  It was three days later. “Oh, do let us bring the sheep in from the Gums paddock!” cried Willie. “We can drive them up—really we can. You’ll come, won’t you, Eva?” “Yes, I’ll come,” cried Eva, who was getting much more fond of the outdoor life. “We’ll just show them, Willie, how smart we are, and that we can bring them in; and it’ll save sending a man.” “All right,” said Mr. Hudson. “Off you go!” “And we’ll take Gussie,” said Willie. “All right, please yourself, but he’s no good. He knows no more about sheep than a kitten.” “All the same, he’s a nice dog,” said Willie to himself, as he and Eva and Gussie started off. They found the sheep down in the far corner of the paddock, feeding quietly. “Now, then, come along,” said Willie, “and get your woolly coats off,” and he tried to whistle and called to Gussie, and soon had the sheep heading towards the gate. “Easy, isn’t it?” he cried to Eva, who had been picking the pretty feathery grass. “Oh, yes! the easiest thing in the world,” she answered back. “I’d love to be a drover,” said Willie. “Sometimes I’d like big mobs of cattle, especially when they all broke away and I’d have to gallop after them. And sometimes I’d like mobs of sheep, too, especially when I had good dogs. I think I’ll break Gussie to be a real good sheep-dog, and have him for one of my best when I grow up.” “But he’s no good. Dadda says he’s not, and he ought to know; and he said if he lives to be a hundred he’ll never be any better.” “Hah, rubbish,” said Willie, with all a new chum’s self-assurance. “I’ll bet I could break him in. Here, Gus, where are you?” For Gussie had disappeared, but presently came rushing up from the creek, barking and yelping. “Here, Gusso, good dog,” cried Willie. But Gussie was frisky, and scampered round barking and yelping. “Lie down, you fool!” shouted Willie. But, like a streak of lightning, Gussie was off after the sheep that were just nearing the gate, rushing in front of them and turning them back to the creek. “Here, Gussie, Gussie, Gussie. Here, boy, come back here, you black animal!” shouted Willie, excitedly, as he and Eva raced after the dog. “Here, Gussie, Gussie, lie down, you brute!” Away went Gussie, yelping excitedly and sending the sheep helter-skelter back to where they’d been driven from. “Let’s open this gate, Willie,” cried Eva, who was hot and flushed. “That’s what we ought to have done first, and then they’d have rushed through. Let’s open this fool of a gate, and we’ll have to round them up again.” They tugged and tugged and shoved and sighed and grunted, but all to no purpose. The springs were broken, and refused to budge. “Come on, shake it again,” said Eva, but all to no purpose. “Oh, damn the gate!” cried Willie. “Oh, Willie!” “Yes, damn the gate, and damn the dog, and damn the dashed old paddock!” “Oh, Willie, you’re swearing! Swearing!” cried Eva, aghast. “I never thought you’d swear. When you came up here you wouldn’t think of such a thing.” “Well, I’ll think of it now, and I know hundreds more, too. All men swear,” answered Willie, with two red streaks in his cheeks. “All men swear, and I’m going to, too. I’m not going to be an old ninny.” “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Willie!” said Eva. “Well, I’m not, then. I’m not a bit ashamed, and another thing, I wish you’d stop calling me Willie. It’s nothing but Willie, Willie, Willie, all over the place. Willie’s an old woman’s name. It’s just like an old woman with half a dozen kids.” “Willie, I’m shocked at you. I never thought you were so—so—ugly.” “Well, I don’t care if I’m ugly or not. You call me Will, if you want to call me anything—not Willie, or little Willie, any more.” “And I’ll tell them at home that you swore, too.” “Tell ’em; tell ’em anything you like. Anyhow, it’s not a real swear—nothing to what I’ll say when I grow up.” “I hope I don’t see you when you grow up, if that’s the kind of man you’re going to be.” “Ugh! you’re not a sport. You’re not a sport’s boot-lace,” continued Willie, assuming a lordly air. “I wouldn’t be anyone’s boot-laces,” answered Eva, disdainfully. “And—and I’ll never come out with you again. You’re a rude boy!” “Oh, a rude boy, am I?” mimicked Willie. “If you were a man I’d fight you.” “Yes, I suppose you would,” said Eva, still disdainfully. “That’s what you’ll be, I suppose, when you’re grown up—a fighter, and a drinker, and a smoker, and a swea——” Just then a whip cracked in the distance, and they turned in dismay. “Oh, Willie, the sheep! I do hope Gussie hasn’t killed them.” “Great snakes!” shouted Willie. “Let’s after them,” and away they scampered, forgetting their anger for the time being. Away across the paddock the sheep were coming slowly towards them, driven by Big Tom from “Myall.” “Hello!” he cried in his loud, hearty voice. “I thought you were supposed to be taking this lot to the shed.” “So we were, Tom; but Gussie chased them away from the gate, and we’ve been trying ever since to open the old thing,” announced Willie, importantly. “And is it open now?” “No. It refused to open,” said Willie, with all his manners laid on again. “Refused to open,” chuckled Tom under his breath. “All right,” he cried, cheerily, “you two get behind this mob, and just walk along slowly, and I’ll fix up that gate in one act. I’ll take this mongrel with me,” he continued, as he tied his whip through Gussie’s collar. “No use of three new chums being together,” and he rode off. The children had time to get cool again, and Willie was a bit ashamed of his outbreak; and, another thing, supposing Eva did tell at home, they might send him back to Sydney. They might pack him back by the next mail. Good gracious! that would be dreadful, just when he was learning to ride well and knew all the dogs and horses—and—right in the beginning of the shearing, too! He didn’t want to go back to Sydney for months and months yet. He must try and conciliate himself with Eva somehow. “My word, this is a pretty paddock, Eva.” “Yes,” answered Eva, shortly. “Real nice flowers down there, too. Nice yellow ones.” “Yes,” answered Eva. “I’ll get you a bunch if you like—a great big bunch, and—I’ll tell you what—I’ll carry them home myself.” “Oh, I think it’s too hot!” said Eva, languidly. “They’d all fade.” “Do you think so? What a pity!” He didn’t know what else to say for a time. “I’ll tell you what; I’ll come back when it’s cool, if you like, and get you a great big bunch.” “No, thanks, give them to your boot-laces, if you want to gather some,” said Eva, coolly. “Give ’em to my boot-laces?” echoed Willie, blankly. “Yes, you’ve got such a lot to say about boot-laces,” answered Eva, hardly knowing what to say. “Oh, sport’s boot-laces!” said Willie, with a light suddenly dawning on him. “I didn’t mean anything nasty, Eva. I often say that. Goodness me! it’s a great Sydney saying. Why, I often tell my mother she’s not a sport’s boot-lace, and she don’t care a bit. Why, she wouldn’t care if I called her a sport’s boot-lace every day,” he went on, hardly knowing what he was saying in his excitement to get on a friendly footing again. “No, my mother wouldn’t care one bit——” “Now, then, you two—don’t go mooning there; round ’em up,” shouted Tom. And then Willie rushed off, and Eva, too, woke up, for what a time they’d get when they reached the woolshed if the sheep got away again. Why, they’d be laughed at, and it was a terrible punishment to be laughed at. They were received with a cheer at the woolshed, and hailed as the “amateur drovers,” and Tom never told how he came to the rescue. He was what Willie would term a “sport.” For the next few days Willie was anxious, wondering if Eva told. But things went on in the same old smooth way, and he grew content. On the third evening Eva found a great big bunch of yellow flowers on her table, and she guessed who was the giver and the reason why they were sent. So she accepted the peace offering. |
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