Chapter XVIII The Regatta
Cuninghame wore an air of unwonted festivity. There were flags flying from the stores and hotels, and from many of the private houses; little pennons fluttering at the mastheads of the sailing-boats that were dotted all along the shore. All over the lagoon could be seen other boats, arriving: yachts, motor-launches, smart skiffs, skiffs that were not smart, and ancient tubs bound from every little lake settlement or lonely farm. For this was the day on which Cuninghame burst into clouds of glory, and drew unto itself crowds that turned it into something between a whirlpool and an excited ant-heap. It is only on one day in the year that Cuninghame holds its regatta, and the occasion is one to be treated with respect.
New Year’s Day had been fixed originally for the great event: but the Clerk of the Weather had been singularly tactless, and had ushered in the New Year with such deluges of rain that hurried telegrams had been sent to Sale and Bairnsdale and other district towns, postponing the regatta; and hundreds of would-be excursionists had unpacked their luncheon-baskets and remained at home. But to-day was to make amends for all disappointments. Rain had fallen, just enough to clear the air and secure the very perfection of autumn weather, while laying the dust on the roads for the folk who rode and drove. The sands were dry and firm: the hummocks shone white against the sky, across the lagoon. There was just enough breeze for sailing—enough to dot the lake with tiny wavelets, gleaming and dancing in the sun. Just to look at that blue, restless surface was enough to set the heart dancing, too.
The Macleods came early, since Garth’s impatience was a thing not to be gainsaid. He had never seen a regatta, and the stories told him by the young O’Connors had set him dreaming of nothing else for weeks past. Soon after breakfast he arrayed himself, emerging from his room shining and speckless in white duck, with white sand-shoes and bare brown legs, and a white felt hat held in readiness. After which, his attitude began with sublime patience, which collapsed after a time and merged into trenchant inquiries as to why people couldn’t be ready as soon as he was, and lugubrious certainty that they were missing all the best of the fun. Eventually they found themselves driving into the township quite an hour earlier than they had thought of starting, while Horrors, on Jane, jogged in the rear, and wondered how soon he might begin to eat the enormous packet of lunch with which he had been provided.
Early as they were, the O’Connors were before them. It was a day of which no young O’Connor was willing to miss a minute. What was it to them that the regatta itself did not really begin—save for a few sailing races, which nobody noticed—until one o’clock? Was there not all the unusual stir and bustle of the town to see?—the gay shops, decked for the occasion with brave displays of fruit and sweets and cakes, to tempt hungry picnickers; the gallant array of boats, glistening with new paint and varnish, and as bright as “elbow-grease” would make them: the crowds arriving from all the countryside by land and water—people they knew, to greet and by whom to be greeted—schoolfellows, curiously unfamiliar in their best clothes—school teachers, even more curiously human and approachable, and not at all suggesting the week-day discipline of desk and ruler? Not a yard of the esplanade was without its excitements. There were the summer visitors from the houses that were shuttered and gloomy all the winter, and from the tiny cottages under the hummocks across the lagoon, owned by people from Sale and Bairnsdale, who lived a camping existence from Christmas until Easter, with the breakers pounding almost at their back doors. These considered themselves part and parcel of the place, as indeed they were, and looked with something of disparagement at the folk from Melbourne and Sydney who filled the hotels, and who might never come again, and who, at the best, lived a luxurious and pampered life, and did not know the joys of a picnic existence, with no servants and no worries—every one working in the same way, and every one ready for every kind of fun, from big surf-bathing parties or moonlight swims in the lake, to rushing over the hummocks in a body to lend a hand with the hauling of a shoal of salmon brought in through the breakers. Then there were other visitors—blacks from the Lake Tyers Mission Station; principally lithe young men keen on taking part in the regatta, with a sprinkling of older men, and a few young women and boys. They moved here and there among the crowd on noiseless bare feet.
