The Dog of my Aunt

THIS TALE will require careful handling. A single yeasty character leavens the lump of normal, human dough from which all tales are basically compounded; two make it froth a bit; three create an almost unmanageable ferment; but when you find yourself committed to a narrative containing no less than four, it is impossible not to feel that the whole thing may blow up in your face, obliterating your literary style, and playing havoc with your efforts to create a serious and shapely work of art.

However, the inescapable fact is that we have four barmy characters to deal with—namely, Aunt Isabelle, Ken Mulliner, Jake and Kelly. We do not hesitate to include Jake and Kelly, for barminess is by no means restricted to humans. Animals can be quite screwy. So can plants—lantana being, perhaps, the outstanding example. So can inanimate objects, many of which are undoubtedly animated by something which makes people stare, blink, and suffer sharp misgivings as to their own sanity.

In this last category cars now take first place, having supplanted houses owing to their additional advantage of mobility. For a house is, by definition, a stay-at-home affair, and may absorb only those experiences which come to it; but a car gets around. In both, personality reaches its full flowering with old age, but whereas a house is commonly mellowed by the years, a car becomes, quite invariably, a tough rapscallion, a buccaneer, a cynical adventurer who has been everywhere, seen everything, and knows all there is to be known about mankind. This is, of course, the reason why those whose own personalities have never ripened, buy new ones so frequently; no one likes being made to feel adolescent by a bit of machinery.

Ken is still quite a young fellow, but his personality is ripe beyond his years, and there can be no doubt that this is largely attributable to his association with Kelly—though he would be quite effervescent enough even without the influence of his barmy vehicle. This Thing (for, like Mrs. Jackson, we can find no other word for it), already had a long, long history when Ken first acquired it for thirty quid just after the war. It must once have been of some identifiable make, but he was still in short pants when it shed the last emblem, legend or bauble which proclaimed it a This, That or The Other, and since then its internal arrangements have been so swopped, modified, removed, replaced, repaired, rebored, recharged and generally readjusted that possibly even he does not now remember what make it was. To this day he is always buying parts out of other jalopies and incorporating them into Kelly as its own parts give up, or fall out, but these operations seem to enhance, rather than diminish its rich and aggressive personality.

These two in combination afflict the beholder with an uneasy sensation of impending crisis. They cannot even go in to the store together without turning the trip into a hair-raising adventure, and on their meat-day the Lane finds itself listening tensely for the racket which announces that they have successfully accomplished their errand. We swear each time that we shall not view this everyday expedition as if it were a commando raid; nevertheless, the air is electric with excitement, to which Ken adds by his dramatic manner of delivering our meat. “We made it!” he yells jubilantly, thrusting Biddy’s roast and chops into her hands. “We made it!” he shouts, dumping steak and dog’s meat into the Griffiths’ box. And all the way down the Lane we may follow his victorious progress by the appalling noise of Kelly’s brakes and gears, and the sound of his voice exultantly proclaiming : “We made it! We made it!”

It has been said that modern life consists of tedium enlivened by disaster, but Ken does not subscribe to this view. He argues that tedium cannot sneak up on you; there is plenty of time to see it coming, and take suitable action. When he perceives that a job is about to become boring, he stops doing it, and when he becomes tired of a place, he leaves it; but as a rule he finds any job interesting simply because he is doing it, and any place seething with drama simply because he is there. As for disaster, he recognises it only in one form. It is a disaster to be dead. But even this, as he points out, cannot be regarded as unmixed disaster, for it lends a peculiarly zestful enjoyment to all the time when you are not dead.

Such, then, are two of our characters. We have already glanced in passing at Jake, and mentioned that among the adult members of the Griffith family there is a tendency to disown him. Any time you visit there, you are likely to find Henry swearing, or Sue tearing her hair over the latest iniquity committed by that awful dog of Aunt Isabelle’s, and Aunt Isabelle fiercely asseverating that her responsibility for the animal came to an end when she delivered him into Tony’s arms. But you will also find that he has his loyal champion, for it is precisely in such moments of tension that Tony makes no bones about admitting that Jake is exclusively his, and will be defended by him against all slanders and revilements, because the poor old boy didn’t understand, and never meant to do it.

This is perfectly true. Jake possesses some admirable qualities, but not even Tony has ever claimed that intellectual prowess is one of them. When he first appeared among us he was only a puppy, and it was charitably hoped that he would get more sense as he grew older. He is now nearly as big as a calf, but this hope has not been realised. Life has always puzzled him, but he never despairs of finding out what it is all about, and when he stands gazing at anything, with his head on one side and his forehead seamed by a thousand wrinkles of perplexity, it is a safe bet that he will presently launch himself at the mystifying object in order to subject it to a close, and usually destructive examination. His coat is smooth, and golden-brown, but it is a little too large for him, so when he shakes himself (which he does very frequently, as if he could thereby free himself from the manifold problems which bedevil his existence), its loose folds flap like sheets in the wind, and such mud, water, manure or nameless offal as happens to be adhering to them, is scattered far and wide. He is an indefatigable rummager in the lantana, where he collects old boots, rotting fragments of rag, decaying corpses of birds or bandicoots, snake skins, tattered remnants of sacks smelling to high heaven of blood-and-bone, and many other loathsome matters; these he brings home, and lays upon Tony’s bed. His pendulous cheeks, his bulldog nose and his bloodshot eyes combine with his bulk to lend him an intimidating appearance, but his disposition is so friendly that unless you see him coming, and brace yourself for the shock, his ecstatic leaps of greeting are apt to land you flat on your back. As he grows bigger and bigger, his inspired clumsiness naturally has more and more dog-power behind it, and this excessive bonhomie has become one of the major hazards of life in the Lane. In the circumstances, it surely speaks volumes for his beautiful nature that we all love him dearly.

With Aunt Isabelle we are already pretty well acquainted. Her abrupt and totally unheralded appearance in our midst would have dumbfounded Sue and Henry even if she had made her entrance alone, and in a more orthodox manner; for it was barely a month since they had received one of her very long letters, posted in Paris, and containing no suggestion that she ever proposed to leave that city, where she lived a busy life doing nothing in particular, but doing it with so much verve that it seemed to herself, and everyone else, tremendously exciting. As it was, there were aspects of her arrival which might have made them doubt the evidence of their eyes, had there not been other witnesses. These were Dick Arnold (who was helping Henry put a new stump under the tank-stand), Marge Kennedy (who was returning a mincer she had borrowed from Sue), and Dave Hawkins (who was playing with Tony). Ken was less a witness than a deus ex machina, for the vehicle from which Aunt Isabelle alighted, clad in a boiler-suit, a fur coat and hob-nailed boots, and clasping the squirming Jake in her arms, was Kelly. It will readily be seen that a combination of these four is strong medicine, and one wonders that Providence should ever have allowed them to come together, especially on a Sunday.

But there they were, and for some moments—what with Aunt Isabelle’s cries of greeting, Jake’s yelps, Tony’s enraptured exclamations and the clamorous questionings of Sue and Henry—the situation was extremely confused, and . . .

