“I’m just dying for a row on the river. Would you oblige me?” I said.
“Just look at the thermometer!” exclaimed Miss Augusta. “Wait till it gets cooler, child.”
“Oh, I love the heat!” I replied. “And I am sure it won’t hurt his lordship. He’s used to the sun, to judge from all appearances.”
“Yes, I don’t think it can destroy my complexion,” he said good-humouredly, rubbing his finger and thumb along his stubble-covered chin. The bushmen up-country shaved regularly every Sunday morning, but never during the week for anything less than a ball. They did this to obviate the blue—what they termed “scraped pig”—appearance of the faces of city men in the habit of using the razor daily, and to which they preferred the stubble of a seven-days’ beard. “I’ll take you to the river in half an hour,” he said, rising from his seat. “First I must stick on one of Warrigal’s shoes that he’s flung. I want him tomorrow, and must do it at once, as he always goes lame if ridden immediately after shoeing.”
“Shall I blow the bellows?” I volunteered.
“Oh no, thanks. I can manage myself. It would be better though if I had some one. But I can get one of the girls.”
“Can’t you get one of the boys?” said his aunt.
“There’s not one in. I sent every one off to the Triangle paddock today to do some drafting. They all took their quart pots and a snack in their saddle-bags, and won’t be home till dark.”
“Let me go,” I persisted; “I often blow the bellows for uncle Jay-Jay, and think it great fun.”
The offer of my services being accepted, we set out.