The Little Blue Devil/To New Zealand

As Robertson had foretold, there was not much trouble about taking Tony away. Of course, the manager explained that they had only lodged the boy out of charity, and Robertson did not bother either to conceal or to give his opinion of the transaction.

He saw a good deal of Tony in the five days before his boat sailed, and bought him an outfit for the voyage, finding a queer, unfamiliar pleasure in choosing it.

Tony nominally blacked boots up to the day he sailed, but unharried and at ease. He was very happy then, and still more so on the voyage, though he did not get on quite smoothly with the other boys on board. There were several about his own age. As he confided to Robertson one day—it was his eleventh birthday and they were just nearing Sydney—the boys were all right, really, only the mothers minded him because he swore.

“They tell ’em not to speak to me.” He chuckled grimly.

“But why did you swear? It’s rather silly of you, Tony, old man.”

“I lost my temper—and something had to go. And Mrs. Sandys overheard me.”

“Yes, you’ve a bad temper.” Robertson was thoughtful. “But you mustn’t go making enemies, you know. It’s not wise.”

“Yes, I know that, but when I really get angry I forget ​everything. If I’d had a hammer close to my hand I would have thrown it at Roy Sandys—as it was, I just said what I thought of him.”

“H’m! I see. I’m glad you didn’t have a hammer, or we’d both be getting into trouble. You must put a brake on your temper if you mean to get on in the world. Remember that, Tony. All these people will dislike you if you tell them what you think of them—as straight as I know you can.”

“I don’t mind them. They’re all right. I don’t like the women much.”

“And do they like you?”

“Yes,” drawled Tony.

“Oh? You know that, do you?”

“Mostly they do. But they want to kiss me, and say silly things, and I won’t let them.”

“You’re a hard-hearted young beggar!”

“So I’ve been told,” said Tony—“a heartless young devil. They always said that.”

“Who? The women?”

“No—everybody—ever since I can remember. So I might as well make up my mind to it.”

“It doesn’t seem to worry you much.”

“Plenty of other things to worry about.”

“Well—yes. . . . By the way, Tony, who are your people? Your mother was English, I think you said? If your father’s people are—if you don't like them, why don’t you ask your mother’s? I expect they’d want to do something for you.”

“I thought I told you about that.”

“You never told me much.”

“There wasn’t much to say. They wouldn’t have anything to do with her after she married him. They didn’t care. I don’t count that I have any people. I’m going to start fresh.” ​“Well, that’s a good idea to hang on to. But remember to go easy.”

Robertson walked away, leaving Tony with a fresh train of thought. He was curled up on the anchor-chain at the bow of the ship, watching the white curve of foam that always stayed the same shape; he had hardly looked away from it as he talked; it fascinated him.

“I wish ‘going easy’ didn’t take so long,” he thought.

“I’ll have to learn that. There’ll be a lot to learn at Paranui, and lessons out of books too—I suppose there’ll be some sort of school. I—I know you have to learn things, but I wish you didn’t have to go such a long way round for the useful ones. . . . I wonder what it’ll be like? Anyhow there’ll be horses to ride. I suppose the other boys will be able to ride better than me—but, grace à Dieu, I’m a quick learner—even father used to say that. Good thing arithmetic comes easy—the Captain says mathematics start everything. . . . If only I can keep on till I’m a man . . . so far it’s been all right. Cairo was beastly; I was getting so I didn’t care—I was getting curred, as Mr. Robertson said (only he didn’t say it about me). I hope he won’t get sick of me like von Braunitz. It gives me a cold feeling in my stomach. . . . Anyhow, I am some use, and I’ve grown since leaving Egypt. I would reach to mother’s armpit now. . . .”

He straightened himself and shut his eyes quickly, hard staring at the water had made them smart. Then he opened them and faced the soft blue coast-line that slid past, and cursed his father softly and earnestly, with the intonation of a prayer.

They left for New Zealand after three days in Sydney. Robertson took Tony to the theatre two nights out of the three, because, as he explained, they would have no dissipations of that kind on Paranui. He liked taking Tony ​about; he was very fond of the boy by now. He had never got over the unwarranted feeling that he owed him a start. As for Tony, he cared for Robertson more than he had for anyone since George Derwent, and even in his thoughts he honoured him with a “Mr.,” which was a good deal from Tony, who was not given to titles.

