“No, thanks, give them to your boot-laces, if you want to gather some,” said Eva, coolly.
“Give ’em to my boot-laces?” echoed Willie, blankly.
“Yes, you’ve got such a lot to say about boot-laces,” answered Eva, hardly knowing what to say.
“Oh, sport’s boot-laces!” said Willie, with a light suddenly dawning on him. “I didn’t mean anything nasty, Eva. I often say that. Goodness me! it’s a great Sydney saying. Why, I often tell my mother she’s not a sport’s boot-lace, and she don’t care a bit. Why, she wouldn’t care if I called her a sport’s boot-lace every day,” he went on, hardly knowing what he was saying in his excitement to get on a friendly footing again. “No, my mother wouldn’t care one bit——”
“Now, then, you two—don’t go mooning there; round ’em up,” shouted Tom.
And then Willie rushed off, and Eva, too, woke up, for what a time they’d get when they reached the woolshed if the sheep got away again. Why, they’d be laughed at, and it was a terrible punishment to be laughed at.
They were received with a cheer at the woolshed, and hailed as the “amateur drovers,” and Tom never told how he came to the rescue. He was what Willie would term a “sport.”
For the next few days Willie was anxious, wondering if Eva told. But things went on in the same old smooth way, and he grew content.
On the third evening Eva found a great big bunch of yellow flowers on her table, and she guessed who was the giver and the reason why they were sent. So she accepted the peace offering.