“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty workmanlike, don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair question?”
“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want——”
“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”
“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”
“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up there,” said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will y’, do y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what people ’ll do for fun!”
“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me have a postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.
“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without removing her face from the little window she fished in an unseen receptacle and extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.
“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating. “Can I have one—and some ink?”
“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided skirts comf’table to ride in?”
Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.