The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

62 THE FOOT OF TIME
crowd of questioners, farmer Burne thrust his
strong, portly frame through them as a scythe goes
through hay.
"Where's that there boy?" he roared. "Where's
the boy, sent by the Almighty to save my darling
from a watery grave? Where's that lad? Show me
him. Let me just get at him!"
"'Ere you are, Boss, here he is, Sir. Let the
gent. pass now," and scattering quickly, lest they
fall ninepin fashion before his vigorous onslaught,
the crowd opened up a passage.
And thus it was that Bruce first came to meet
Edith's father. Bruce, the son of a free liver, the
son of a man who feared neither God or devil; the
son of a man who believed in neither Heaven nor
Hell; and Burne, the narrow, egotistical, ultrareligionist.
An instinct of difference, of inferiority,
appeared to seize the elder man, for he stood
stockily on his feet regarding Bruce, saying
nothing, just taking the lad in.
"And so," he said at last, "so this is the laddie
what saved my darling. This is the boy, sent by
the Almighty to bring my own girlie back to us.
Well, boy, had I met you in the streets of Orange
I should not 'ave fancied the look of you overwell.
You're one of they 'andsome sort! That's what
you be; but seeing isn't everything! No, not by a
long chalk, seeing isn't everything! Do you know
what you've been and done? Proved yourself!
That's what you've done! Proved you carry a
man's heart, laddie. Boy—." Burne dropped his
voice to an impressive quietness. The spellbound
THE FOOT OF TIME 63
crowd could have heard a pin drop, even on the
sand. "Young sir, I do thank you with all my
heart, that I do. And I thank the Almighty what
sent you to us. What might your name be?" He
took the younger man's hand in his, and, strong
though Bruce was, the pressure made the young
fellow wince.
"I'm Bruce Swinton," replied that young
worthy, as though anyone must know that. Truth
to tell, many did, some even in that heterogeneous
assembly.
A look of surprised pleasure came over the
swarthy features of the farmer. "Bruce Swinton,
eh?" he reflected. "Well, lad, you don't look it.
Not by a long chalk, you don't! I'm a judge of
men, and I was a-feared you might tell me your
name was Montmorency de Lampoodle, Arbuthing
hyphen Beecham, or some such. I'm real glad
it's an honest-to-God, quiet-sounding name, like
what mine is—nought high-fangled!"
Under his tan, Bruce paled. By this time he
knew all about his father; knew that possibly, or
probably (though he and his mother were doubtful
how the law stood) , that possibly his name wasn't
Swinton at all, but something more pretentious—
the heir to a baronetcy, and, perhaps, to enormous
wealth.
"Looking at you with new eyes, as you might
say, Mr. Swinton, I could do with a son like you.
I wish you were son of mine, boy, that I do. Your
father's a lucky man, that he is."
"I have no father, sir," Bruce replied.