Willie overheard the remark, and looked daggers at Eileen. Then he dismounted and walked slowly up to her with a great stockwhip wound round his arm.
“Good evening, Eileen; how did you leave them all in Sydney?” he asked, coolly.
“My goodness, but you do look funny!” answered Eileen. “You are different; why, your Mother wouldn’t know you—you’ve grown that tall, and you’re getting fat, too, and fancy you being able to ride!”
“Oh, it doesn’t take a fellow long to learn that!” he answered, carelessly.
“I’ve got some nice presents for you from your mother,” said Eileen.
“Presents?” gasped Willie, with his eyes lighting up and his grown-up manner completely gone.
“Yes, a pair of stockings and a muffler and some tooth-paste and scented soap.”
“Ugh! Presents. I don’t call them presents,” said Willie, in tones of disgust. “Anything else?”
“What did you think I’d have?” asked Eileen, hotly. “A motor-car or a carriage and pair?”
“Come off,” said Willie, “I thought you might have a cricket bat or a football, or something that would be of some use and fun to a fellow, instead of old tooth-paste and old scenty soap; none of the men up here use scenty soap, I bet.”