But no; she wouldn’t speak. She wouldn’t even smile. Dave didn’t say nothing for awhile, and then he said: “Did you hear about that red-headed barmaid at Stiffner’s goin’ to be married to the bank manager at Bourke next month, Joe?” says Dave.
But no, not a single word out of her; she didn’t even look up, or look as if she wanted to speak.
Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin’ for awhile. Then he said: “Joe, did you hear that yarn about young Scotty and old whatchisname’s missus?”
“Yes,” I says; “but I think it was the daughter, not the wife, and young Scotty,” I says.
But it wasn’t no go; that girl wouldn’t speak.
Dave shut up for a good while, but presently I says to Dave “I see that them hoops is comin’ in again, Dave. The paper says that this here Lady Duff had one on when she landed.”
“Yes, I heard about it,” says Dave. “I’d like to see my wife in one, but I s’pose a woman must wear what all the rest does.”
And do you think that girl would speak? Not a blanky word.
We finished our second puddin’ and fourth cup of tea, and I was just gettin’ up when Dave catches holt on my arm, like that, and pulls me down into my chair again.
“’Old on,” whispers Dave; “I’m goin’ to make that blanky gal speak.”