The first month or so on the P. and O. had revived his childish longing to be a sailor, a longing born on the voyage to Japan years ago, but by the time they boarded the Union steamer he was impatient for the end of their journey. Paranui meant all sorts of beautiful things to him—outdoor life, and liberty, and the chance of learning to be a man quite soon. Robertson had said that as soon as he could use it properly he could have a gun of his own; there were other boys about his age who had, and they shot rabbits and were paid for it too—fancy being paid for fun like that!

They changed at Wellington into the little coaster that went down to Picton, and Tony's silent excitement grew as they pitched southward against a strong head-wind. Rough weather did not worry him by this time. When he saw Paranui at last it was more splendid than his dreams, and quite unlike any of them. The station fronted on ten miles of sea, which meant that it had thirty miles of coast- line; crooked coast-line that wriggled like a shaken jig-saw puzzle—reaches of yellow sand, curly little sheltered bays, dark cliffs exposed to the shattering white breakers, inlets and reefs and rock-pools—Tony had never seen such a coast. Then, looking inland, miles and miles of grey-yellow tussock-land, wind-ridden and sweeping up to the gorges where small tough trees struggled for a footing. It was cold and beautiful; the gayest colours in the picture were the turquoise sky and the cobalt sea. The June air was keen and very clear; the sun glittered on the sea and the tussock​land and the grey-blue station roofs. Tony drew a long breath.

“Well?” said Robertson. “What do you think of it?”

“It all looks so cool and clean,” said Tony. “I like this place.”

He never changed his mind about Paranui from that day. He learnt to love it in all moods—when the sea was blotted out with rain, and when the heat quivered over it in summer, and when everything seemed to shrink and hold its breath in the cold—and in all the states that lie between these three.

Robertson watched his growing interest and love for the place with quiet satisfaction. He was not going to single the boy out in any way, of course—that would not do. He must go with the other boys on the place, and work hard, and learn all he could. But it would be rather pleasant watching him grow keen and strong, as he would soon do here.

“It’s a beautiful place!” thought Robertson, with a warm glow of proprietorship, “and the best life in the world for anyone; and I must say I’ve got jolly fond of the boy, even in this time. I shan’t regret bringing him here. He’ll do.”

Tony plunged into station life at once; many changes had made him adaptable. He got on well with the other boys, though he formed no special friendships; he was older than them in every way except that of outdoor knowledge. The men liked him, with one exception, “and he wasn’t one of the men in any way,” as Tony said. The exception was Baldwin, the working manager.

Tony and five others from Paranui went to school on Starling Creek, the next station, twelve miles away. It was only in the mornings, as there was no resident schoolmaster there.

​It was in the afternoons that Tony felt fully alive. Then he went rabbiting with the other boys, or helped the men; Robertson liked him to do varied work so as to get an understanding of all branches of station business. He had offered to pay him, but gave up the idea for the first year, seeing that it only made the boy uncomfortable. He was getting board and rations and schooling, he said, and other teaching too. That was true enough, and “anyhow, it didn’t matter.” Robertson was not one to insist on trifles.

Eighteen months passed, and Tony grew strong and tall, and brown as saddle-leather into the bargain. He could ride and he could shoot, and swim like a fish; he felt three times as much a man as before he came to Paranui, and that of itself would have made him happy. But there was one element there which meant constant friction. Baldwin had disliked him from the first, mainly because he was a protégé of Robertson’s, and he considered that Robertson showed the boy undue favour—at any rate, far too much attention. He might have liked Tony well enough if he himself had picked him up. Another reason was that the boy was “different”; reserved and self-sufficient—“a ball of side,” according to Baldwin, who himself was unpopular among the men, with good reason. He had an exceedingly ugly temper; he nagged, which was worse, and he had an unwise and disagreeable habit of “rowing” one man in front of the others. Tony was his particular aversion, and when Robertson was not present he used to address him in an elaborately sarcastic manner as the Little Toff, the Aristocrat, and like names—precisely the form of attack against which Tony was least proof. It infuriated him to madness, but he tried to keep his temper: it was a way of paying his debt to Robertson. The men sympathised, but sympathy was never much use to Tony, especially as ​they never dared show it before Baldwin. He was a bad enemy.

However, Tony was not in contact with Baldwin much of the time, and he was easy to forget. He was a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand.