horse⁠—a touchy beast⁠—snorted and dragged his foot from his master’s grasp.

“That the way to blow?” I inquired demurely.

“Take things a little easier,” he replied.

I took them so very easily that the fire was on the last gasp and the shoe nearly cold when it was required.

“This won’t do,” said Beecham.

I recommenced blowing with such force that he had to retreat.

“Steady! steady!” he shouted.

“Sure O’i can’t plaze yez anyhows,” I replied.

“If you don’t try to plaze me directly I’ll punish you in a way you won’t relish,” he said laughingly. But I knew he was thinking of a punishment which I would have secretly enjoyed.

“If you don’t let me finish this work I’ll make one of the men do it tonight by candlelight when they come home tired. I know you wouldn’t like them to do that,” he continued.

“Arrah, go on, ye’re only tazin’!” I retorted. “Don’t you remember telling me that Warrigal was such a nasty-tempered brute that he allowed no one but yourself to touch him?”

“Oh well, then, I’m floored, and will have to put up with the consequences,” he good-humouredly made answer.

Seeing that my efforts to annoy him failed, I gave in, and we were soon done, and then started for the river⁠—Mr. Beecham clad in a khaki suit and I in a dainty white wrapper and flyaway sort of hat. In one hand my host held a big white umbrella, with which he shaded me from the hot rays of the October sun, and in the other was a small basket containing cake and lollies for our delectation.

Having traversed the half-mile between the house and river, we pushed off from the bank in a tiny boat just big enough for two. In the teeth of Harold’s remonstrance I persisted in dangling over the boat-side to dabble in the clear, deep, running water. In a few minutes we were in it. Being unable to swim, but for my companion it would have been all up with me. When I rose to the surface he promptly seized me, and without much effort, clothes and all, swam with me to the bank, where we landed⁠—a pair of sorry figures. Harold had mud all over his nose, and in general looked very ludicrous. As soon as I could stand I laughed.

“Oh, for a snapshot of you!” I said.

“We might have both been drowned,” he said sternly.

“Mights don’t fly,” I returned. “And it was worth the dip to see you looking such a comical article.” We were both minus our hats.

His expression relaxed.

“I believe you would laugh at your own funeral. If I look queer, you look forty times worse. Run for your life and get a hot bath and a drop of spirits or you’ll catch your death of cold. Aunt Augusta will take a fit and tie you up for the rest of the time in case something more will happen to you.”

“Catch a death of cold!” I ejaculated. “It is only good, pretty little girls, who are a blessing to everyone, who die for such trifles; girls like I am always live till nearly ninety, to plague themselves and everybody else. I’ll sneak home so that your aunt won’t see me, and