comfortable in the house, and nothing would have induced him to have
them altered in any way.

One wall held a medley of various articles: Jim's rifle, the sporting
gun his father had given him when he was fifteen, a revolver that had
been through two wars, and a cavalry sword his grandfather had carried,
together with an assortment of native weapons from various
countries--assegais, spears, boomerangs, throwing sticks, sjamboks and
South Sea Island clubs and shields. A special nail held Jim's own
stockwhip, to which Norah always attended after he had gone away, lest
the supple thong should become harsh through disuse. Then there were
weapons of peace--hockey sticks, rackets, cricket-bats--the latter an
assortment of all Jim had used, from the tiny one he had begun with at
the age of eight to the full sized beauty that had split honourably in
an inter-State school match the preceding summer.

All over the other walls were plainly framed photographs. Mr. Linton
and Norah were there, in many positions, with and without horses; then
there were pictures of all the favourite horses and ponies and dogs on
the place, and a big enlargement of Billabong house itself. The others
were school photographs, mostly football and cricket teams, tennis
fours, the school crew, and some large groups at the yearly sports. In
nearly all you could find Jim himself--if you looked closely enough. Jim
loathed being photographed, and always retired as far out of sight in a
group as his inches would permit.

The room held many of Jim's own manufactured ideas--his "contraptions,"
Brownie used to call them. There was a telephone he had rigged up when
he was twelve, communicating with Norah's room by the balcony; and
outside was a sort of fire escape, by which he could--and generally