But things are getting out of hand already, and we are telling the end first. We feel rather despairingly that even if we attempt, by scrupulously observing a chronological sequence, to lend this account the majestic, step-by-step inevitability of Greek drama, the chances are that it will come out in a form (or perhaps we should say a formlessness), more reminiscent of the brothers Marx. Nevertheless, we must explain how Aunt Isabelle came to possess Jake, how they made the acquaintance of Ken Mulliner, and how Kelly brought them all to Lantana Lane. We shall do this methodically if it kills us.

It must first of all be understood that although Aunt Isabelle frequently declares herself to be a realist, she is a romantic as well. Contrary to general belief, this is quite possible. A little mental agility is required, but she has plenty of that, and finds no more difficulty in switching briskly from romance to realism, and back again, than she would find in removing one dress in order to put on another.

For the romantic adventure of emigrating, she cast herself as a pioneer—having eagerly read two books, written in 1849 and 1857, upon life in the Antipodes. But her realism compelled her to recognise that facilities for making perilous, six-months’ voyages in sailing ships, and subsisting upon weevily biscuits and a daily pannikin of water, no longer exist, so she philosophically allowed herself to be whisked through the air in perfect comfort, cheering herself with the thought that every hour was bringing her closer to The Bushes, where interesting privations surely awaited her. And although she descended from the plane clad in everything that was suitable and soignée for an elderly Parisienne upon her travels, she had her boots and her boilersuit readily accessible against the moment when pioneering should begin.

She was somewhat dashed to learn that it was now quite a long time since the coaches of Cobb et Cie had ceased their picturesque operations, and that she must perform the next stage of her journey by train. But once more, as a good realist, she accepted the inevitable with composure, and engaged a taxi to convey her straight from the airport to the railway station; for she was resolved not to lose a moment in coming to grips with her new life. However, as she explained to the taxi-driver, she wished to purchase a little gift for the son of her niece, and would therefore be obliged if he would take her, en route, to some appropriate shop. To this he replied that it was Saturday afternoon, and all the shops were shut; but he must have been a quick thinker, for he immediately added that he had kids himself, and if she asked him, he’d say there was nothing a little boy liked better than a dog. Now it so happened (he continued) that he had an exceptionally fine Boxer pup which was worth fifteen quid any day, but which—since he didn’t like to see a lady disappointed—he would let her have for five. Aunt Isabelle was delighted, and requested him to take her at once to inspect this animal, which he willingly did.

Just as they were walking up the side path towards the backyard, and the taxi-driver was explaining that it was necessary to keep a valuable, pedigreed dog shut up because it might get pinched, his third youngest child at last succeeded, after many attempts, in opening the door of the shed where Jake was incarcerated, and Jake, thus released, bounded out and knocked down a clothes-prop which supported a line of washing. The taxi-driver, shouting vituperations, gave chase, but was impeded by the fact that he did not like to trample all over the washing, and Jake (who had no such inhibition), always managed to be on the side where he was not. The third youngest child at first tried to help, but his father—rightly regarding him as the author of this contretemps—fetched him a clip on the ear in passing, which enraged him so much that he retired to the coal-heap, threw coals at everyone, and screamed. The fourth youngest child now appeared from somewhere, carrying the youngest child whom she set down on her father’s best nylon shirt so that she might take part in the pursuit; but at this moment, most unfortunately, the second youngest child emerged from the house with a kitten in her arms, and joined the youngest child on the nylon shirt, where it was very contentedly pushing coal into the pocket. In order to assist with this, the second youngest child put the kitten down, and the kitten wisely decided to withdraw from a scene of so much uproar; but alas, Jake had seen it, and as it whizzed through the kitchen door he was practically on its tail, and the taxi-driver, the children and Aunt Isabelle were practically on his.

Inside the kitchen, Jake lost no time in overturning a small table upon which was set a tray of cups and saucers, and the taxi-driver, in a lunge to avert this catastrophe, upset a bucket of water. The kitten leapt on to the window-sill, and Jake tried to follow it, but his legs became entangled with each other, and he fell heavily, bearing down with him the second youngest child, who was trying to rescue the kitten, and now raised her voice in such piercing sounds of distress that the third eldest child, who had been peacefully reading on the front verandah, dropped his comic, and hastened in to see what was happening. The kitten had by now taken refuge on the sink where the washing-up was piled, and as there was a chair adjacent, Jake managed to get up there too; but of course the kitten was immediately on the floor again, and Jake, in a rash attempt to emulate its graceful, feline leap, skidded on the draining-board, and fell into a greasy frying-pan.

The taxi-driver—as Aunt Isabelle freely conceded, when she was relating all this—did his best, but his difficulty was that wherever he set his foot, there was a child, a dog or a kitten beneath it. The third eldest child was more agile, and, seizing a broom, gained the sink, and proceeded to swipe at Jake with such effect that most of the crockery was dislodged, and fell to the floor with a crash which penetrated the virginal daydreams of the second eldest child who, however, was varnishing her nails, and did not wish to be disturbed. She therefore thrust her head through the bedroom window, which commanded a view of the next-door verandah, and yelled to the eldest child, who was there exchanging badinage with her boy-friend, that she better come and do something about the damn kids and the bloody dog before they wrecked the place. This summons was heard by the taxi-driver, and so enraged him that he took time off to burst in upon his daughter and demand why the hell she didn’t come and do something herself. The kitten, perceiving another open door, dashed through it, leapt upon the dressing-table, and upset the bottle of nail varnish so that Jake—who was the usual three jumps behind—received its contents on his back. The taxi-driver and his second eldest child dived to capture him, but he, feeling a sticky trickle between his shoulder-blades, braced his paws firmly, and shook himself with such vigour that they found themselves liberally bespattered with the varnish, which was of a deep magenta shade named Seduction.

Meanwhile, Aunt Isabelle had been borne into the passage upon a surge of children, and as the kitten emerged from the bedroom—closely followed by the incarnadined Jake—she, with great presence of mind, opened the front door, taking cover behind it as the hunt streamed through. When she stepped out on to the verandah, she found that the third eldest child (still armed with his broom) was dodging to and fro at the foot of the steps while Jake dodged to and fro at the top; the taxi-driver, emerging just behind her, saw the quarry thus momentarily and comparatively immobilised, made a grab at him, trod on some marbles belonging to the third youngest child, stumbled, and hit his nose against the verandah post, causing it to bleed profusely.

Aunt Isabelle says that from this moment his active participation in the affair ceased. He sat down on the top step to nurse his nose in his handkerchief, and for some little time her attention was necessarily concentrated upon him—for, as she explains, she is anxious to perfect her knowledge of the local idiom, and she was busy committing to memory certain words and phrases which she was later able to repeat to Henry, who advised her to forget them again. Presently, however, an increasing clamour caused her to look up, when she observed that the kitten had escaped over the fence into the street, and all the children of the taxi-driver, reinforced by half a dozen belonging to the neighbours, and also by the boy-friend of the eldest child, were now involved in the chase, so that no less than twenty-eight hands were trying to seize Jake (“. . . an attempt the most difficult, owing to the grease.”).

Proceedings were at this stage when the taxi-driver’s wife erupted through the front door, demanding shrilly of her husband whether she might not slip up the back lane to place a bet without all hell breaking loose, that damn dog, not a cup left, the floor swimming, talk about H-bombs, and what did he care if she had to do all the washing again? . . .

