“Yes, Mr. Smith, father’s down in the gums paddock, but I have a fine big fat pet lamb I want to sell.”
“Righto!” said the genial butcher. “How much?”
“Oh! er—about sixteen shillings.”
“Let’s have a look at him.”
Eileen led the way to the little back paddock, where quite a flock of young fat sheep were grazing.
“That’s him with the red ribbon round his neck.”
“Righto! I’ll give you sixteen bob for him. I’ve got the silver now, and I’d better carry him down to the gums and put him with the others there. Them pets don’t like leaving home, and—but what’s wrong?” For Eileen was crying fit to kill herself.
“I—I—don’t think I can let him go.”
“’Pon my goodness, don’t take on like that! What! don’t want to sell him?”
“N-o—o. I wanted the money to give to—to—someone for a sub—a subscription, but—they’ll have to do without.”