“I wasn’t hungry to see her,” said Steve, calmly, “and I was hungry for my supper.” He seated himself and commenced to eat.
“It’s getting near the finish for the sheep down there,” he remarked, “and there isn’t mulga enough to keep them going long.”
“D’you think we’ll have to camp up in the mulga paddocks?” said Aleck Gault.
“Good Lord, I ’opes not,” said Jack Ever, in dismay. “We won’t see ’er till next Sunday if we does.”
“The boss said he’d be coming over here in a day or two,” said Steve; “I expect we’ll be shoving the sheep back here on the hills when the mulga gives out.”
“Does the boss know she’s ’ere?” asked Whip Thompson.
“The boss was too busy thinking about his sheep to bother, I expect,” said Steve.
“I’m goin’ to break in a ’orse for ’er,” said Whip Thompson. “None of ’em would stand a skirt on ’is back, I s’pose.”
“I’d try the Roman if I was you, Whip,” said Aleck Gault.
“He’s quiet, but he’s an ugly brute,” claimed Ned Gunliffe. “You want a nicer-looking crock for her.”