It was at this moment that Aunt Isabelle realised she held trumps. The fourth youngest child, and the third eldest had at last secured Jake by falling on him; they were all three lying in a heap, panting, and Jake’s expression conveyed very clearly that he had had a whale of a time, and would willingly have continued the entertainment had he not been too exhausted. Her heart went out to him. Here, without doubt, was the perfect companion for a spirited little boy. (“. . . for say what you will of Jacques, he possesses the élan, the joie de vivre, to a degree unparalleled.”)

She therefore tapped the taxi-driver on the shoulder, and got down to business.

“You wish to dispose of this animal—yes?”

She relates with the warmest admiration that he lifted his nose from his handkerchief, and said : “Five pounds.” She begs her hearers to consider this reply, for does it not, she asks, reflect that spirit which, in two world wars, earned for his countrymen the reputation of not knowing when they were sunk? It was magnifique. She saluted him. But she could not perceive the necessity for parting with five pounds, or even fivepence, so she addressed herself to the realistic sex, enquiring whether she was right in supposing that Madame would be prepared to part with this dog which, though handsome, and perhaps even valuable, seemed to require more room than he was here able to command? . . . Madame replied with intense feeling that she wanted neither hide nor hair of the great, clumsy galoot, and the sooner someone would take it out of her life, the better she would be pleased. Aunt Isabelle courteously expressed her satisfaction at finding herself in a position to gratify this wish; she would make no charge for removing the animal, but would be enchanted to do so as a favour to Monsieur and Madame. Monsieur would, of course, convey her—with her dog—to the railway station in his taxi, and if, in the circumstances, he insisted upon waiving the question of his fare, she would gracefully accept his generous gesture.

The taxi-driver looked up at her over his bloodied handkerchief, and said:

“Lady, you win.”

Aunt Isabelle arrived at the station in the best of spirits, for although the taxi-driver and his family were not engaged in taming the wilderness, they had provided her first encounter with the indigenous population in its native habitat, and she had found her brief encounter with them stimulating. Moreover, she was quite enraptured by Jake, and discerned in him qualities which clearly equipped him to play a major role in her pioneering drama. It was not only as a playmate for le petit Tony that he would prove invaluable. He would help Henri bring in the cows; he would defend the lonely farmhouse against bushrangers and maddened buffaloes—both of which had figured largely in the books she had consulted; and if Tony should become lost (a misfortune which these same authorities presented as practically routine for all small boys), he would guide searchers to the rescue. In short, one could not look at him, immature though he still was, and fail to recognise a dog destined for heroic adventures.

Her parting with the taxi-driver was amicable, for he had thought things over, and come to the conclusion that it was, after all, worth a good deal to have a few hundred miles between himself and Jake. So (not entirely without ulterior motive) he produced from his pocket a length of cord which he reckoned she might find handy for a lead, and then, having accepted the small pourboire which she thought proper to offer him, wished her luck, and drove away so fast that his tyres screamed.

Aunt Isabelle, retaining only her fur coat and a small suitcase, delivered the rest of her luggage into the hands of a porter, tied a handkerchief round Jake’s neck, fastened the cord to it, and made her way to the ticket window. Here a sharp-faced official sharply informed her that the last passenger train to Rothwell had departed ten minutes ago, and there would not be another till to-morrow at nine fifty-three; but in about an hour there would be a slow goods with one passenger coach attached, and she could go by that if she liked. Aunt Isabelle was delighted by the prospect of travelling in a goods train, and made haste to protest that if Monsieur contemplated providing a passenger coach solely for her convenience, it was most courteous of him, but quite unnecessary, for she would think nothing of making the journey in an open truck, particularly since she was accompanied by her dog which, though young, was of immense courage and devotion, and would with ferocity defend her against any outlaws who might hold up the train.

This was, of course, a bad blunder. The official, leaning forward to stare down at Jake with cold disapproval, replied that he didn’t know anything about anybody holding up trains, but passengers were pribbetted from travelling in trucks, and animals were pribbetted from travelling in passenger coaches, so if she didn’t want to pay no fines she better put the dog in the guard’s van, and if it bit the guard there’d be compensation.

This rocked Aunt Isabelle. She felt that such pernicketty niceness was misplaced in a rugged, pioneering land. But she immediately resolved that Jake should on no account be parted from her, so she cunningly beamed acquiescence, and declared that she would first take him for a little walk—accompanying these words with a glance so archly meaningful that the official was quite covered in confusion.

She then retired with Jake to the Ladies’ Room, and considered their perilous position. A moment’s reflection persuaded her that it would be advisable to assume a disguise, so she changed into her boots and boiler-suit; but as there seemed to be no way of disguising Jake, she realised that he must be concealed. Fortunately not many ladies had occasion to enter their sanctuary during the next hour, for he disliked being suddenly extinguished under the fur coat; however, in the intervals between these crises Aunt Isabelle began teaching him to beg, and as their acquaintance improved they found each other increasingly congenial, so the time passed pleasantly enough.

When the train at last came in, she took her suitcase in one hand, bundled Jake—swathed in the fur coat—under her other arm, and, after some wary reconnoitring, stepped out on to the platform, only to find herself confronting an ominous looking person in a peaked cap, who had suddenly emerged from another doorway. She did not falter (“. . . for, as we say in France, toujours l’audacel . . .”) but undoubtedly she owed much to her disguise; for the sharp-faced official had circulated among his colleagues a warning that an old girl would probably attempt, in contravention of By-Law No. 6889112, to sneak a dog into the passenger coach, and as a result of this, the peaked cap was keenly looking out for her. But the description with which he had been provided did not at all tally with her present appearance; nor was any dog visible. So his gaze passed over her without suspicion, if not without some small surprise occasioned by her curious gait. The fact was that Jake, struggling against suffocation with the strength of a mastiff, was slipping down from beneath her arm, thus compelling her to assume the role (“. . . for the theatricals I possess a natural gift. . .”) of one afflicted by lameness, convulsive spasms, and advanced curvature of the spine.

Thus she was able without molestation to find the passenger coach, and take possession of an unoccupied compartment. She observed the little door in one of its corners, and noted it as providing a last, desperate line of retreat, but judged it wiser for the moment to seat herself innocently by the window, with Jake—still firmly parcelled—on her lap. She opened the folds of the coat now and then, in case he should want to breathe, but dared not allow him to emerge, for the peaked cap was still vigilantly patrolling the platform.

It was not until the train was about to start that this person suddenly smelt a rat. No elderly lady of the kind described to him had appeared . . . but had there not been something fishy about that old bag with the boots . . . and the suitcase . . . and the lump of coat bundled beneath her arm? . . . Might not a suitcase contain a change of attire? . . . Might not a coat conceal a dog? . . . He began to stride purposefully towards the passenger coach, and Aunt Isabelle, who had been keeping a close eye on him, immediately recognised disaster.

There was nothing for it but the last ditch. Clutching Jake in her arms, she leapt for the little door, entered, slammed it, and shot the bolt home. But the situation was still extremely tricky, for Jake struggled free as she did so, and the notion of holding parley through the closed door, and indignantly denying all knowledge of a dog, could not, she feared, be seriously entertained in view of the fact that he was putting on a barking turn which suggested not one dog, but half a dozen. In that bitter moment, with defeat staring her in the face, her eyes lit on the basin, and the button above it which said : PUSH.

