“I’d sooner plough my furror wi’ Steve’s steady old team than wi’ the other.”
“I’m not wantin’ ter plough any furrows,” said Maiden, indifferently.
Suse looked on womanhood as she saw it in the hard patient, loving lives about her.
“Reckon as we’ve all got some furrors, dear. But you kin take yer chance whether yer’ll have a man as’ll plough it along the ground wi’ yer fur yer bread an’ meat, or one as’ll———”
“What?”
“One as’ll plough it there, Maiden.”
The rough finger just touched the smooth girl-forehead, and Maiden straightened, flushing.
“Danny can’t plough a furrow anywhere. I saw him turning down the hem of a paddock the other day, and he made an awful mess of it. He said so himself. Is that Randal goin’ down the street?”
“Yes. Come in an hour ago lookin’ like he’d bin shelterin’ from the wet under a wire-fence. Father says he’s bin shot out o’ Mains.”
“He’s got the bullet lef’ in somewheres,” said Maiden, in pity. “They do say as he cares fur Miss Effie, Suse.”
“I know. But he won’t find her up at the Lion—if that’s where he’s goin’.”
Randal was going to the Lion. He heard the high snarl of the jet before he breasted
