“Oh, do try!” Norah begged. “I'd love to see you trying to put a bridle on one in a hurry!”
“Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?” pondered Jim.
“You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns,” Wally said. “But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I think they'd be very restful to deal with.”
Every one laughed unsympathetically. Restfulness was the last quality to be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable throughout his life for total inability to keep still.
“It's always the way,” said Wally, in tones of melancholy. “Every fortune teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me.”
“All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them so clever,” said Tommy. “It's so soothing to think one is misunderstood. My stepmother always thought so. Did Bob tell you, Mr. Linton, that we had had letters from home?”
“No—from your people?”
“From Papa. The she-dragon didn't write. I think her words would have been too burning to put on paper. But Papa wrote a pretty decent letter—for him. He didn't speak of our letters from Liverpool—the notes we wrote from the hotel, saying we were leaving for Australia. But he acknowledged Bob's letter from Melbourne, saying we were going up country under your wing, and actually wished us luck! Amazing, from Papa!”
“I think he's jolly glad we got away,” Bob said.
“I think that's highly probable,” said David Linton. “You'll write to him occasionally, won't you?”