“And then,” said Norah, as the dinner-gong clashed out its summons,—“then——”
“If we’ve any money left!” put in her father.
“Or even if we haven’t,” said Norah, and smiled at him—“we’ll go back to Billabong!”
CHAPTER III.
OF A CHESTNUT BABY.
“DO you know where Mr. Jim is, Murty?”
David Linton had just ridden into the stable-yard. It was midday, and though the night had been frosty, the sun was so warm that the master of Billabong was in his shirt-sleeves, his coat laid across the saddle before him. He swung himself to the ground as the head stockman came across to take his horse.
“At the stockyard, he is,” said Murty O’Toole. “Miss Norah and Mr. Wally too, sir; they’re handling the new chestnut colt, and it’s the fun of the world he’s been giving them. Mr. Jim had to lasso him before he could so much as lay a hand on him, but he’s goin’ nice and aisy now. Still in all, Mr. Jim’ll have his own troubles when he comes to ride that one; sure, he’d kick the eye out of a mosquito.”
“Has he saddled him yet?”
“Oh, yes; he’s been under the saddle these three hours,” Murty answered. “Mr. Jim hasn’t been on him, of course; he believes in walkin’ a young one round quiet and pleasant, to let him get used to the feel of the leather. ’Twas as good as a circus to see him when they girthed him up; he went to market good and plenty, and did his level best to buck himself clean out of the saddle. He’s the cheerfullest colt ever I seen.” Mr. O’Toole grinned at the recollection. “But he’s got his aiqual in Mr. Jim.”