“As soon as ever father hears that his wool has got home safely.”
“Not much fear of that, I should think.”
“Oh, I don’t know. The ship might be wrecked, or be too late for the good market. And sometimes wool, when it has been packed damp, takes fire like haystacks—spontaneous combustion, you know.”
“I believe that is known to happen, about once in a thousand years,” said Tom, gravely; “but it couldn’t happen very well in this case. Why, there wasn’t a drop of rain all shearing, nor for ever so long after.”
“Well, at any rate, that’s all I know. As soon as father is satisfied that this last clip of wool is all right, we are to start.”
Tom was silent after this, and I began to think it was time to be going home.
“Wait a moment, Kitty. I can’t take it all in at once. How long are you going for? When will you be back?”
“I don’t think we shall ever be back,” I answered in a despairing tone. “Father is going to sell everything; and I believe, if mother once finds herself in England again, a team of bullocks wouldn’t drag her back.”
“No; a team of bullocks wouldn’t be much good, certainly. Oh, dear me! why didn’t you all go four or five years ago? We could have had some fun then.”
“I wish we had, with all my heart,” said I.