"Oh, I s'pose so," 'Possum answered. "I was goin' over to the Macleods' to look how their lucerne's comin' on, but I guess that'll keep till to-morrow. Bertha'll look after the kids."
Bertha nodded. She was a small stout person of few words, who had been born old, and had never become young.
"Right," said her father. "You get in wood, Bill, an' milk in good-time if I'm not back; an' don't you forget them pigs an' calves."
Bill nodded also. He was deeply engaged with his third plate of porridge, and relieved, on the whole, that no more tasks had come his way.
"Then we'll hurry up, 'Poss," said Nick. He got up from the table, his great form seeming to fill the little kitchen. "When'll you be ready?"
"Oh, as soon as you get the boat, I expect," she said. "Just give a coo-ee when you're ready to start."
"Right," said her father. He gathered up pipe, tobacco and matches, and strode from the house, and 'Possum disappeared in the direction of the shed. There was a sick calf to be tended, and instructions to be given to Bertha and young Bill as to its feeding during the day, with a dozen other jobs that needed her before she could leave the house with an easy mind. She was not, indeed, finished when she heard her father's coo-ee, after which there was a wild rush, which did not include time to make any additions to her toilet. Not that it mattered, she reflected; the Simpsons would not be likely to know whether she had a dress on or not. Blue dungaree was good enough for them.
Nick O'Connor, for a wonder, looked at his daughter, when they had pushed out from shore and were gliding gently down the arm of the lake to the broader water beyond.
"That ol' dress of yours has seen its best days, hasn't it?" he said. "Seems to me it's more patch than dress."
"It is so," 'Possum answered. "Can't make 'em last for ever. Anyhow, dungaree lasts twice as long as anything else."