“I might have known you couldn’t wait to tell,” said Norah, laughing. “And he pretends he isn’t proud, Mrs. Hunt!”
“I’ve given up even pretending,” said her father, laughing. “I found myself shaking hands with Allenby in the most affectionate manner. You see, Mrs. Hunt, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in the family before.”
“Oh, but those boys couldn’t help doing well,” Mrs. Hunt said, looking almost as pleased as the two beaming faces before her. “They’re so keen. I don’t know if I should, but shall I read you what Douglas says about them?” They gathered eagerly together over the curt words of praise Major Hunt had written. “Quite ordinary boys, and not a bit brainy,” he finished. “But I wish I had a regiment full of them!”
Out in Australia, two months later, a huge old woman and a lean Irishman talked over the letter Norah had at length managed to finish.
“And it’s a Captin he is!” said Murty O’Toole, head stockman.
“A Captain!” Brownie echoed. “Don’t it seem only yesterday he was tearing about in his first little trousis, and the little mistress watching him!”
“And riding his first pony. She put him over her head, and I med sure he was kilt. ‘Howld her, will ye, Murty,’ says he, stamping his little fut, and blood trickling down his face. ‘Give me a leg up again,’ he says, ‘till we see who’s boss!’ And I put him up, and off he went down the paddock, digging his little heels into her. And he’s a Captin! Little Masther Jim!”
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” said Brownie loftily. “The only wonder to me is he wasn’t one six months ago!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE END OF A PERFECT DAY
“Are you ready, Norah?”