(“. . . I do not hesitate. I push. The basin descends itself. I seize Jacques. He is downside up, but what would you . . .? There is no time to make the adjustments. In my haste to close the basin, I nip his tail. This I regret, but freedom is all. It is done—he is safe. He is also silent; I think he is perhaps a little confused. With my heart between my teeth, I open carefully the door a small crack—and what meets my eyes? . . . Thrust through the window, I behold the head of the Persecutor!”)

Good, strong, dramatic stuff, no doubt—yet we feel that this title leans towards overstatement. True, the peaked cap promptly demanded what the lady had done with that there dog, but the question, aggressive as it was, emerged in a curiously apologetic tone. Aunt Isabelle was quick to detect this, and no less quick to understand the cause. (“. . . the prudishness of the Anglo-Saxon temperament is well known. . . .”) She therefore moved swiftly to attack, and was enquiring in an outraged voice whether, in this country, passengers of the female sex might not retire themselves without being subjected to vulgar intrusion, when a large, red-faced man appeared at the elbow of the now quite sheepish Persecutor, and signified his desire to enter the compartment.

Aunt Isabelle at once modified her role to meet this new situation. She now became a poor little old lady who, though courageously determined to resist oppression, was only with difficulty mastering her terror and restraining her tears. She bravely expressed astonishment that one whose duty it was to promote the comfort of travellers should, instead of opening the door for Monsieur, continue to incommode him by standing in the way and talking nonsense about dogs, when it must be evident to anyone in possession of his eyesight that the compartment was entirely innocent of dogs, unless, indeed, it was supposed that she had a dog packed in her suitcase, or concealed in her handbag, and as for the cabinet, she felt a certain natural delicacy, but if she were to be spared no humiliation let all the world observe for itself that no dogs whatever. . . .(“. . . and here I fling wide the door, but hearing that Jacques is now making some small squeaks, I begin to weep loudly, thus rendering them inaudible to our enemy. . . .”)

The effect of all this was excellent. The red-faced man, much moved by her distress, menacingly intervened, urging the peaked cap to stop worrying the lady, and shut his ruddy mouth, and take his big feet out of the way or he’d get them trod on by accident. The peaked cap—baffled, if unconvinced, and not really caring a hoot anyhow—withdrew, and Aunt Isabelle, tremulously smiling upon her champion, helped him to open the door and scramble in just as the train began to move.

So far, so good. But she was now in something of a predicament. (“. . . for I fear that le pauvre Jacques may be a little discomfortable. . . .”) However, remembering that l’audace had already served her well, she re-entered the cabinet extracted Jake from the basin, boldly conveyed him into the compartment, and set him down on the floor; meeting the astonished gaze of the red-faced man, she said genially: “Now we may all be happy together, isn’t it?”

No doubt her heart was once more between her teeth as she awaited his reaction, but it might as well have stayed in its appointed place. Mr. Benson (for by this name he presently introduced himself), let loose a tremendous bellow of laughter which quite reassured her—though Jake was so startled by the sudden eruption of sound that he yelped, and fell over backwards. But his courage, and his determination to examine even the more alarming phenomena of existence, overcame his apprehension; he righted himself, and staggered forward to investigate the fingers which Mr. Benson was invitingly snapping before his nose, and which immediately began to pat his head, tweak his ears, roll him over on his back, tickle his stomach, and pay him other attentions of an agreeable and stimulating nature. Aunt Isabelle, watching with the keenest pleasure, digested a new and valuable item of knowledge concerning local customs—namely, that anyone will, at any time, and with the warmest enthusiasm, assist anyone else to evade a regulation.

Very soon they were all friends. Aunt Isabelle diplomatically assured Mr. Benson that his presence was a great consolation to her, for she—being an old woman, and a stranger in a strange land—naturally welcomed the protection of a gentleman; particularly, she added, with an admiring glance at his burly shoulders, one who so clearly combined prodigious strength with a tender heart, and instincts the most chivalrous. Mr. Benson made modest noises, but was much gratified, and at once set about demonstrating the two latter qualities by lifting Jake on to the seat beside him, arranging Aunt Isabelle’s coat over her knees, and enquiring after her comfort with anxious solicitude.

Little is needed at any time to ensure Aunt Isabelle’s comfort save an opportunity to talk, so she truthfully declared that she had never felt cosier, and they became so engrossed in conversation that they ceased to pay any attention to Jake who, having found a small tear in the leather upholstery of the seat, occupied himself in making it larger, and pawing the stuffing out. Aunt Isabelle explained that she was going to join her niece and her nephew-by-marriage on their pineapple farm, and Mr. Benson revealed that he was a pineapple farmer himself. She begged him not to be misled by her fur coat and her diamond rings into imagining her to be an idle and pleasure-loving member of the haut monde, for these she had only brought with her so that they might be pawned, or sold, should a financial crisis arise in the affairs of her niece’s husband; and Mr. Benson replied judicially that, since such crises were regrettably common among pineapple farmers, he reckoned her niece’s husband would be real thankful to know there was something around he could pop.

As darkness fell, he produced from his pocket a large packet of ham sandwiches and a small flask, expressing the hope that she would share a bite and a little nip with him. She explained that her medical advisers ordained, much to her regret, that she must remain a teetotum, but she accepted a sandwich, and drank his health from the railway tumbler, filled from the railway carafe, afterwards inserting Jake’s nose into it so that he had a nice drink too. Mr. Benson voiced his concern at finding her unsupplied with food for so long a journey, and insisted upon presenting her with the sandwiches left over from their repast.

At length they all composed themselves for sleep, and in the small hours of the morning the train stopped at a little station where Mr. Benson prepared to alight, and Aunt Isabelle and Jake roused themselves to take leave of him. He declared that it had been a pleasure to make their acquaintance, and hoped that her nephew would get by without popping her rings, which he might if prices didn’t go any lower, and expenses didn’t go any higher, and he tarred his drains.

By now dawn was slowly merging into daylight, and Aunt Isabelle remained glued to her window, nibbling her sandwiches and eagerly observing the landscape, while Jake once more applied himself to worrying at the tear in the seat, and eating the stuffing he extracted from it. She was deeply interested in what she saw, for this was the kind of setting in which she was to enact her role of pioneer. She decided that the bananas were pineapples, and the sugar-cane was bananas, and the pineapples were prickly-pear, and deduced, after some cogitation, that the tall posts upon which the little houses stood were designed to protect the inhabitants from crocodiles. Throughout the rest of the journey the only people to invade her compartment were two schoolboys who avidly devoured science fiction, and had long ago ceased to find ordinary human beings and animals worthy of a second glance.

Thus, at about eleven o’clock on that Sunday morning of bright sun and gusty wind, the train at last drew into Rothwell.

Ken had driven into town an hour earlier to see a poultry farmer from whom he had arranged to take delivery of six bags of fowl manure for himself, and a dozen pullets for the Dawsons; when this business was concluded, he had parked Kelly near the railway yard while he dropped in on a mate of his who lived nearby, and who could always be depended upon to have a few bottles of beer on hand.

