“Yes, and Rex is looking ever so much better already,” said Jo, with satisfaction.
“H’m,” sniffed Sarah, who adored Billy and viewed with distrust and suspicion any small boy so completely unlike him. “I dunno that you’ll ever make a man of him. He’s built wrong. Think he’ll ever swim?”
“Oh, yes—after a bit,” Jo said. “One can’t expect too much all at once.”
They had agreed between themselves that it would be extremely unwise to try to hurry Rex’s development in the water; and as they followed the boys down to the river that afternoon they reminded each other of his disadvantages, deciding that for a week or two they would not think of allowing him to try to swim alone.
“I’d rather wait a month than risk him losing his nerve,” Jo remarked, as they neared the river-bank. “It’s one thing to paddle round with someone holding you, and quite another to find yourself with nothing but cold water as a support. And he’s such a scared little kid. We’d never forgive ourselves if——”
She broke off, gaping. They had come within sight of the pool; and there, beside the rope, the “scared little kid” was swimming solemnly, his earnest face, with very tightly-shut lips, held stiffly away from the water, his eyes anxiously watching for them, to make sure they missed no detail of his prowess. At the sight of their amazed faces he uttered a kind of triumphant snort, and promptly sank—emerging a second later, grinning broadly. Beside him, Billy swung upon the rope, chanting a gleeful song.
“Well—I—never!” gasped the twins, in unison.
“We couldn’t wait for you,” called Billy patronizingly. “You’re so jolly slow at teaching a chap to swim!”
CHAPTER XII
RESPONSIBILITIES
MOTHER had gone to Melbourne, much against her will, to see the dentist—that useful person who secures for many Bush mothers their only chance of a holiday to the city. But on this occasion Mrs. Weston was not in the least grateful for the trip. In better times, when a visit to Town meant pretty clothes, theatres and smart restaurants, the necessity for a few painful hours in the dentist’s chair never seemed a high price to pay. But now, with so little money to spare that her beloved twins had to work at home, the journey was merely a nuisance, and she resented having to spend so much upon herself—after the fashion of mothers. Melbourne was hot, dusty, and empty of all the people she knew: they were all at the seaside or in the cool shelter of the hills. Mrs. Weston harried the dentist until he consented to hurry through her treatment, and thankfully sent a telegram to Emu Plains to announce her speedy return.