“Good daah to you, Misther Gordon,” she said. “Good daah to you, Miss.”
“Good day, Mrs. Doyle,” said Hugh. “Hard work that, this weather. How’s all the family?”
“Mag—Marg’rut, I mane—she’s inside. That’s her playin’ the pianny. She just got it up from Sydney.”
“And where’s Peter?”
“Peter’s shearin’ the sheep. He’s in that shed there beyant. He’s the only shearer we have, so we tell him he’s the ringer of the shed. He works terr’ble hard, does Peter. He’s not—” and the old woman dropped her voice—“he’s not all there in the head, is Peter, you know.”
“And where’s Mick?”
“Mick, bad scran to him! He’s bought a jumpin’ haarse (horse), and he’s gone to hell leppin! Down at one of the shows he is, some place. He has too much sense to work, has Mick. Won’t you come in and have a cup of tay?”
“No, we must get on, thank you,” and Hugh and Mary drove off, watched by the old lady and the lanky-legged, shock-headed youth—Peter himself—who came to the door of the big shed to stare at them.
As they drove off Hugh was silent, wondering what effect the sight of the selectors might have had on Miss Grant.
She seemed to read his thoughts, and after a little while she spoke.