Never had the O’Connor family looked so resplendent. Nick, to begin with, was a majestic figure in his best suit, with a “boiled” shirt, and a tartan tie which appeared only on great occasions. Bertha and Polly were in fresh washing frocks, and the boys in suits of blue-striped galatea, very smart and summer-like. But ’Possum, in Aileen’s Christmas gift of the dress that was like the inside of a shell, tall and slender, her face half-eager and half-shy, was an unfamiliar figure at whom many people turned to glance. Never before had ’Possum been to a regatta, and her inward excitement was almost as keen as Garth’s. “The kids always went,” she had told Aileen. “I didn’t. The old dungarees didn’t seem to fit in.”
To-day no one “fitted in” better than ’Possum: and Nick O’Connor found himself casting glances of pride at his brood, while mothers from “up the lake” gazed upon the O’Connor tribe with blank amazement, and came to the conclusion that Nick must have found a gold-mine on the farm. “Not that the whole lot of them dresses ain’t cheaper than my Albert’s plush,” said one matron, regarding her son’s green sailor suit of that opulent material, with its lace collar. “But it ain’t exactly that—on’y they look like toffs!”
They all lunched together at the buggies, in the shade of some gum trees—hurriedly, for the children wanted to see the steamers come in from Sale and Bairnsdale, with their big crowds of excursionists. The first far-off hoot came just as they had finished, and they hurried to the packed wharf. Across the lagoon, at the Entrance wharf, the steamer was discharging a throng of the people to whom regattas are nothing, but the open sea and the Ninety-Mile Beach everything—townsfolk, weary of the long summer, and longing for the sands and the clean breeze from the ocean. They pressed up the steps leading to the hummocks, a black swarm. Then the steamer came slowly across the little strip of water to Cuninghame, her decks still dark with people. She was gaily decked with flags, and on her bows could be seen girls in light summer frocks, like a fluttering garden. Faint at first, but gradually growing louder and louder, a band was playing a swinging waltz: the music chimed in with the plash of the water as the boat slackened speed and churned her way to the wharf. Impatient boys sprang ashore without waiting for the gangway to be lowered; then the great plank came down and the excursionists trooped across it, gay and chattering; some laden with rugs and luncheon-hampers, while others had prudently saved time by lunching on board during the long trip through the lakes—a plan fraught with danger, since people were crowded like sardines in a tin, and an unwary movement of a neighbour was apt to send tea-cups flying. But then no one ever minded such insignificant occurrences on a lake excursion. When you rise at six o’clock, drive some miles to a boat that starts at eight, with a five hours’ water-journey each way, for the sake of three hours on the beach,—what is a spilt tea-cup?
The regatta went along merrily, after the manner of regattas: wildly interesting to those directly concerned, and of mild excitement to outsiders. There were yacht races, in which the boats departed into the horizon, and were promptly forgotten by the spectators; fishermen’s boat-races, which drew a crowd at the finish; and skiff-races, which, being shorter, held the attention all the time, and evoked great cheering from the backers of the competitors. Tom entered for one of the latter combats, but was ignominiously defeated by a young fisherman and a black fellow from Lake Tyers, behind whom he paddled in meekly, much to Garth’s disgust.
“I don’t believe they played fair!” said the small boy gloomily.
“Don’t you say that!” said his father sharply, and then relented at the amazed face.
“It doesn’t do, old man,” Tom continued. “When a fellow is beaten, he takes his gruel like a decent chap; and he doesn’t abuse the other fellow. Do you imagine, too, that your old city-bred father had any chance against men who have been on the lakes all their lives?”
“Well, you used to be in the eight at Trinity College,” said Garth sadly.
“When I was young. And pulling in a racing-shell isn’t the same as in one of these tubs—as you will find out later on. Cheer up, old chap; there’s a small boy’s foot-race coming off, I hear.”
There was, and Garth, being a long-legged person of great fleetness, won it: and was immediately stricken with remorse at having beaten little Joe, to whom he apologized for the year’s seniority that gave him the victory. Joe was philosophic, and forgot races and defeat altogether when Garth suggested that they should adjourn to one of the stores and find out what sweets those emporiums stocked. They reappeared later with bulging cheeks and impeded utterance, and took up positions as spectators with renewed joy.
