“May I see the dance soon!” said her husband, almost solemnly. “By the way, that fellow Conlan was giving me a chance of buying sheep last night.”
“And feed with them?” Mrs. Weston queried, drily.
“Feed? Well, yes, as it happens. It would be rather a chance, if one had ready money—and pluck. A cousin of his named Murphy, a queer old chap, has just been left a property in Ireland, and he’s anxious to clear out at once and go back to take possession of it. He rents a place ten miles away, on Reedy Creek, where he runs sheep. His lease has only a couple of months to run, and he’s willing to forfeit that, or to give it in to any one who’ll buy his sheep. Dirt cheap, too, they are. But, of course, no one’s buying stock now, especially for ready money, which is what old Murphy wants. In two months’ time this country will be like the Sahara, unless we get rain.”
“What a chance—if rain should come!” said his wife.
“Rather. But it would be simply a gamble: of course the sheep are as poor as crows, Conlan says. They can scratch up a sort of a living, but they couldn’t travel. That’s the sort of gamble a man can face if he has a good fat balance in the Bank: not unless. Conlan was very sorry. He brought me the offer first.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him I guessed he had as much ready money as I had, just now. He grinned at that, and said, ‘Well, indeed, I bought a pair of Injinrubber ducks for the Missus last week, but it took some scratching up to raise the cash!’ I told him to go to Holmes about Murphy’s sheep. But I don’t suppose even Evan Holmes has any spare cash now.”
He rose, yawning.
“Well, I must see to some things,” he said. “I’ll lie down after dinner, and have a sleep. I don’t suppose Sarah has enough wood to go on with for the kitchen stove.”
“Oh, yes, she has,” his wife answered, with a smile. “The twins got it. They chopped mightily. Jean remarked that she hoped you wouldn’t notice any logs, or you would certainly think a dog had gnawed them off! And they milked.”