“Hark! the sound of battle,” he said. “The sheep bleating, in less poetical language. Well, you’ll be right up in the firing line here, and I’m afraid it will be rather sickening for you some ways.”
“I’m so sorry for the poor sheep,” she said.
“I’m sorrier for the poor boss,” said Steve. “He’s losing hundreds a day, and it’ll be thousands presently, and the lot if it doesn’t rain soon.”
“It’s long past the time the rains should have come, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Months past,” he said. “They’re talking of it being the beginning of another long drought. But we’re hanging on and hoping for the rain any day.”
“Any day?” she said, in dismay. “What will I do if it rains while I’m down here? I’ve no dry things to change.”
“Do?” he said laughingly. “Do if it rains? You’ll stand out in it, and let it soak you to the skin, and throw up your hat and cheer, same as the rest of us. Do you realise that an hour’s good rain would save the boss thousands of pounds, and a long day’s rain might keep him his station and run, while without it he might have to sell up and get out—a beggar? And he’s an old man, too.”
“He is married, isn’t he?” she asked.
“Yes, and his wife and girls are down in the city. Best place for ’em, too. It’s no place for a woman up here in a dry spell.”
“Thank you,” she said primly.