“If she dies, it will be in a good cause,” Wally returned. “Nevertheless, a substitute will do, and you’re a light-weight, Norah. Thank you, ma’am”—to Mrs. Brown, whom he deposited in a chair, where she subsided gaspingly. “Come along, Norah—let her go, Jim!” He seized his hostess, and they spun up the verandah in a mad waltz, the wallaby’s milk-can, which she had not had time to drop, banging cheerful time.
The gramophone having come to the end of its tether, ended in a scratching howl, and Jim disappeared precipitately from the window. Wally came to a standstill regretfully.
“I could have gone on for quite a while,” he uttered. “Bother you, Jimmy—why couldn’t you keep her wound? Before we begin again, Norah, do you mind laying aside that tin? It’s full of corners.”
“I’m not going to begin again,” said Norah, firmly, “so don’t delude yourself. Now will you tell me why you’ve suddenly gone mad?” Then her eye caught a leather bag lying open on the floor, and her face suddenly flushed with delight. “Oh, Wally, it’s the mail—and you can go!”
“Of course it is,” Wally said, almost indignantly. “Do you think any other cause could have induced me to waltz with Brownie at this hour of day, no matter how much she wanted it?” There came a protesting gurgle from Brownie, to which no one lent hearing.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” Norah caught Wally’s hand, and they pumped each other enthusiastically. “I knew it must be all right, all the time, of course—but it’s lovely to be sure. Were they nice, Wally?”
“Sweet as old pie,” said Wally, happily. “Mr. Dimsdale had waited to communicate with Edward—and Edward was infesting a sugar mill somewhere in the cane districts, and appeared to have taken special precautions to dodge letters. However, he telegraphed to Mr. Dimsdale as soon as he did hear—and he’s sent me an awfully jolly letter, and one to your father. And old Dimmy’s written in his best style, giving me his blessing. And they’ve sent word to school—won’t the Head kick! And they’ve fixed up money. And everything’s glorious. Have another waltz, Brownie?”
“No, indeed, thank you kindly,” said Brownie, hastily, grasping the arms of her chair in the manner affected by those about to have a tooth pulled. “Me figure’s against it, Mr. Wally, my dear, and it isn’t hardly fair. If the day ever comes when you’re seventeen stone, you’ll know—not as it seems likely, but you can’t be sure, and I was thin once meself. Came on me like a blush—and me that active! Ah, well, I’ll be thin enough with worry by the time you’re all safe home again.”
“Rubbish, Brownie,” said Jim, and smiled at her affectionately. “You and Murty will be so busy managing the place that you won’t have time to think of worry.”
“And there’ll be letters every week,” Norah added. “We’ll have such heaps to tell you. And you’ll have to write to us.”