“No. There was nothing to do but run. But even when I dreamed of running, I never thought of more than a workman's cottage, with you earning wages and me trying to make both ends meet. And now—look at us! Bloated capitalists and station owners.”
“Well, you were a cook not so long ago. I wouldn't be too proud,” Wally gibed.
“All the more reason for me to be proud—I've risen in the world,” declared Tommy. “Left my situation to better myself—isn't that the right way to put it? And we've got the jolliest home in Australia—thanks to all of you. Do have some more cake, Mr. Linton; I'd love to say I made it myself, but Brownie did—still, all the same, it's mine.”
“Don't you worry,” he told her. “I'm coming here plenty of times for cake of your own baking.”
“That's what I want.” She beamed at him. “All of you. Bob and I will feel lost and lonesome if we don't see you all—oh, often.”
“But you're going to,” Norah said. “We'll be over goodness knows how many times a week, and you two are always coming to dinner on Sunday, and ever so many other days as well.”
“Was it in your plans that any work should be done on this estate?” queried Bob solemnly.
“Why, yes, in your spare time,” Wally answered. “Any time you're not on the road between here and Billabong, or catching a horse to go there, or letting one go after coming back, or minding the Billabong horde when it comes over, you can do a little towards improving the creek. I say, Bob, it sounds the sort of life I'd love. Can't you give me a job, old man?”
“Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you came back from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for a job,” retorted Bob. “However, I'll take you on as milker if you like—it's about the only thing you haven't sampled.”
“No,” said Wally, “you won't. Whatever beast I finally take to by way of earning my living, it won't be the cow—if I can help it. I'd sooner graze giraffes!”