So they spent the hot hours in the shade, while the boys made the little camp ship-shape, their tent and that of Mr. Linton close together near the bank, and the girls’ a little way off in a clump of young wattles. Jim fixed up bunks in bushman fashion, with saplings run through bags endways, and supported on crossed sticks.
“You won’t want any mattresses on those,” he said: “they’re fit for anyone. What about blankets, Norah?”
“Brownie’s been drying the ones you amateur firemen soaked last night,” said his sister, unkindly. “They’re all water-marked, of course, but they’re quite good enough for camping.”
“First rate,” Jim agreed. “We’ll get ’em. Come along, Wally.”
“More toil!” groaned that gentleman, who had been working with the cheerful keenness he put into all his doings. “Why did I come here?”
“Poor dear, then!” said a cheerful, fat voice. The creaking of a wheelbarrow accompanied it, and preceded Mrs. Brown, who came into view wheeling a load of bedclothes.
“Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!” exclaimed Wally. He dashed to take the barrow, and was routed ignominiously.
“Never you mind—I can manage me own little lot,” said Brownie, cheerfully. She pulled up, panting a little. “Lucky for me it was all down hill; I don’t know as I could have managed to get it up a rise.”
“You oughtn’t to have wheeled that load at all,” Jim said, with an excellent attempt at sternness. It appeared to afford Brownie great amusement, and she chuckled audibly.
“Bless you, it pulled me here!” she answered. “I come down at no end of a pace. Now haven’t you got it all just as nice as it can be. Makes me nearly envious!”