“Steady, there—yes, there’s children. Well, there’s none real little—least, not what I seen.”
“Oh, tell’s all about them!” cried Doris, with the tears still standing in her eyes.
“There’s a boy looks about fifteen—a nice lad, he seems, with red hair.”
They all gasped.
“Red hair! Oh!”
“You didn’t see five of them, did you, Joe? Five of them with red hair? Because, if you did, that’s my dream out.”
“Dream? Who’s talkin’ about dreams?” answered Joe, testily, for he was always cantankerous till he had his tea. “If you’re goin’ to start talkin’ about dreams, I’ll tell you no more about them.”
“Oh! go on, please, Joe.”
“Yes, a nice lad he seems, and his hair ain’t real red; leastways, not that bad-tempered ginger red. It’s more like the reddish-brown colour of a myall log just where it’s chopped.”
“Yes, I know the shade,” said Eva, eagerly.