It will be recalled that Ken’s sister is married to a Rothwell policeman named Bert Jackson. It so happened that Bert, serenely pacing the streets in the course of duty, saw Ken take his leave of this friend after a pleasant and convivial interlude, and immediately fell a prey to the uneasiness with which the sight of his brother-in-law always afflicted him. He would have been the first, mind you, to admit that Ken carried his liquor well. Too well, in fact; for when a man is muzzy in his speech, wobbly on his legs, and behaving in an unbecoming manner, he is, for all the world to see, fair game for a copper. But Ken could sink incredible quantities without harm to his speech or his gait, and its effect upon his manner (which was to make him as solemn as an owl, and extremely dignified), merely gave him the appearance of being the only sober person in a bar full of boisterous yahoos. And yet—as his sister often bitterly remarked—you could be sure of trouble when Ken started behaving like a bishop.

So Bert, full of gloomy misgivings, crossed the road to investigate, and was inexpressibly relieved to find himself greeted with a genial: “Hi, there, Podge!” instead of the ceremonious : “Good morning, Jackson “which he had fearfully anticipated. Ken, he decided, was perhaps a trifle lit up, but by no means stinko. His satisfaction increased when he learned that his relative had no further business in Rothwell, and was about to set out for Dillillibill with his bags of manure and his crate of fowls.

“You want to watch out what you load on to that old tin can of yours,” he observed, “or it’ll fold up under you one day. Where’ve you left it?” He looked around rather nervously, for Ken is notoriously unable to read parking notices. The goods train had just pulled in, and a small crowd seemed to be gathering about someone or something on the station, but there was nothing to indicate a breach of the peace, so his gaze passed over it perfunctorily. He had seen a crowd gather round a dead goanna. Ken, with a negligent wave of his hand, explained that he had left his vehicle parked down there by the goods yard, and Bert, looking in that direction, blenched, and caught his breath sharply. Kelly was . . .

Well, you might say that Kelly was just standing there. You might add that an inanimate object constructed of rusting metal, dubious rubber and odd bits of timber secured by odd bits of wire could—God help it—do no other. Yet Bert—guardian as he was of law and order in Rothwell, and custodian of its fair reputation—felt his blood run cold. There wasn’t any regulation, he reflected uneasily, about having a crate of fowls in the back of your ute, and it’d be stretching things a bit, even on a Sunday, to say they were committing a nuisance by poking their heads through the slats and squawking; it was legitimate to carry bags of manure, though somehow they looked more noisome on Kelly than elsewhere; the owner of a parked vehicle couldn’t be blamed if the wind blew a ragged bit of hessian from the seat, and wrapped it round the steering-wheel so that it fluttered with a kind of shameless bravado, like a disreputable banner; and if he wanted to stuff an old pair of khaki shorts half under the bonnet to stop some of the rattles—well, he was within his rights. As for the kerosene tin standing under the radiator with water dribbling into it, you might think it was hardly decent, but you’d have your work cut out to prove it before a magistrate. Such things, Bert felt, would temporarily impair the dignity of even the most self-respecting ute, but Kelly had no dignity to start with, and these items added an almost unendurable touch of impudent squalor to an aspect already sufficiently outrageous. The object seemed to be leaning against a telegraph post—but that was probably because its offside wheels were in rather a deep gutter. It seemed to be squinting wickedly straight at him—but no doubt this was due to its one blind headlamp. It was obviously in the last stages of decrepitude, and yet—like many deadbeats and hoboes whom Constable Jackson had known, and now vividly recalled—the impression it conveyed of sly, rakish and rascally vitality was so powerful as to be frightening. He said in an awed voice:

“Blow me down, Ken, if that thing was human, I’d run it in! Parked, eh? To me it looks like it was loitering with intent. For Chrissake, feller, take it back to the farm, and keep it there!” He sketched a farewell gesture with a hint of panic in it, and his departure was a flight. Ken grinned at his retreating back, and went cheerfully on his way.

But by the time he had reached Kelly, he too had noticed the little crowd on the station, and since he had found that exciting events were frequently generated in crowds, he crossed the yard and the railway tracks, vaulted up on to the platform, and found himself looking over the heads of the bystanders at Aunt Isabelle and Jake.

Aunt Isabelle was in a spot of trouble. As she alighted from the train, Jake (being in considerable distress, and this time not only from lack of oxygen), had suddenly wriggled with such desperate violence that he fell out of the fur coat just as the stationmaster walked majestically by.

Now Mr. Brownlee cultivates a majestic tread because his position as the big shot at an important railway station like Rothwell clearly demands it, but he is, in fact, an easy-going bloke who always prefers to turn a blind eye upon minor infringements of the by-laws, since so many of them are always being infringed by everyone, and no harm seems to come of it, So he would have failed to notice Jake if it had been possible for him to do so. But of course Jake, being Jake, could not stand still and be sick where he fell; he had to stagger forward and be sick over Mr. Brownlee’s boot. Mr. Brownlee was therefore compelled to pause, and point out sternly that dogs were not allowed to travel with passengers.

Aunt Isabelle, who sometimes finds it helpful to be helplessly uncomprehending, chose to interpret his remarks as being admiring rather than admonitory, and affably agreed that this was, indeed, a remarkable dog, well born, what-you-say an aristocrat, and with a temperament the most docile, who had passed the entire journey sleeping quietly at her feet, and had no fleas at all. Mr. Brownlee replied coldly that, fleas or no fleas, he had no business travelling on the railway except in the manner permitted by the authorities, and Aunt Isabelle decided to fall back upon the pathetic-old-lady role which had already proved so successful. She therefore requested, with a quaver in her voice, that before she was haled to prison, she might first arrange for her niece to take charge of the faithful creature whose only crime had been to mount guard over her throughout the night, and discourage bandits from entering her compartment, and murdering her in her sleep.

Mr. Brownlee pondered this for a moment. He did not fail to note a contradictory element in her two statements, and he was by no means certain that Jake’s innocence was as spotless as she would have him believe; for, glancing down with distaste at his boot, he felt a strong suspicion that what he was seeing was damaged Government property. But a certain delicacy prevented him from pursing this aspect of the matter, and he wisely decided to refrain from entering into an argument about whether Jake had passed the night slumbering or keeping vigil. The point was that he shouldn’t have been there at all. In the end, however, he resolved not to harp on this either, for he was very conscious of the interested audience gathered about them, and well aware that his countrymen were, as a matter of principle, always against officialdom in any dispute. In fact, he had just heard Ken Mulliner remark to nobody in particular that you’d think an old lady could have a nice little pup like that to keep her company on an all-night journey without getting bullied, and threatened, and frightened out of her wits; and he had observed that Aunt Isabelle at once began to look very frightened indeed, and to dab her eyes with a handkerchief—a bit of business which was bringing indignant murmurs of sympathy from the onlookers. So he declared magnanimously that there was no question of immediate arrest, but she’d better not do it again.

Aunt Isabelle thanked him with great cordiality, and put her handkerchief away. She suggested that Monsieur le Chef de Gare might add to his kindness by telling her where she could find a conveyance to take her to the farm of her nephew-by-marriage, whose name was Henri Greefeeth, and who lived at a place called (and here she knit her brows in concentration as she enunciated each syllable with careful distinctness), Dee-lee-lee-beel. Ken pricked up his ears at this, and she—proud of having got her tongue round so strange a name—beamed at the assembled company, and caught his eye, which promptly winked at her. She was just about to wink back when Mr. Brownlee said that the Dillillibill bus didn’t meet the goods, so she’d better take a taxi.

