“Do you behave like that in Melbourne?” he demanded, laughing, an arm round each.
“Gracious, no! we’re models of deportment,” Jo answered. “But then you’re not in Melbourne, and you’ve a terribly demoralizing effect, Father. Oh, there’s the baby! and he’s grown yards!” She hugged Billy.
“Baby yourself!” quoth Billy, indignantly. He hopped about them on one foot. “Give us something to carry—here, I’ll take that!” He grasped a suit-case.
“You can’t carry that, Billy darling—it’s too heavy,” Jean objected. “Take the umbrellas.”
“Umbrellas!” snorted her brother. “Boys don’t cart umbrellas round.” Gripping the suit-case, he staggered off, unheeding feminine remonstrances.
“How are you, Tom?” Mr. Weston detached himself from his daughters to greet a stout youth who had followed them from the train. “Glad to see you back, though you’ve come to a dry country.”
“It’s the best place I know, anyhow,” said Tom Holmes, shaking hands all round, and bestowing a shy grin upon the twins. “And we’ll get rain some time or other, and then every one’ll have a few thumping seasons and forget the drought. I wish Dad would let me cut school and stay at home to help him: I’ll never do a bit of good at school, and I do love messing about at home.”
“Lazy young dog!” said his father cheerfully. “Another year’s lessons won’t hurt you.”
Tom groaned dramatically.
“Latin!” he said, with a resigned shrug. “And maths! I try to stick arithmetic, so’s I’ll be able to work out interest on mortgages”—he grinned at his father—“but I’m blessed if I can see the use of Euclid or Horace or Virgil on a cattle-station. I seem to spend half my time over Virgil, but I never learn a word that’ll be handy in a tight corner with bullocks!”