"What else 've you got?" inquired her father.
"Why, I ain't got nothin' else but dungaree, except me oilskin, an' me old thick skirt," 'Possum answered, in some astonishment. "It's the most useful; an' I never have time to put on other clothes. I got three of these—enough to get 'em washed when they want it."
"H'm," said her father thoughtfully. "Well, it looks a bit rum. You'd better get a new one, I think, an' give that ol' rag a rest: it looks about fit to make good floorcloths."
"Right," said 'Possum cheerfully. Even of dungaree, a new dress was a pleasant, almost exciting experience: albeit dungaree when new is more like petrified wood-pulp than anything else, and only ceases to scratch the wearer severely after many washings. She wondered, would she depart from her usual custom of buying a man's jumper for the blouse, and, instead, try to make it a little like some of Mrs. Macleod's working dresses Then, with a shrug, she gave up the idea. She knew she could not fashion the harsh, unyielding material into anything pretty—even if she could sew well enough. "An' you jolly well can't," she told herself. "You ain't the kind to wear pretty things, anyhow."
They had reached the lake, and were running along half a mile from the shore. It was a hot day, with a fitful wind coming in puffs off the land, where, probably, it was scorching things considerably; but here, tempered by their swift motion, and by its path over the water, it was only cool and refreshing, and made their journey an easy matter. 'Possum had done a hard week's work: it was pleasant to sit idly in the boat, watching the water cream away from the bow, and the waves sparkle under the sun's rays. They passed fishing boats, hurrying in to hand over their catch to the Bairnsdale steamer; and one or two motor-launches from the hotels, crammed with gaily-dressed summer visitors bent on a long day's picnic, crossed their bows, the occupants glancing curiously at the unkempt girl in the sailing boat, who drew her battered felt hat over her brows, and concealed herself after the fashion of the ostrich. 'Possum disliked all summer visitors. They were a useful species, in providing a market for eggs and vegetables, but nothing could have induced her to believe that they did not laugh at her.
They reached their destination in good time, and received the usual Bush welcome from Mr. Simpson, a lean and silent settler, and Mrs. Simpson, who was also lean, but not at all silent, as well as from a large horde of little Simpsons, to whom visitors were an infrequent and glorious excitement. Nick disappeared with his host in the direction of the pigsty, while 'Possum remained in the kitchen and nursed the last baby and the last but one, between whom there seemed but a slight difference in point of age. In the intervals of this employment she peeled potatoes, washed cabbages, and gave slices of bread and treacle to any little Simpson who demanded them—which occurred with extraordinary frequency; and later, finding her hostess' bed still unmade, rectified this, and swept the room. Mrs. Simpson was grateful.
"There's some people comes into the house and they wouldn't lift a finger to do a hand's turn for you," she remarked. "But I do say you're not like that, 'Possum O'Connor. I never seen your equal for findin' out things to be done. It's a comfort to see how that baby takes to you, like. She ain't been well, an' she howls the whole blessed night an' most of the day. Makes you fair tired. Not as what you ain't always tired, with seven of 'em under your feet all day. But a woman's born to be tired, so it ain't no use to grumble. Delia O'Hea, across the lake, she grumbles, an' her husband he up an' hit her the other day. Said he was full up. I wouldn't blame him, neither. Well, thank goodness, Jim ain't never lifted a hand to me yet. I wouldn't advise him to, neither—he's smaller'n me. Well, ain't you got any news, 'Possum? Might as well be in the Equator for all the news we get here."
"No, I don't think there's any," 'Possum answered, dancing the last baby until it roared with joy. "I never go anywhere, except to sell aigs an' veg'tables. Sellin' flowers, too, this year. Mrs. Macleod put me up to that."
"Oh, tell us about the Macleods," Mrs. Simpson begged, pausing, rolling-pin in hand, in smoothing out dough. "Jim, he saw Mr. Macleod at the sales one day with your father, an' he said there was none of old Gordon's style about him. Said he was a toff, all right, but none o' your stand-off toffs. Jolly, too, Jim said, an' didn't mind sayin' straight out that he didn't know a thing about calves. Nor he didn't neither, Jim said."
"Well, you wouldn't expect him to," 'Possum said. "And it don't matter not to know anything, if you know you don't know. It's when you think you do that you fall in."