a view to such
occasions, was quite transformed when the house party entered it a
couple of hours later. The electric light--Billabong had its own plant
for lighting--had been extended to the loft, and gleamed down on a
perfect bower of green--bracken and coral ferns, the tender foliage of
young sapling tops, Christmas bush, clematis and tall reeds from the
lagoon--the latter gathered by Jim and Wally during their morning bathe.
Rough steps had been improvised to lead from outside up to the main
door of the loft, over which still dangled from the block and pulley
the rope that had suspended the irate Lee Wing earlier in the day. It
was also possible to enter by the usual method--a trapdoor in the floor
over a ladder leading from the floor below; but this was considered by
the men scarcely suitable for their partners. All traces of its usual
contents had, of course, been removed from the big room, and the floor
gleamed in the light, mute evidence of the ardour with which Mr.
Linton's French chalk had been applied. At one end, near the railing
guarding the trapdoor, the Cunjee musicians were stationed, and close
to them a queer old figure hovered--old Andy Ferguson, gnarled and
knotted and withered; Irish, for all his Scotch name, and with his old
blue eyes full of Irish fire at the thought of "a spree." He held his
old fiddle tenderly as he might hold a child; it, too, was the worse
for wear, and showed in more than one place traces of repair; but when
Andy wielded the bow its tones were just as mellow to him as the finest
instrument on earth. He kept a jealous eye on the Cunjee men; they
might oust him for most of the night, but at least his was to be the
old privilege of opening the ball. "The Boss" had said so.

The homestead men had lined up near the door to receive their
guests--to-night they were hosts to Mr. Linton and his children, as to
every one else. They were a fine lot of fellows--Murty O'Toole, and Mick
Shanahan, the horse breaker, and Willis and Blake and Burton--all long
and lean and hard, with deep-set, keen eyes and brown, thin faces;
Evans, who was supposed to be over-seer, and important enough to arrive
late; younger fellows, like Fred Anderson and David Boone (the latter's
hair suspiciously smooth and shiny); Hogg, the dour old man who ruled
the flower garden and every one but Norah; and a sprinkling of odd
rouseabouts and boys, very sleek and well brushed, in garments of
varying make, low collars,