“Oh, yes. Bill must bring Sarah and the baby home in good time, so he will milk the cows,” Tommy answered. “He wanted them to stay for the concert, but Sarah had an amazing attack of common sense, and said it was no place for a baby. I didn't think she considered any place unfit for a baby, and certainly Bill doesn't.”
“Bush people don't,” said Norah, laughing. “If they did, they would never go anywhere, because the babies must go too, no matter what happens. And the babies get accustomed to it, and don't cry nearly as much as pampered ones that are always in the nursery.”
“Bush kiddies grow a stock of common sense quite early,” said Wally's voice from the door. “It leaves them in later life, and they stay gossiping with immigrants in new riding-kit, leaving their unfortunate fathers grilling in the sun. Which he says—” But at this point Norah and Tommy brushed the orator from their path, and hastened out to the horses—finding all the men comfortably smoking under a huge pepper tree, and apparently in no hurry to start.
Bob bewailed his yellow paddocks as they rode down to the gate.
“They were so beautifully green a few weeks ago,” he said. “Now look at them—why, they're like a crop. The sun has burnt every bit of moisture out of them.”
“Don't let that worry you, my boy,” David Linton said. “The stock are doing all right; as long as they have plenty of good water at this time of the year they won't ask you for green grass.” He gave a low chuckle. “You wouldn't think this was bad feed if you had seen the country in the drought years—why, the paddocks were as bare as the palm of your hand. Now you've grass, as you say yourself, like a crop.” He looked at it critically. “I could wish you hadn't as much; fires will be a bit of an anxiety later on.”
“Grass fires?” queried Bob.
“Yes. There's not enough timber here to have a real bush fire. But this grass is dry enough now, and by February it will go like tinder if any fool swagman drops a match carelessly. However, you'll just have to keep your eyes open. Luckily, your creek can't burn—you'll always have so much safeguard, because your stock could take to it; and that row of willows along the bank would check any grass fire.”
“My word, wouldn't a fire race across the Billabong plains this year!” said Wally.
“Yes, it would certainly travel,” agreed Mr. Linton. “Well, we've ploughed fire-breaks, and burned round the house, and we can only hope for good luck. You'd better burn a break round your house soon, Bob.”