ouldn't like it,
of course, but they certainly wouldn't have made it harder for the man
they were helping by putting on frills!"

"Well, you'd hate to have to get a woman to do a job like that."

"Of course you would. You'd never do it unless it came to a question of
saving a beast or easing its pain. But if it did come to the point, a
decent woman with backbone would lend a hand, just as she's help if it
was the man himself that was hurt. At least, most Australian women
would, or most of those in the country, at any rate. I'd disown Norah
if she didn't."

"I should hope so!" said Norah, quietly.

"At the same time, I've not the remotest intention of employing you as
a vet., old woman," said Jim, untying her hair ribbons in a brotherly
fashion. "Quite enough for you to act in that capacity for that rum
beggar, Lal Chunder--who's departed, by the way, leaving you his
blessing and a jolly little brass tray. The blessing was rather
unintelligible, but there's no doubt about the tray."

"Bother!" said Norah, vexedly. "Silly man! I don't want him to give me
presents--and that wound of his ought certainly to have been looked
after for a few days."

"He said he was going to travel with Ram Das--and old Ram'll see that he
ties it up, I expect," said Jim, with unconcern. "I wouldn't bother,
old first-aid; it looked tip-top when you dressed it before breakfast."

"I'd have given him rag for it, anyway," said Norah, still troubled.

"He can always tear half a yard or so off that turban of his," Jim
said. "Don't go out of your way to meet worry, my girl--it'll always
come quickly enough to meet you. Which is philosophy quite equal to
Wally's!" He sighed. "Here's trouble coming to meet us now, that's
certain!"

CHAPTER XIII

STATION DOINGS

I see as I stand at the slip-rails, dreaming,
Merry riders that mount and meet;
Sun on the saddles, gleaming, gleaming,
Red dust wrapping the horses' feet.
W. H. OGILVIE

They had turned the corner of the house leading to the verandah off
which Mr. Linton's office opened, and where that gentleman was
presumably to be found, wrestling with the intricacies of his
income-tax schedule--the squatter's yearly bugbear. Along this verandah
came, slowly, Cecil, beautiful to behold in a loose brown suit, with
buff coloured shirt and flowing orange tie. Wally cast a swift glance
at his ankles, and chuckled.

"He's got new socks on!" he said, in a sepulchral whi