Part 26 (1/2)

”Quite true, my Polly. None the less, it looks as if I were in for a run of real bad luck, all along the line.”

Chapter IV

One hot morning some few days later, Polly, with Trotty at her side, stood on the doorstep shading her eyes with her hand. She was on the look-out for her ”vegetable man,” who drove in daily from the Springs with his greenstuff. He was late as usual: if Richard would only let her deal with the cheaper, more punctual Ah Sing, who was at this moment coming up the track. But Devine was a reformed character: after, as a digger, having squandered a fortune in a week, he had given up the drink and, backed by a hard-working, sober wife, was now trying to earn a living at market-gardening. So he had to be encouraged.

The Chinaman jog-trotted towards them, his baskets a-sway, his mouth stretched to a friendly grin. ”You no want cabbagee to-day? Me got velly good cabbagee,” he said persuasively and lowered his pole.

”No thank you, John, not to-day. Me wait for white man.”

”Me bling pleasant for lilly missee,” said the Chow; and unknotting a dirty nosecloth, he drew from it an ancient lump of candied ginger.

”Lilly missee eatee him ... oh, yum, yum! Velly good. My word!”

But Chinamen to Trotty were fearsome bogies, corresponding to the swart-faced, white-eyed chimney-sweeps of the English nursery. She hid behind her aunt, holding fast to the latter's skirts, and only stealing an occasional peep from one saucer-like blue eye.

”Thank you, John. Me takee chowchow for lilly missee,” said Polly, who had experience in disposing of such savoury morsels.

”You no buy cabbagee to-day?” repeated Ah Sing, with the catlike persistence of his race. And as Polly, with equal firmness and good-humour, again shook her head, he shouldered his pole and departed at a half-run, crooning as he went.

Meanwhile at the bottom of the road another figure had come into view.

It was not Devine in his spring-cart; it was some one on horseback, was a lady, in a holland habit. The horse, a piebald, advanced at a sober pace, and--”Why, good gracious! I believe she's coming here.”

At the first of the three houses the rider had dismounted, and knocked at the door with the b.u.t.t of her whip. After a word with the woman who opened, she threw her riding-skirt over one arm, put the other through the bridle, and was now making straight for them.

As she drew near she smiled, showing a row of white teeth. ”Does Dr.

Mahony live here?”

Misfortune of misfortunes!--Richard was out.

But almost instantly Polly grasped that this would tell in his favour.

”He won't be long, I know.”

”I wonder,” said the lady, ”if he would come out to my house when he gets back? I am Mrs Glendinning--of Dandaloo.”

Polly flushed, with sheer satisfaction: Dandaloo was one of the largest stations in the neighbourhood of Ballarat. ”Oh, I'm certain he will,”

she answered quickly.

”I am so glad you think so,” said Mrs. Glendinning. ”A mutual friend, Mr. Henry Oc.o.c.k, tells me how clever he is.”

Polly's brain leapt at the connection; on the occasion of Richard's last visit the lawyer had again repeated the promise to put a patient in his way. Oc.o.c.k was one of those people, said Richard, who only remembered your existence when he saw you.--Oh, what a blessing in disguise had been that troublesome old land sale!

The lady had stooped to Trotty, whom she was trying to coax from her lurking-place. ”What a darling! How I envy you!”

”Have you no children?” Polly asked shyly, when Trotty's relations.h.i.+p had been explained.

”Yes, a boy. But I should have liked a little girl of my own. Boys are so difficult,” and she sighed.

The horse nuzzling for sugar roused Polly to a sense of her remissness.

”Won't you come in and rest a little, after your ride?” she asked; and without hesitation Mrs. Glendinning said she would like to, very much indeed; and tying the hone to the fence, she followed Polly into the house.