As she neared the garden, she saw her husband coming. He was riding up the track slowly, his head bent down. She turned and rode to meet him, laughing at his astonished face.
“You!” he said. “Whatever are you out for, on such a day?”
“Oh, I’ve been with the children,” she answered. “I couldn’t rest, John: I had to know. Did you get the sheep?”
“Yes, I got them,” he said. “But, Mary, what is it? Aren’t you well? Why are you troubling about it?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “But I wanted you desperately to buy those sheep, and I couldn’t rest until I knew. I don’t know why—perhaps because my silly toe still aches! Tell me about them, dear. Was Murphy glad to sell?”
“Oh, Murphy’s gone!” her husband answered.
“Couldn’t wait any longer: he cleared out two days ago, and I believe he sails for the old country to-day. He left the sheep in the agents’ hands to sell, if possible: if they were not sold when the lease of his place expired they were to put them in the yards and let them go for what they’d fetch. The agents didn’t expect to get rid of them: neither did Murphy himself. But he said, ‘Is it a mob of sheep will be keeping me from Ireland? Begob, it is not!’—and went.”
“And they’re really ours?”
“Really and truly—signed, sealed, and delivered. I saw them first—they’re not bad sheep, considering—and then fixed up the deal with the agents, in Reedy Creek. They’ve got my cheque, and I’ve got their receipt. Now, are you satisfied, you worrying woman!” He smiled down upon her from Cruiser’s back.
“Yes, I’m satisfied,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll be sorry afterwards, but I’ve faith in my old toe!”