This really wounded her. Already she had put up with a train only because it appeared that neither stage-coach nor covered waggon was available. Now she was far from the city—she was in The Bushes—she was Out the Back—she had changed into her boiler-suit—she was ready and agog to embrace hardships—and this species of a donkey talked about taxis!

Enough realism is enough. Aunt Isabelle was now dressed for romance, and romance she was going to have. Entirely ignoring Mr. Brownlee’s preposterous suggestion, she announced that the discomfort, the slow progress, the peril—all these were of no significance; she snapped her fingers of them. In some parts of this country, so she had been reliably informed, camels were employed as a means of transport, and she was quite prepared to travel by camel. If not by camel, then on horseback. She had been, in her time, a notable horsewoman. It was true, however, that her valuable dog, and her no less valuable luggage must be considered, so it might be more advisable to hire the services of a peasant with a cart; a mule-cart, perhaps . . .?

Mr. Brownlee, taken aback, protested that there were neither camels, mules nor peasants in Rothwell, and if there were any horses, which he doubted, not having set eyes on one since he didn’t know when, they were probably pulling pineapple slides, though most of the farmers used tractors nowadays; so the lady had better just go across to the taxi-rank and . . .

From the outer rim of the crowd, a voice said helpfully:

“There’s the bullock team.”

A dozen pairs of incredulous eyes swivelled towards Ken Mulliner, and then exchanged among themselves glances which said you could always trust Ken to come up with some remark that was just plain nuts, but which seemed to borrow from its context a kind of maddeningly elusive logic. For although it was true that there were no camels, no mules and very few horses in Rothwell, there was a bullock team. The owners of the eyes considered that this was one too many, for they were not romantic, and had no patience with relics of the past; they were also well aware that, in spite of the fact that it did haul logs to the mill now and then, its main functions were to impede motor traffic, and to be photographed by tourists. Never before, in the whole history of the town, had anyone so much as hinted that it might be employed as a vehicle for the conveyance of passengers. Yet Mr. Brownlee had left hanging in the air a suggestion that camels, mules and horses must be ruled out simply because there didn’t happen to be any around, and this seemed to leave Ken with quite a strong case for the bullock team. The thought flickered across several minds that it was no wonder he started arguments and won bets in bars, for a clear head was needed to keep up with him.

Aunt Isabelle, however, was entranced. She turned her back on Mr. Brownlee, waved the intervening citizenry aside, and advanced upon Ken, who stood with his thumbs in his belt, and beamed down at her from under what remained of his army hat.

The manner in which soul-mates recognise each other is a mystery. Probably it is a question of wave-lengths. At all events, as these two stood face to face, a powerful current of something or other leapt between them, shedding a rain of sparks in passing upon Jake, who at once began to plunge about between their feet as though electrically charged, and to exhibit every symptom of having discovered the very source of rapture.

Aunt Isabelle, with great animation, expressed her gratitude for so excellent a suggestion, and begged that Monsieur would be kind enough to direct her—or, better still, escort her—to the beefs. And Ken—with the current shooting red-hot streaks of remorse into his heart—explained in great haste that now he came to think of it, the bullock team was out, because the bloke that owned it had got bitten by a taipan only that morning; and besides this, the bullocks had stampeded last night, and broken out of their yard on account of hearing the booming cry of a bunyip from the scrub—this being a thing which no bullock can endure. But it happened that he himself lived at Dillillibill, and if the lady liked, he’d be glad to give her a lift. . . .

A murmur of horror and protest arose from the bystanders, but Aunt Isabelle, firmly in the grip of the current, abandoned the bullock team without a pang, and enquired eagerly:

“You have a cart—yes?”

“I got Kelly,” replied Ken with simple pride.

Aunt Isabelle’s reference books had neglected to inform her of Kellys, but her faith in Ken was already absolute. She had no difficulty at all in placing him. He was not a peasant, this one; no, he was unmistakably a soldier. In her youth, during the First World War, had she not seen hundreds like him—and even, as she tenderly recalled, enjoyed a flirtation the most amusing and delightful with one of them? It was, she said (with a glance which owed something to this charming memory), most amiable and obliging of Monsieur to extend so kind an invitation; she would be happy to accept it. She drew his attention to Jake. “My dog may be accommodated in the Kelly, isn’t it? And my portmanteaux? And my hatbox?”

“Bring ’em all on,” Ken told her encouragingly. “I got some hens and fowl manure aboard, but Kelly can shift a ton load, easy.” His eyes wandered over the crowd, from which certain jeering sounds, and offensive guffaws had come, and he asked hopefully : “Anyone want to argue? . . .” No one did, so he turned with a brief sigh to a junior member of the railway staff, and instructed him to fetch the lady’s luggage, and bring it across to Kelly, and handle it careful if he didn’t want to get tonked.

The audience was then privileged to behold a little scene of the kind which barmy people can put on at a moment’s notice. Aunt Isabelle advanced one step, contriving, despite her boots and her boiler-suit, to look like a lady about to tread a measure with her cavalier; Ken made a half-turn, removed his revolting hat, bent slightly at the waist, and offered her the curve of his elbow, into which she delicately placed her bejewelled fingers. As they moved with grace and ceremony towards the edge of the platform, Mr. Brownlee bethought himself of urgent business in his office, whither he quickly retired, and through its window watched Ken illegally making his way across the railway lines with Aunt Isabelle on one arm, and Jake beneath the other. A row of trucks, one of which was full of young pigs, had just been shunted into a siding, and exactly what happened when they passed out of sight behind these, no one really knows. But there was a clang of metal, followed by porcine squeals and canine yelps, after which they reappeared, moving with quiet dignity towards the gates, and the goods yard was suddenly alive with dementedly charging piglets. Ken—grave and aloof as a whole bench full of judges—ignored the resulting commotion and, having introduced Kelly to Aunt Isabelle (who clasped her hands and exclaimed how it was beautiful), gave his whole attention to the task of replenishing the radiator.

Constable Jackson was by now a quarter of a mile away. The first he knew of the affair was when, as he turned a corner, a pigling charged between his legs, and he observed three others scampering across the road. His wife has told us (in strict confidence, for everyone has agreed that there must have been something wrong with the fastenings of the truck, and accidents will happen), that he immediately said to himself: “Ken—or I’m a Dutchman!” No sooner had he formulated this thought than Kelly came into view, doing a brisk forty, and pursuing an erratic course among the piglets, whose numbers multiplied with every second. To the metallic rattles of its superstructure, the paroxysmal coughings of its engine, and the continuous blaring of its singularly discordant horn were added the congratulatory cries of Aunt Isabelle as each pig was successfully avoided, and the frenzied barking of Jake, who was straining on his leash in an attempt to hurl himself out and pursue them.

It was Aunt Isabelle who first spied Constable Jackson standing transfixed on the edge of the footpath, and she at once drew Ken’s attention to the presence of a gendarme, suggesting that it might be prudent to take a side turning before they reached him; but Ken, far from acting upon this advice, steered Kelly to the kerb, pulled up beside his relative, and expressed in strong terms his disapprobation of a police force which permitted pigs to infest the streets, endangering the traffic, and violating the Sabbath peace. He then said : “Giddap!” to Kelly, who roared, bucked, leapt convulsively into motion once more, and tore off along the road to Dillillibill, leaving behind a trail of water, a trail of petrol and a fuming policeman.