Two sides were playing water-polo—scrambling in ten feet of water for a gaily-painted bladder, which ducked and bobbed in the waves like a live thing. It was an exciting game, and caused helpless mirth among the spectators, when a confident player, racing with the ball for goal, found his leg grasped by an opponent who had dived below him, and was dragged, spluttering and furious, under the surface; or when the assailant, rising triumphant with the ball, felt another leap bodily upon him, so that they disappeared together, while the ball rocked gaily away. Luck and pluck counted almost equally in it, and the victory was apt to go to those who had swallowed least salt water. Then came a race for men mounted astride on barrels, who propelled them through the water with their hands and feet; which was easy enough when the movements were careful, but the excitement of the finish caused the riders to paddle frantically, whereupon their steeds rolled over promptly, and there were wild scenes of catching and remounting, while a boy, who had prudently gone slowly, paddled in alone as the winner—unnoticed by the other competitors, who continued to scramble and tussle for their slippery steeds, filling the air with the tumult of their remarks, while the spectators rocked with laughter. Finally it was brought home to them, through the gentle medium of a megaphone, that the race had been over for some time, when they dispersed, much crestfallen. The crowd, very happy, sought further diversion.
“You’ve got to go in for the umbrella race, ’Possum,” said Tom.
“Not me!” said ’Possum firmly.
“You must,” Tom rejoined. “I’ve borrowed the lightest little dinghy you ever saw for you, and the biggest umbrella. It belongs to old Pa Smith, and it’s like a tent.”
“I say!” ejaculated ’Possum, staring. Pa Smith was known to disapprove of borrowing or of lending. He was a dour old man, farming a good piece of land near the township; and no person in the district was less likely to do another a favour. Hence ’Possum’s amazement.
“How ever did you manage it?” she gasped.
“Bless you, he never raised an objection,” said Tom cheerfully. “Take Pa Smith the right way, and he’ll eat out of your hand.”
“You will have to race now, ’Possum,” Aileen said, laughing. “Do!”
“I wouldn’t win,” said ’Possum, after the manner of bashful young ladies.
“I suppose you wouldn’t, if any one beat you; but they mightn’t,” said Tom. “Here’s Polly, longing to cox you. You can’t refuse, ’Possum—it isn’t decent, when I’ve risked all I have for you in getting that umbrella!”
“All right,” said ’Possum, capitulating, while Garth uttered “Hooray!” “Thanks, awfully, Mr. Macleod. When does it start?”
“Pretty soon,” Tom answered. “You might as well get into the dinghy and practise, as those girls are doing.” He nodded towards some small boats out on the lake, in which fair maidens, apparently at the mercy of wind and tide, were endeavouring to use large umbrellas as sails, with varying success. Small boys in boats hovered near, cheering and jeering their efforts in a manner which filled the umbrella-maidens with embarrassment and wrath. Their threats of vengeance floated across to the onlookers.
’Possum established Polly at the tiller, and paddled away from the wharf. The dinghy was certainly light, and the umbrella, rolled and laid along a thwart, looked huge; but she found, on approaching the others, that they were just as well equipped; and Flossie Parker, who had a great reputation in this branch of sport, had a dinghy that was considerably lighter. ’Possum sighed, and hoped faintly that her umbrella was smaller.
She shipped her oars, and unfurled Pa Smith’s property. It was a majestic umbrella, with an ivory crutch-handle that made it easy to hold, and lessened the chance of having it wrenched by a puff of wind from her grasp. Again, a spasm of wonder floated across her mind, that Pa Smith should ever have parted, even temporarily, with his well-loved possession. It was so unlike Pa Smith. However, it was merely another instance of Mr. Macleod’s remarkable power of getting what he wanted; and ’Possum had ceased to wonder at that. So she said, “Now, look where you’re goin’, Polly, ’cause you can be quite sure that a lot of other people won’t!” and spread her umbrella to catch the wind.
It was a fitful breeze, that occasionally sent them spinning along, and sometimes dropped altogether, leaving them to wallow on the water unaided. At such moments Polly’s anguish was painful to behold.
