I say, Bob,
it sounds the sort of life I'd love. Can't you give me a job, old man?"
"Seeing that you've done little but work on this place since you came
back from Queensland, I shouldn't think you'd need to ask for a job,"
retorted Bob. "However, I'll take you on as milker if you like--it's
about the only thing you haven't sampled."
"No," said Wally, "you won't. Whatever beast I finally take to by way
of earning my living, it won't be the cow--if I can help it. I'd sooner
graze giraffes!"
"Oh, do try!" Norah begged. "I'd love to see you trying to put a bridle
on one in a hurry!"
"Wonder what would happen if one rode a giraffe and he reared?" pondered
Jim.
"You'd have to swarm up his neck and hang on to his little horns," Wally
said. "But they're nice, silent beasts, giraffes, and I think they'd be
very restful to deal with."
Every one laughed unsympathetically. Restfulness was the last quality
to be associated with Wally, who had been remarkable throughout his life
for total inability to keep still.
"It's always the way," said Wally, in tones of melancholy. "Every
fortune teller I ever saw told me that no one understood me."
"All fortune tellers say that, and that's why people think them so
clever," said Tommy. "It's so soothing to think one is misunderstood. My
stepmother always thought so. Did Bob tell you, Mr. Linton, that we had
had letters from home?"
"No--from your people?"
"From Papa.
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