Mates at Billabong

by Mary Grant Bruce

David Linton did not take the cup; instead he slipped his arm round the childish body.

"You think we can stand it, then?" he asked. "It's not you alone, little mate; your old Dad's under sentence too."

"I think that makes things a lot easier," said Norah, "'cause you and I always do things together, don't we, Daddy? And—and—" Just for a moment her lips trembled. "Must we, Dad?"

He tightened his arm.

"Yes, dear."

There was a pause.

"After Christmas?"

"Yes—in February."

"Then I've got nine weeks," said Norah, practically. "We won't talk about it more than we can help, I think, don't you? Have your tea, Daddy, or it'll be cold and horrid." She brought her own cup and sat down on the arm of his chair. "How many bullocks did you buy?"