“But there’s another thing,” Jean said. “Why were you so worried in the hut when we spoke of the police?”
The patient reddened.
“Well, you mustn’t give me away,” he said. “The fact is, I’d been making a collection of platypus skins—the little beggars are very thick in the creek near our place. And it was only the day before that I found out they were strictly protected, and that I was liable to imprisonment, or beheading, or something, for having the skins in my possession. So, when you talked police, of course I thought it was my poor old platypi!”
* * * * *
But this was after the rain had stopped—it had poured for four days and nights without cessation—and already there was a green tinge all over Emu Plains. The river was running almost a banker: the creeks had overflowed for miles, and the flood-waters were beginning to recede, leaving the paddocks covered with a muddy silt, as good as a dressing of fertilizer. All over the country, thankful men spoke of the wonderful rain, and predicted wonderful grass to follow; the land had rested for a year, and now there would be such a season as would wipe out the memory of the evil time. Already there was talk of bringing back the stock from Gippsland: owners were beginning to plan to stock up their places again, and sheep and cattle had risen sharply in price.
“I’m going to make a hatful of money over those sheep of Murphy’s,” John Weston told his wife. “By the time I’m ready to sell them sheep will be four or five times what they are to-day! and they’re worth twice what I gave for them now.” He looked down at her very tenderly. “You can begin to choose the colour of your motor—I reckon that old toe of yours has earned a car! It shall be carried in luxury for the rest of its time.”
“Then it might not do its duty so well,” she said, laughing.
“It has done its job,” he answered. “I don’t want it ever to ache again!”
They looked out across the paddocks, faintly green. About them was the smell of growing things: although the land was still bare, it was different—there was no longer the feeling of barren desolation. The garden was already bursting into new life, and new life was stirring in every one.
“I don’t want a motor particularly, John,” she said. “But I want to give a good time to my twinses!”