Very soon Ken was being regaled by his passenger with an account of her adventures. This made him laugh so heartily that he was unable to give adequate attention to Kelly’s rather eccentric steering-gear, and the amusing things which consequently happened on curves and corners interrupted Aunt Isabelle’s narrative, and made her laugh so much that Ken laughed harder than ever. Although the streets of the town had been almost bare of traffic, the road was quite busy with carloads of picnickers, surfers, fishermen, bowlers and tennis players hastening to their sundry appointments. Kelly’s approach caused eyes to bulge, mouths to fall open, and heads to crack round on craning necks as it shot past; this was not merely because of its normal peculiarities, but because certain physical phenomena are produced by a very high concentration of barminess, and it was travelling in a shimmer of blue light which emitted, from time to time, small puffs of mushroom-shaped cloud.

It was by now obvious to Ken that his new friend, like himself, did not see eye to eye with those who prefer their journeys to be characterised by safety, comfort and uneventfulness, and—-being one who truly understood the art of hospitality—he resolved that while she was in his charge, these trials should not be inflicted on her if he could help it. So he took advantage of the next brief silence when she was drawing breath, to warn her that Constable Jackson was a malignant and revengeful nark who could not take a joke, and who would certainly send a posse out after them.

Greatly stimulated by this intelligence, Aunt Isabelle professed herself ready for any measures which he might think proper, and warmly applauded his suggestion that they should throw their pursuers off the trail by leaving the main road, and proceeding to Dillillibill by a dangerous and unfrequented route. So presently Ken turned off the bitumen on to a steep horror-stretch which is locally known as The Goat Track, and, bidding her hold on tight to whatever she could find, put Kelly into bottom gear, and began to negotiate chasms and boulders with reckless, but skilful abandon.

Now the only person who uses The Goat Track nowadays is Jeff Jenkins, who has the misfortune to own a farm to which it is the sole access, and who, consequently, has come to regard it as being, though a poor thing, exclusively his own. It so happened that he had chosen to employ that morning in making it a little more trafficable, and to this end he had fixed a plug of gelignite into one of the solid rock bars which traverse it at intervals, and had just lit the fuse when he heard Kelly approaching. In great alarm, he ran down to the corner, and stood there yelling and waving his arms in a manner which looked so threatening that Aunt Isabelle at once assumed they were being held up by a bushranger. Unluckily, Ken and Jeff had not been on the best of terms since Ken cut in on Jeff and his girl-friend at the last Masonic Ball, and took her for a drive in Kelly which lasted until three in the morning. So the genial greeting which would have quickly disabused Aunt Isabelle of her notion was lacking; indeed, she can hardly be blamed for finding herself confirmed in her belief by the determined way in which Jeff commanded them to halt, and the truculence with which Ken—continuing to urge Kelly forward—invited Jeff to stop them if he could.

Filled with admiration for her companion’s intrepid behaviour, and eager to make it clear that she entirely supported him in his defiance, she began to offer verbal encouragement, but was forced to scream it because Ken and Jeff were both bawling, Jake was barking, the hens were squawking, and Kelly in bottom gear must be heard to be believed. Consequently, no one understood a word of what anyone else was saying, except that Aunt Isabelle did hear Ken demand with passion whether the ruddy drongo thought he owned the flaming road. He then sounded three tremendous blasts on the horn, and trod hard on the accelerator. Kelly, gladly responding, plunged forward and upward over the rocks and gutters with so much goodwill that Jake was hurled bodily into the air, and came down on top of the rocking crate with a broken lead dangling from his neck.

In the circumstances one could hardly have censured Jeff if he had shrugged, and left them to their fate. But he jumped on the running-board as it went bucking past him, and attempted direct action where persuasion had failed. Not unnaturally, Ken resented this move, but there was little he could do about it except yell threats, and poke Jeff fiercely in the ribs with his elbow, because he needed both hands to keep Kelly away from the twenty-foot drop at the side of the road.

Aunt Isabelle, however, was free to act. She saw Jeff’s desperate manœuvre as blatant and unprovoked aggression which she, as a good democrat, was bound to resist with every means at her disposal. Apart from her fluent tongue—which she continued to employ without pause—the only means at her disposal seemed to be a large pineapple which was lying on the seat for no particular reason except that in this district there usually is a pineapple lying around somewhere. It was a good, solid Fifteen, and, grasped by its green top knot, made a very passable blackjack, as Jeff discovered when it descended with considerable force on his head. He abruptly disappeared. Kelly continued to plunge forward. Ken, delighted with the manner in which his companion had acquitted herself, shouted : “Attagirl!” Aunt Isabelle, much elated, gazed back, waving her pineapple over her head in triumph, and crying : “A bas, le Drongo!” As they turned the next corner she had a last glimpse of Jeff sitting in the middle of the road, and staring after them. His hands were clasped tightly over his ears, and his face was strangely screwed up. It crossed her mind fleetingly that he looked like someone waiting for something to explode.

Facing the front again, and observing that Kelly was about to tackle a kind of rocky staircase, she had barely time to exclaim : “Allons, mon ami, courage! En avant!” before the road blew up.

We are happy to say that it blew up behind them. Kelly has passed unscathed over many nasty bits of highway by adhering to the simple rule that the best way to be sure of getting anywhere is to keep going as fast as possible; and on this occasion it had kept going just long, and just fast enough. Even now it would have kept on going if Ken had not been so startled that he stalled the engine just as it was successfully climbing up a step some fifteen inches high. Disgusted, it uttered a raucous snarl, and stopped short with a jolt that lifted its passengers high into the air. Ken and Aunt Isabelle, having come down again, sat still on a seat now leaning backward like a dentist’s chair; Jake lay still on a manure bag, more than ever at a loss to understand the whimsicalities of existence; Kelly stood still, emitting deep breaths of steam from its boiling radiator. For one long, long second, before a rain of small stones, earth and assorted debris descended on them, there was an oddly peaceful silence.

Then, sharply ejaculating : “Suffering snakes!” Ken leapt out and tore back down the hill towards the corner. Obviously, thought Aunt Isabelle, he was going to chastise the bushranger, who, having failed to halt them by intimidation, had hurled a grenade at them, and richly deserved his punishment. Anxious not to miss this interesting spectacle, she clambered hastily out of her seat, and was preparing to follow when she perceived developments on the spot which needed her attention.

At some stage of the journey, the rusty wire securing the hinged flap at the rear end of the tray had burst asunder; the crate of fowls had slid bumpily backward during Kelly’s essay at mountaineering; the jar of their halt had precipitated it on to the road; and the impact of its fall had broken two slats. Through the escape route thus provided, the hens were emerging in great disorder, and Jake was in the act of leaping joyously into their midst. It will be recalled that Aunt Isabelle was prepared to lean heavily upon inherited instinct for guidance in her rural life—and rightly so, for she now heard its voice urgently proclaiming that fowls were property, and property must at all times be sedulously guarded. So she seized one of the hens, thrust it back into the crate, and turned to seize another. Alas, they came out faster than she could put them in; to this day she repudiates Ken’s assertion that there were only a dozen, and stoutly maintains that she counted twenty-two before they foiled her by adopting a a policy of dispersal. At last she saw with consternation that they were making for the scrub on the lower side of the road. (“. . . where, being now a little fatigued by my efforts, I feared I could not pursue them with any hope of success.”)