“What’ll we do if it does that in the race, ‘Poss?” she wailed.
“Why, bless you, if it does, won’t every one be in the same box?” ’Possum answered. But Polly looked unconvinced and anxious, and her brow only cleared when a fresh puff sent them gaily on.
There were only five competitors altogether. Two others arrived on the scene, but on comparing their heavy boats and small umbrellas with those of the other girls, they prudently withdrew, much to ’Possum’s relief: the lagoon was not wide enough for a large number of starters. They dodged about here and there, occasionally colliding, and apologizing with much forced politeness, while under their breath they reviled their coxswains. Most of these latter were small girls chosen for their light weight rather than for their ability; but Flossie Parker’s was of proved skill, and had steered her to victory in many a hard-fought contest. Flossie’s umbrella was red, and of a mighty size. “Still, I’m blessed if I think it has the acreage of Pa Smith’s!” thought ’Possum, comparing them.
A shout from the starter’s boat brought them into line near the head of the lagoon.
“The finish is the line between those two boats ahead—near the far jetty,” said the starter, who looked careworn. “Shut your umbrellas. When I fire the pistol, you open ’em and get along. Any one touching her oars is disqualified. First over the line wins. Bumping not allowed. Now then, are you all ready? Right-oh. Go!”
The pistol’s sharp crack cut across the sudden silence. It was followed by five simultaneous snaps, as the umbrellas shot into the air and were unfurled. They spread wide to catch the breeze.
Nothing occurred. There was, at the moment, no breeze. The five competitors wriggled and jerked their sails, and held them at various angles to woo the difficult zephyr, but the zephyr obstinately remained away. The boats began to drift out of line. Loud cheers arose from the shore, with pleasant shouts of encouragement, under which the cheeks of the fair starters burned.
“Mighty funny, I don’t think!” snapped Flossie Parker. “I suppose they fancy they’re jolly clever. Blow the old wind!” a pious remark which was made on general principles, since, at the moment, there was no wind to blow.
“Push ’er, Flossie! Get out an’ push, why don’t yer?” The cheering words floated across from the wharf; and Flossie screamed an angry answer.
“I say, Poll, be ready,” said ’Possum, in a low tone. “The breeze is coming.” She had glanced over her shoulder, seeing a ruffle on the surface of the lake.
No one else saw it quite as quickly, and when the puff struck them it found some of the competitors not ready. Two boats promptly collided, and disentangled themselves with difficulty. It is not the easiest matter to guide a boat describing an erratic course in the water under a wobbly umbrella, especially when coxswains of tender years lose their heads; and the two boats in question lost much ground, and never quite made it up. The other three went away gallantly, ’Possum a length ahead. Miss Parker had been taken by surprise, but her natural instinct was quick, and she was speedily in pursuit. The third competitor, a stout girl with a green umbrella and a very light dinghy, kept level with her. Loud howls came from the shore, over which could be distinctly heard the shrill pipe of little Joe, who threw his head back and vociferated, “Go it, ‘Poss!” without ceasing for an instant. Afterwards it was doubtful whether little Joe had seen all of the race, but it was quite certain that he had never ceased to yell!
The breeze died away, but with the strange perversity of summer breezes it gave a tiny last flicker which seemed especially for the benefit of Miss Parker. “It was that small she caught it all in her umbrella!” said Possum, afterwards. It took her ahead, while the two other leading boats were motionless; to the anguish of Polly, she floated slowly past them. The smile of the runner who sees victory flickered about her mouth. “When I get me nose in front, they don’t often see more than me heels again,” was her reflection.
Again the little wind ruffled the lake and quivered towards them. Polly, rigid, with her hand on the tiller, was as ready as ’Possum. The three boats slipped forward, coming nearer and nearer to the line across the water that marked the goal. There was a steady roar from the shore—cheers, laughter, and advice, mingled inextricably.
“’Possum’s beat,” said Nick O’Connor sadly. “Bother that Parker girl!”
