on the Creek Farm. It had never occurred to
the two Rainhams that life in Australia was lonely.

The road to Cunjee was usually bare of much traffic, but on the one
race day of the year an amazing number of vehicles were dotted along
it, light buggies, farm wagonettes, spring carts and the universal
two-wheeled jinker, all crammed with farmers and settlers and their
families. Wives, a little red-faced and anxious, resplendent in their
Sunday finery, kept a watchful eye on small boys and girls; the boys
in thick suits, the girls with white frocks, their well-crimped hair
bearing evidence of intense plaiting overnight. Hampers peeped from
under the seats, and in most cases a baby completed the outfit. Now and
then a motor whizzed by, leaving a long trail of dust-cloud in its wake,
and earning hearty remarks from every slower wayfarer. There were riders
everywhere, men and women--most of the latter with riding-skirts slipped
on over light dresses that would do duty that night at the concert and
the dance that was to follow. Sometimes a motor-cycle chugged along,
always with a girl perched on the carrier at the back, clinging
affectionately to her escort. As Cunjee drew nearer and the farms closer
together the crowd on the road increased, and the dust mounted in a
solid cloud.

The Billabong people drew to one side, as close as possible to the
fence, cantering over the short, dusty grass. It was with a sigh of
relief that Jim at last pointed out a paddock across which buggies and
horsemen were making their way.

"There's the racecourse," he said.

"Racecourse!" Tommy ejaculated. "But it just looks like an ordinary
paddock."

"That's all it is," said Jim, laughing. "You didn't expect a grand-stand
and a lawn, did you? Cunjee is very proud of itself for having a turf
club at all, and nobody minds anything as long as they get an occasional
glimpse of the horses."

"But where do they run?"

"Oh, the track goes in and out among the trees. There's some talk of
clearing it before the next meeting by means of a working bee. But
they won't worry if it doesn't get done--every one will come and have a
picnic just the same. You see, there are only two days in the year when
a bush place can really let itself go--Show day and Race day. Show
day is more serious and business-like, but Race day is a really
light-hearted affair, and the horses don't matter to most of the
people."

They turned into a gate where two men were busily