  A letter had come for Willie from his mother, saying that he really must come home; he ought to be satisfied now, and they missed him very much, and he really must return to school, and ever so many more reasons why he should come home. Willie felt very downhearted. “’Course I’d like to see them again, and I think a terrible lot of them, and all that, but I do want to stay longer. I asked Mamma ever so long ago to let me stay till November, and she nearly promised she would, but a woman never can keep her word,” he went on, dashing away a tear. “We’ll write and beg and beg for you,” said Eva. “Will you? Good! Write and say you can’t part with me, that I’m a—a—a real decent chap, and say—oh, say anything at all you like, only do get her to let me stay till November. Say it’s a long way up here, and it’s no use coming for a little while. Let’s see—how long have I been here now? About seven months—well, say that a person ought to stay nine or ten months, but that I’ll be real satisfied to go home in November, and to be sure and let me stay till then.” “Yes, we’ll say all that and a lot more.” “Righto! and I’ll pay for the stamps,” said Willie. “Whatever it costs, let me know.” Then a letter was concocted, and to read it one would think that Willie was a little angel upon earth:
“How will that much suit?” asked Eva, who took the composition on herself and read it aloud to him. “By cripes, it’s real good!” answered Willie. “Go on a few more pages like that, and she must let me stay.” “Well, if you say that word any more I won’t write at all.” “What word?” asked Willie, trying to appear innocent. “You know quite well; you got it from old Joe, and you needn’t bother copying him. Oh, dear! Whatever else can I say?” “Let’s see; you said I was nice and cheerful, didn’t you? Well, say—oh! say that I look real well, and I’m getting real fat.” “But you said that in your last letter, didn’t you?” “Yes, but you say it, too.”
There was much more in the same strain, and then signatures were attached; but I think it was a little note that Mother enclosed that made Mrs. Grey decide to let her little boy remain till November, and there was great rejoicing when the decision arrived. “We’re real good at writing letters,” said Eva, somewhat proudly. “Yes, that was a bonser one about me. I don’t know how you thought of it all.” “Oh, we can think all right,” said Eileen. “I wouldn’t wonder if we made some money some day thinking out inventions and patents and all those kind of things.” “Well, when I grow up I’ll help you,” declared Willie. “If you want any money just come along to me.” He felt very grateful for that letter, as he thought of the good free time before him. “How will you make the money?” asked Eileen. “Oh, I’ll manage that, all right! I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll have it so you needn’t be afraid to come for a loan. I won’t forget old friends....” Willie was very polite for quite a long time after that. He was always offering his chair to Mother or one of the girls, and he was continually asking Mother if she felt a draught, and would she like windows or doors closed? And he actually tried to study at night time to please Miss Gibson. The thought of staying till November pleased him so much. “I wonder how much money it would take to buy Myall?” he said to Joe, as they were riding round the paddock. “Pretty near a million, I reckon,” answered Joe. “A million!” gasped Willie. “Oh, dear!” he groaned. “I’ll never manage it.” “Was you thinkin’ of buyin’ it?” asked Joe. “I was wondering if I ever could,” said Willie. “If I went to work and started to save up my money straight away; but, oh, dear! I’ll never manage it. A million’s a terrible lot of money, isn’t it, Joe?” “I reckon so,” answered Joe. “I wouldn’t like the counting of it.” “No, ’specially if you were sleepy,” said Willie. “You take it from me, young man, I wouldn’t be sleepy if I ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money. Why, I’d be thinkin’ every noise was a burgular after it. No, old Joe’d be pretty wide awake if ’e ’ad the ’andlin’ of a million of money!” “Of course I wouldn’t care if I didn’t have a very big place,” went on Willie. “I wouldn’t care if it was just one little paddock on the corner of the creek. As long as it was land and belonged to me, and I could live up here and ride. That’s all I want.” “Just enough to run a horse on, like?” said Joe. “Yes,” said Willie, eagerly. “Do you think I could buy a place like that?” “Well, of course, you’d have to make a livin’ somehow,” answered Joe, “and you couldn’t make much of a livin’ on a one-horse run; and I wouldn’t like it to be said that old Joe ever put the idea into your ’ead about it. But some day you might win a lease, or buy a piece of land—enough to run a few hundred sheep on, and by degrees you might buy a little more, and get on that way. But you want a bit o’ money to start with, or else you’ll have to work very ’ard. ’Course, though, the banks would lend you money, and you might be able to make a do of it.” “That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get the banks to lend me money. I never thought about them. Why, it’ll be real easy. I’ll go to a lot of different banks and get them all to lend me a little; and I won’t let any of ’em know that I’ve been to the other one—see? My word! won’t Mother be surprised when she hears I’ve got a bit of land?” “Hey, steady there!” said Joe, a bit afraid. “You’re too young yet—a long way too young to think about it. Well, you can think, but don’t go trying to git land right away. You’ve got a few years ahead of you yet.” “Yes, that’s the worst of being young,” sighed Willie. “Well, it’s funny, the difference in boys,” soliloquised Joe; “here’s you dyin’ to be on the land, and there was Frank dyin’ to be off it.” “Yes, funny, isn’t it?” agreed Willie. From that time he commenced to build castles in the air, in which figured prominently a green stretch of paddock with a gurgling creek running through it; a dear little cottage nestling on its banks, and a flock of big woolly sheep, some fine horses, and a few dogs to make up the sum total of his possessions. “And, of course, I must have some cattle,” he would think, when completing the picture in his mind’s eye; “and a dear little pony and sulky to meet them at the railway station when they come up to stay with me.” “They” represented Mamma, Dadda, and Marcia. |
|