The breeze dropped again to short puffs. ’Possum rose to her feet suddenly, holding the umbrella high over her tall head, at a cunning angle; and suddenly her boat shot forward. She was level with Flossie before the latter’s boat began to move, then she drew ahead slowly, and inch by inch they crept on, while the howls from the shore grew more and more frantic. Miss Parker tried every trick of umbrella generalship that she knew, but she could not quite make up the distance. ’Possum’s boat touched the line half a length ahead.
“Well, I’m blessed!” said Flossie sourly. “I don’t know how you managed that!”
“No more do I,” ’Possum answered. “Just luck. Now then, Polly, you behave yourself.” For Polly, given wholly up to triumph, was threatening to turn somersaults in the stern.
“H’m,” said Flossie, regarding the ecstatic Polly. “How old’s she?”
“Seven,” ’Possum answered.
“Oh!” Flossie shrugged her shoulders. “Mine’s near twice as old, an’ weighs twice as much.”
“Pity she doesn’t steer twice as well, isn’t it?” remarked ’Possum composedly. Sourness to herself might be borne patiently, but when it touched Polly it was another matter. Polly, however, having no fine scruples, did not hesitate to fight her own battles.
“An’ your dinghy only weighs half what ours does!” she shrilled. “Beat yer—smarty!”
“Be quiet, Polly!” ’Possum said sharply. She took the paddles and turned the boat towards the shore. Polly, utterly unabashed, glared angrily at Miss Parker as they drew away, but was reduced to a lamentable state of mind by the conduct of Flossie’s coxswain, who put but her tongue at her with gestures of scorn and derision. Polly would gladly have retaliated in kind but for wholesome fear of her sister, who had been known to fall severely on such natural exhibitions of distaste for a foe. She endeavoured to content herself by tilting her nose in the air as far as Nature would permit; but it was an unsatisfying reprisal, and cast a gloom over her until they neared the shore and caught sight of little Joe’s face of ecstasy.
“Knew you’d win, ‘Poss! Knew you’d win!” he shouted, capering up and down. ’Possum looked sheepish.
“Behave, Joe, can’t you?” she said.
“Good girl, ’Possum—we’re proud to know you,” Tom said, mooring the dinghy to a ring on the wharf. “Just give me that umbrella, will you?”
He took the umbrella and turned to pass through the crowd. But a new event was beginning, and he found it impossible to get through, for the wharf was already thronged, and fresh people were endeavouring to arrive at a point where they could see. Tom gave up the attempt, and turned to his party.
“Better stay where we are,” he said. “It’s the greasy pole: and the natural savagery of all good people is bringing every one to gloat over the sufferings of their fellow-men. Can you see, Aileen?”
“Beautifully, thanks,” said Aileen cheerfully. “I’m glad we’re not going to miss this.”
“Your character’s deteriorating,” said Tom, with gloom. “Here, Garth, hop up on my shoulder.” He swung the small boy up and turned to the edge of the wharf.
A long sapling had been lashed to the wharf, projecting out over the water. Its smooth surface shone from a liberal allowance of soft soap, and a small flag was thrust into a hole bored in its far end. As they watched, the first competitor appeared—a tall boy, in an old shirt and trousers. He started gingerly along the pole, and made excellent progress until he was half-way. Then his feet suddenly slid from under him, and he sat down abruptly, the pole quivering and bounding under his weight. He clawed wildly at the slippery surface. Then the water received him kindly.
He rose to the surface amid the shrieks of the delighted populace, and struck out for the steps, as the next competitor, a Melbourne schoolboy in a bathing-suit, appeared on the pole. Unfortunately, his career was even shorter. His first step was rash, his second even wilder: he slid for a moment, and then the end came quickly. Just below him the first lad was swimming. The Melbourne boy fell on him bodily, and they disappeared together in a whirlpool of spray. Those of the onlookers who had room at this point sat down on the wharf and held their aching sides.
