“Tossing hay, I suppose, raking flower-beds and such. Well, you’ll find all this different in Australian Bush-life; it is sink or swim there.”
“Well, I’m going to swim.”
“Bravo, boy!”
“And now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?”
“No,” cried Winslow, “no, lad. Goodness forbid I should give you that impression. If I had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, I’d send stuff to this paper,” (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) “that would show men how I felt, and I’d be a member of the legislature in a year’s time. But this is what I say, lad, Brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here, or very little. We want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. There is many an English youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman’s jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. That’s it, d’ye see?”
“I think I do.”
“That’s right. Now tell me about your uncle. Dear old man! We never had a cross word all the time I sailed with him.”
Archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read.
By-and-by Etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy.
“Sit down, Mr Cooper, on the grass. That’s the style.”