By Henry Lawson
“tap， tap， tap，”
The little schoolhouse and residence in the scrub waslighted brightly in the midst of the “close”， solid blackness ofthat moonless December night， when the sky and stars weresmothered and suffocated by drought haze.
It was the evening of the school children’s “Feast”. That isto say that the children had been sent， and “let go”， and theyounger ones “fetched” through the blazing heat to the school，one day early in the holidays， and raced—sometimes incouples tied together by the legs—and caked， and bunned， andfinally improved upon by the local Chadband， and got rid of.
The schoolroom had been cleared for dancing， the maps rolledand tied， the desks and blackboards stacked against the walloutside. Tea was over， and the trestles and boards， whereonhad been spread better things than had been provided for theunfortunate youngsters， had been taken outside to keep thedesks and blackboards company.
On stools running end to end along one side of the roomsat about twenty more or less blooming country girls of fromfifteen to twenty odd.
On the rest of the stools， running end to end along the otherwall， sat about twenty more or less blooming chaps.
It was evident that something was seriously wrong. Noneof the girls spoke above a hushed whisper. None of the menspoke above a hushed oath. Now and again two or three sidledout， and if you had followed them you would have found thatthey went outside to listen hard into the darkness and to swear.
“tap， tap， tap.”
The rows moved uneasily， and some of the girls turned palefaces nervously towards the side-door， in the direction of thesound.
“tap—tap.”
The tapping came from the kitchen at the rear of theteacher’s residence， and was uncomfortably suggestive ofa coffin being made： it was also accompanied by a sickly，indescribable odour—more like that of warm cheap glue thananything else.
In the schoolroom was a painful scene of strained listening.
Whenever one of the men returned from outside， or put hishead in at the door， all eyes were fastened on him in the flashof a single eye， and then withdrawn hopelessly. At the sound ofa horse’s step all eyes and ears were on the door， till some onemuttered， ‘It’s only the horses in the paddock.’
Some of the girls’ eyes began to glisten suspiciously， and atlast the belle of the party—a great， dark-haired， pink-and-whiteBlue Mountain girl， who had been sitting for a full minutestaring before her， with blue eyes unnaturally bright， suddenlycovered her face with her hands， rose， and started blindlyfrom the room， from which she was steered in a hurry by twosympathetic and rather ‘upset’ girl friends， and as she passedout she was heard sobbing hysterically—
“Oh， I can’t help it！ I did want to dance！ It’s a sh-shame！
I can’t help it！ I—I want to dance！ I rode twenty miles todance—and—and I want to dance！”
A tall， strapping young Bushman rose， without disguise，and followed the girl out. The rest began to talk loudly ofstock， dogs， and horses， and other Bush things； but above theirvoices rang out that of the girl from the outside—being mancomforted—
“I can’t help it， Jack！ I did want to dance！ I—I had such—such—a job—to get mother—and—and father to let mecome—and—and now！”
The two girl friends came back. “He sez to leave her tohim，” they whispered， in reply to an interrogatory glance fromthe schoolmistress.
“It’s—it’s no use， Jack！” came the voice of grief. “You don’tknow what—what father and mother—is. I—I won’t—beable—to ge-get away—again—for—for—not till I’m married，perhaps.”
The schoolmistress glanced uneasily along the row of girls.
“I’ll take her into my room and make her lie down，” shewhispered to her sister， who was staying with her. “she’ll startsome of the other girls presently—it’s just the weather for it，”
and she passed out quietly. That schoolmistress was a womanof penetration.
A final “tap-tap” from the kitchen； then a sound like thesquawk of a hurt or frightened child， and the faces in the roomturned quickly in that direction and brightened. But there camea bang and a sound like “damn！” and hopelessness settleddown.
A shout from the outer darkness， and most of the menand some of the girls rose and hurried out. Fragments ofconversation heard in the darkness—
“It’s two horses， I tell you！”
“It’s three， you—！”
“Lay you—！”
“Put the stuff up！”
A clack of gate thrown open.
“Who is it， Tom？”
Voices from gatewards， yelling， “Johnny Mears！ They’ve gotJohnny Mears！”
Then rose yells， and a cheer such as is seldom heard inscrub-lands.
Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed， from the farside of the table， where he had thrown it， a burst and batteredconcertina， which he had been for the last hour vainly tryingto patch and make air-tight； and， holding it out towards theback-door， between his palms， as a football is held， he let itdrop， and fetched it neatly on the toe of his riding-boot. It wasa beautiful kick， the concertina shot out into the blackness，from which was projected， in return， first a short， sudden howl，then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by anenormous brick-coloured hand， and a voice that wanted toknow who shot ‘that lurid loaf of bread？’
But from the schoolroom was heard the loud， free voice ofJoe Matthews， M.C.，—
“take yer partners！ Hurry up！ Take yer partners！ They’ve gotJohnny Mears with his fiddle！”
