"Yes."
Two ducks, circling swiftly overhead, interested Esther. Down they swept close to the water, but, being unable to come to any decision about the stuck wagon, or the pair of silly humans on the bank, they rose again steeply, continuing to fly round and round. A couple of crows moped in a tall poplar which grew at the edge of the slough. They looked married. Apparently they were revelling in their first tiff. Two white-brown rabbits squatted still as stones not forty feet away. Safely camouflaged, they practised mental telepathy together. Frogs shrilled incessantly. Somewhere a robin was singing a vesper hymn delightfully. His mate, entranced, listened close by. Even the trees appeared to lean towards each other. If the whole of Nature had been one vast bootshop, it couldn't have been arranged in pairs more perfectly.
Bert hovered between two ideas. He was wondering whether Esther would be offended if he kissed her—or disappointed if he refrained. A most terrible predicament for a young man: and since the world became civilized, one causing a good deal of needless worry. Usually Bert did not hesitate in such matters. Bits of fluff were made for osculation. But Esther was so different. She wasn't a "blarney stone" to be kissed by every predatory male who came along. Those faintly cruel eyelids fenced her about better than any convent wall could.
She was still watching the ducks, her face tilted temptingly skywards. Bert wondered if she were waiting for him to make up his mind. All his ancestors on his mother's side were signalling to him from a celestial sphere somewhere—"Be a gentleman." His father's people, on the other hand, shot vigorous messages from some second-rate world or other—-"Don't be a fool; kiss the girl." His own subconscious mind whispered: "Be damned to inhibitions."
In the ecstasy of the moment, Bert neglected to observe whether Esther returned the kiss or not, and while he was endeavouring to remember, she ran off towards the others. Then he regarded the slough meditatively. "I wish it had been twice as wide," he mused regretfully.
Round the bend of a poplar bluff, where Sam had left his wagon, the others were making camping preparations. Sam had gathered a heap of dry wood and lighted a welcome fire. Mrs. Trailey rummaged food from the Tressider-Potts wagon. Trailey himself was shivering like an unripe jelly. He stood with his back close to the fire, steaming like a stew-pot.
"Run abaht a bit, guv'ner," Sam urged. "Try ter keep yer blood movin'." Trailey did so, but he was careful not to stray too far from the indications of supper. The smell of bacon frying rose in the twilight air appetizingly. Esther fetched slough water to make tea with. Bert went with her. They didn't say much. There wasn't any need. Mrs. Trailey watched them. "Humph," she thought, and then bustled about the fire. She was very silent, but her eyes blazed.
Esther and Bert erected his bell tent, whilst Sam salvaged the Trailey team from the slough, and then picketed all four horses safely. He was awfully afraid of them getting away. So were the others, therefore they generally left this duty to him.
By the time supper was completely ready, Sam had carried bedclothes across from the mired vehicle, for the use of the Traileys in the tent. The other two men had almost dried off. Their clammy underclothing followed their every movement rather closely and uncomfortably, but supper diverted their attention. The ladies tried to persuade Sam to divest himself of his saturated garments and wrap up in a blanket.
"Yes, do, Sam," pressed Mrs. Trailey. "You'll go and get rheumatics as sure as I'm a Christian woman. I remember when the Rev. Peter Mackenzie preached at our chapel about Jonah—or was it Moses, William? It was somebody in the Bible who got wet, I know that. However, Peter Mackenzie said——"