The fun grew fast and furious as, one after another, valiant men and boys started along the pole, and, sooner or later, plunged, gasping and struggling, into, the depths. Some got as far as half-way, others succumbed in the first three steps, but all alike went down, and the various methods of their falling were sufficient to keep the spectators in roars of laughter. Finally a black boy achieved a meteoric progress, shuffling sideways along the pole so swiftly that it seemed he gave his feet no time to slip until almost at the very end, where the pole narrowed in what Tom termed an inhuman fashion. Then he shot into space: but, even in falling, he grasped the flag, and brought it proudly with him from the bottom of the lake.
“Oh, wasn’t it lovely!” Garth gasped. His peals of laughter had rung out even above the joyful shouts all round him. “Oh, I wish they’d do it all over again!”
“Do you!” said a wet and greasy competitor, striding wrathfully past in search of his clothes. Then he met the dancing eyes and grinned in friendly fashion, and disappeared among the crowd.
Tom put his son down, and tucked the handle of Pa Smith’s umbrella under his arm, holding it against his side.
“I’ll see you presently,” he said to Aileen. “Must go and return this.” He moved away with the throng.
Where the goods store blocked part of the end of the wharf, a wrathful voice fell on his ear.
“If the Gov’n’ment ’ud give us a policeman or two in this township it ’ud be better for honest people! Thieves! the place is full of them!”
“Aw, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Smith,” said the soothing voice of Nick O’Connor.
“You mightn’t, but I would. An’ so’d you, if you had your property lifted as soon as you turned your back!”
“Go on, now!” said Nick sympathetically. “You don’t mean——”
“I mean there’s a pack o’ thieves here. Me good umbrella that I left in the trap——”
“It ain’t gone, surely?”
“Yes it is. My word, if I could lay me hands on whoever took it! I’ve had that umbrella these fifteen years.”
“Mighty good luck it didn’t split with ’Possum,” said Tom to himself. He grinned, flattening his body against the wall of the shed.
“You don’t say!” Nick was murmuring. “I wouldn’t have thought any one ’ud go stealin’ an umbrella. But with all these blacks about, you never can tell.”
“Me father used to shoot blacks for stealin’,” boomed Mr. Smith. “I dunno why they’d object if you did that now. A pack of idle, useless, thievin’——”
“Well, you don’t know for certain it was them,” said Nick. “Look here, now—are you sure you didn’t leave it at home?”
“Do you take me for a fool?” demanded the wrathful Mr. Smith.
“Not me. But the best of us is careless sometimes. Well, are you sure you hunted all over the trap?”
“It wasn’t on the seat, where I left it. It wouldn’t have walked underneath, would it?”
“You never can tell,” Nick said wisely. His mild eye, travelling round, encountered Tom’s, and, struck by something in his child-like expression, examined him yet further. The end of an ivory crutch-handle, tucked tightly under Tom’s arm, caught and held his glance, and for a moment he looked unutterable things. Then he bestowed his attention anew upon Pa Smith, moving a little so as to interpose his person between him and Tom. He felt a grateful dig as Tom slipped past him.
“It’s funny how almost any one’ll make mistakes,” he said. Out of the tail of his eye he beheld a tall figure hurrying down the street towards the tree where Pa Smith’s buggy stood in a patch of shade. “Say we go an’ look in your buggy again for that little parrysole of yours, Mr. Smith. Then, if it ain’t there, we’ll go on up to the hotel an’ get a little something to console you.”
On the way to the buggy they met Tom sauntering back, apparently at peace with all men. He grinned at Nick cheerfully as they passed—Nick’s gentle voice acting as accompaniment to the loud wailing of the bereaved Mr. Smith. It changed to blank amazement as they, neared the buggy, where an ivory-handle lay conspicuously protruding from under the seat.
“Well, I’m hanged!” said Mr. Smith.
“Didn’t I tell you the best of us makes mistakes?” murmured Nick.
“It was great luck winning that race,” said ’Possum next day, “But the one thing I never will understand to me dying moment is how you managed to make old Pa Smith lend you that umbrella, Mr. Macleod. An’ he never raised a single objection, you said?”
“Not one,” Tom answered. He paused. “I wonder,” he said reflectively, “if that might be because I never asked him!”