“No, no good; it would all smear.”
“What about painting something over the blot—some more leaves or something?”
“No; they’d look silly down there.”
“Well, what about painting a big butterfly over it, flying up to the berries, eh? That’d look grand.”
“No, I’ll have to do it all over again.”
“I’m real sorry,” said Willie. “I wish I could paint, and I’d do it for you. Square dink, I would!”
“Oh! never mind; I’ll do another to-day, and we’ll sign our names to-night, and we’ll have to give it to her to-morrow.”
“Righto!” said Willie, as he marched off.
Meanwhile Eileen had been very busy thinking. She actually hadn’t slept much the night before for thinking. Seven-and-sevenpence wasn’t much to give Miss Gibson. If she only had some more! If she could only make some money; but there was no way—yes, there was just one way that flashed into her mind as she tossed about in bed. Tomorrow Mr. Smith, the butcher from Bragan Junction, would call for killing sheep. Supposing she sold him Ronald, her big pet lamb. He would be sure to give fifteen shillings to sixteen shillings for him, and she’d give ten shillings of it to Miss Gibson. Yes, that’s what she would do. She didn’t care if Ronald were a pet and if she’d miss him. He’d only go out to the paddocks after a while, and get mixed up with the rest of the flock, and very likely be sent away to Homebush, or perhaps he’d be killed at home for their own table later on. Ugh! she couldn’t bear to think of that! No, the best thing to do would be to sell him to Mr. Smith. She’d be brave, and she’d see Mr. Smith the first thing to-morrow, and she’d tell him that she had a big fat lamb for sale. She’d be real business-like, and she’d take the money, and then she’d get away somewhere quickly, where she couldn’t see Ronald being driven off with the other sheep. She knew it would be dreadfully lonesome for a while without Ronald, but—she didn’t care. She would sell him.
So when Mr. Smith came she was the first to see him.