Jake, of course, was not at all fatigued, and entertained no doubt of his ability to capture the absconders, so she was relieved to see Ken reappear, carrying a bucket of water. This he hurriedly placed on the ground as she shrieked an appeal to him, and was just in time to grab Jake by the tail as he prepared to leap from the bank into a thicket of impenetrable lantana. As he dumped his captive back into the ute, and re-knotted the broken lead, Aunt Isabelle perceived that there was blood upon his hand. She enquired with interest:

“You have killed the Drongo?”

Ken blinked. His interview with Jeff had passed from exclamations, questions, reassurances and handsome apologies to cordial handshakes, back-slappings, expressions of mutual esteem, and fervent agreement that the sheila didn’t live that two good blokes like themselves wouldn’t be mugs to fight over. But he now reflected that since Fate had not only so admirably seconded his efforts to provide entertainment for his passenger, but had also prevented her from witnessing this scene of rapprochement, it would be a bit tough to spoil her fun with an anti-climax by revealing that the blood came from his own wrist, which had got in the way of an unguided missile, and that Jeff was enjoying (apart from a slight headache) his usual robust health.

So he replied that although bare-handed slaughter had indeed been his intention, he had spared the life of the poor coot on discovering him to be dingbats. Aunt Isabelle demanded: “Qu’est ce que c’est—dingbats?” Ken explained that he meant off his kadoover. She enquired: “Qu’est ce que c’est—kadoover?” He tried again with loopy as a snake, and she asked : “Qu’est ce que c’est—loopy?” So he gave up, and tapped his forehead with his finger, at which she, a trifle offended, declared that if he meant nuts, he should say nuts, for of the idiomatic English she possessed a command the most extensive.

She then went on to explain the disappearance of the fowls, and assured Ken that he need not fear for the safety of Kelly while he went in search of them, for if the Drongo should attempt another assault, she and Jake would resolutely defend it. But Ken was beginning to be hungry, and he did not want to be bothered chasing fowls which would, no doubt, find their way down to Jeff’s place, where he could later collect them at leisure. So he pointed out that the scrub around here was that thick a dog couldn’t bark in it, and he might hunt the perishing things for a week without getting a sight of them, so he reckoned the best move would be to kiss them good-bye, and make tracks for home. Aunt Isabelle was very scandalised by this, and began to deliver a homily on thriftlessness which Ken feared might go on indefinitely; so he said he hadn’t wanted to alarm her, but the fact was that every one of those fowls would be by now quite beyond recovery, for the scrub teemed with pythons which enjoyed nothing better than a nice, fat pullet. This certainly stopped the homily, but inspired, instead, pleas that he would at once conduct her to see a python, and he was only able to check these by reminding her that the lunatic might return during their absence, and commit an act of sabotage upon Kelly.

So she regretfully took her seat again, and Ken—having filled the radiator, and left the bucket by the side of the road for Jeff to pick up—took his. Kelly coughed, shuddered, heaved and got under way again. Aunt Isabelle asked hopefully whether they were likely to encounter any more adventures, and Ken said he thought not, unless the posse should be lying in ambush for them at the top of The Goat Track; but when they reached this spot, and came again on to the highway, there was no one to be seen except a small group of Dillillibill citizens making their way home from Church. Kelly put on a nice turn of speed, but it was long after midday when they turned into Lantana Lane, and drew up at last outside the Griffiths’ gate. Aunt Isabelle, with glad cries of: “Suzanne! Henri! Mes enfants! “soon made her presence known, and, as we have already related, became the centre of a scene so tumultuous and confusing that Dick and Marge could only look on in amazement, until stray words emerging from the hubbub revealed that this was a family reunion of some kind. They then made tactful movements of withdrawal which were quickly circumvented by Aunt Isabelle, who declared, embracing them both, that the friends of her niece were also her friends, and it was charming of them to be here to welcome her, and of course they would stay to luncheon which she herself would help Sue to prepare, for it must not be thought that she expected to lead a life of luxury and idleness in her new home, au contraire, she had come prepared to play her part as they could see from her boiler suit which, though perhaps lacking in chic, was most suitable for labour in the fields, and in her luggage she had also a peasant scarf which had descended to her from her great-great-great-grandmother whose husband had been a vigneron, but it would serve equally well, no doubt, among the pineapples.

At this moment her thunderstruck audience became aware of the ear-splitting racket which, as the Lane well knows, means that Kelly is starting up. Ken was giving them all a wave of his hand as he prepared to drive off, but Aunt Isabelle, with a scream, rushed at him, plucked him from his seat, and introduced him to his neighbours as her very dear friend, Moolliner, who had conveyed her safely to her destination through many perils, having not only intervened to save her from imprisonment, and outwitted the gendarmes sent in pursuit of them, but also courageously defended her during an encounter with a dingbats Drongo. She added, cackling wickedly, that had she been younger, he would himself have constituted a perilous adventure on a road so unfrequented, and it now gave her great pleasure to present him to her niece, who would naturally insist that he join them at luncheon. Poor Sue was by this time so dazed that when the graceless Ken solemnly offered her his hand, she actually said: “How do you do?” but came to her senses in time to slap it away instead of shaking it, and bid him scram before she hit him on the head with the mincer.

Aunt Isabelle now turned her attention to Tony and Jake, who were rolling about on the grass together, enjoying a mock battle, and proudly invited everyone to admire the valuable, frolicsome and intelligent dog which she had brought as a gift for her little cabbage. Everyone complied, and Marge—having rubbed her eyes and looked more closely, said in a weak voice that she loved Boxers, but she hadn’t ever seen one with spots before . . . and weren’t they an unusual colour? . . . Aunt Isabelle was just beginning to explain about the nail varnish when Jake got through Tony’s guard, and seized a tempting bit of shirt-tail which had escaped from its retirement during the scuffle. There was one of those horrible, rending sounds which women hate to hear. Sue uttered a cry of dismay. Tony sat up, inspected the tatters which now most inadequately draped his person, and said consolingly, like the kind little boy that he is : “Pipe down, Mum; it’s only an old one.”

But Jake, rudely recalled from the simple world of dogs and children to one which the bewildering commands and tabus of the larger humans always made so difficult, was alarmed to find himself surrounded by a ring of these creatures—all staring at him in an unsympathetic way which was dreadfully familiar. With his head on one side, his forehead painfully wrinkled, and a ragged fragment of khaki cloth depending from his jaws, he stood and returned their gaze, his expression eloquent of sad, anxious and puzzled enquiry. Tony—who had frequently been the target of similiar stares—understood at once just how he felt, and hastened to the defence, protesting : “Gee whiz, he’s only a puppy, Mum!” And he added that phrase which was, alas, to be so often on his tongue thereafter : “He didn’t understand. . . he never meant to do it! “

All the creatures immediately perceived how true this was. Sue’s heart melted in her breast. She fell on her knees, gathered the culprit into her arms, and cried:

“Isn’t he sweet?”

Little she knew.