“Too hot, I think,” Robin said, lazily. “Where do you want to go?”
“Oh, anywhere. What’s the good of staying in the house?”
“I don’t see much good in going out, either, in this weather. There isn’t a trout in the creek that would rise, on a day like this, and you know you wouldn’t get a shot at a rabbit until the evening. Unless you want to be like all the other tourists, and shoot parrots and jackasses!”
This was a calculated insult, and Barry responded by a well-aimed cushion. Robin caught it deftly and tucked it under her head.
“Thanks: I just wanted that. Barry, why can’t you read a book nicely like a good little boy?”
“Because I’m not one, I expect,” said Barry, truthfully. “I was one, once, before I came here—but two months of your society have had an awful effect on me. And I have read all the books I want to, and—I say, Robin, how about a swim?”
“Well, that is not such a foolish idea,” Robin said. “In fact, it seems the most possible thing to do, since you won’t let me read quietly. But I must get afternoon tea first.”
“I’ll help you,” he said. He disappeared violently from the veranda, and she heard the clatter of the kettle against the kitchen tap.
January was nearly over, and Barry was still an inmate of Hill Farm. Indeed, he could hardly be called a mere inmate, so much had he become a member of the family. His father and mother had returned from their Queensland trip, and had kindly invited him to return home, but the invitation had not been a command, and Barry had begged that he might remain where he was. Melbourne in mid-January made no appeal to him: nearly all his friends would be out of Town, having fled to the hills or the seaside, and he saw a dreary vision of hot streets with dusty tram-cars crawling up and down them. If Mrs. Hurst would have him—and Mrs. Hurst had nobly refrained from making any objection—why might he not stay at Hill Farm until school once more drew him into its relentless clutch? And since Dr. and Mrs. Lane had no sufficient answer to this query, at Hill Farm he had stayed.
Robin and he were inseparable chums, on a purely boyish footing. There was rarely any question of leadership on Barry’s part: he had learned from the first that he had to defer to Robin’s superior knowledge, and to adapt his days, if he wanted her companionship, to her occupations. It was fortunate for him that these occupations were rarely of a feminine nature. He was too active to remain unemployed while she worked; therefore it came about that while she milked Bessy he fed pigs, and while she trained runner beans in the way they should go, he dug potatoes—since, if they were to have time to play, work must be done first. Because they were young, and often very feather-headed, it was true that the work was not infrequently scamped; the garden was by no means the place of shining neatness that it had been in November, and it was possible, with the naked eye, to find weeds flourishing among the rows of vegetables. The painting of the garden fence had never been completed. The allies had, indeed attacked it, taking each one side, and had worked until the eastern half was done; then it had seemed a rather dreary prospect to begin upon the western half, and by mutual consent the work had been put aside until there was nothing better to do—a period that did not seem likely to arrive while Barry remained at Hill Farm. There were always so many things more interesting that clamoured for their attention.