“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still inclined to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue. “He’s just the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly dry, out on the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness; and the brute actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive for it: fact is, I believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in again after it!”
“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.
“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He proceeded to roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.
Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was over the pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled through country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire fence bounded each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit for wheeled traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big station properties, on which the homesteads were far back; so that they scarcely saw a house throughout the day, except when now and then they passed through sleepy little townships, where dogs barked furiously at them and children ran out to stare at the riders. They were typical bush children, who scarcely ever saw a stranger—lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and shy as hares, and quite incapable of giving an answer when addressed. They paused in one township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post office to send a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were safe.
The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered in the light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark of distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a little, ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally falling to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide, through which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the township contained any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how they contrived to transact their postal business. It was very certain that Brownie could not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic pressure had been applied to her.
Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a small shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic simplicity was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-doorway, after Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.
“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall, freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her “fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is, I was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just corkin’!”
“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard, please.”
“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request. She propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as nature or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair ringers! That big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa ridin’ him?”
“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”