We have had one letter from him since he arrived in Australia. The invalid daughter was better, and he gave a wonderful account of the place where he is living. It is a long way “up country,” and he says it is all so new and strange, that sometimes he expects to wake up in his easy-chair in the ‘Stretford Arms’ and find out that he has dropped off for forty winks, and has been dreaming.
He wrote a lot about the wonderful things he had seen and the wonderful adventures he had had. He says that he has to ride on horseback to get about, and it was very awkward at first; but his son-in-law gave him lessons, and now he is all right. He says he is going to learn how to throw the lasso and catch cattle. I think he has learnt to throw the hatchet. The idea is too absurd of our old parish clerk, the respectable Mr. Wilkins, galloping about the country and catching animals, like those wild fellows you read about on the great American plains.
Still, he is there in the midst of it all, and I don’t suppose we shall ever see him again. It is a strange end to the career of a quiet, old-fashioned old fellow like Wilkins—a man who all his life had hardly spent a week away from the quiet little country place in which he was the parish clerk. I often say to Harry, when we speak of him, “Who ever would have believed such a thing could happen?” And Harry says that in this world there never is any knowing what may happen; but one thing he knows will never happen again, and that is that I shall spend a whole day writing an article for our county paper.
And Harry is perfectly right. But never mind, we have had our revenge. We always took the local paper every week before, and now we have given it up. “That’s the best way to make newspapers feel that you——”
* * * * *
Mr. Saxon arrived! And he never sent word that he was coming! Oh dear, dear! I must come at once. Nothing will be right, and there’ll be a nice to-do if his liver happens to be wrong.
CHAPTER XIX.
ONE OF OUR BARMAIDS.
Good barmaids are as difficult to get as good servants. It is, perhaps, even harder to get just what you want in a barmaid, because so many different qualities are required, and the work has to be done under such different circumstances.
Some girls are very quiet and nice in business, and very ladylike, and a credit to the house out of it; but are still not good barmaids, because they are not able to suit their manner to the class of customer they happen to be serving. Some of the best barmaids for work and smartness aren’t nice in other ways, giving themselves airs and showing off before the customers, and being fond of talking with the young fellows who come in and loll across the counter; and some of them dye their hair gold, and make themselves up, and look fast, which is a thing I have always had a horror of; but some of these girls are, as far as doing the trade is concerned, among the best barmaids going, and often there is a good deal less harm in them than in your quiet girls, who seem as if they couldn’t say boh to a goose, and look down on the floor, if a young fellow pays them a compliment.
A good, smart, showy barmaid has generally learnt her trade and knows her customers. The compliments paid to her run off her like water off a duck’s back, and she knows how to take care of herself. But her very independence makes her a trial to put up with, and if she’s a favourite with the customers she soon lets you know it.