skirt to lend to some one. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Whoever in this world could he——"
She ran to see, but her riding skirt was safe.
"What are you raving about now?" I said. "He's bought a new coat, and he's making a bushranging mystery about it as usual that's all it is."
"It wasn't a coat," said Mary, obstinately. "It was a dress."
I didn't bother arguing with her.
Everybody turned up that Sunday to dinner, or an hour or so afterwards—except James, and I supposed he had stayed to dinner somewhere. It was Bush fashion to drop into Sunday dinner anywhere—there was always plenty, rough as it was, and the women could wash a plate for a newcomer when somebody else was done. There was Dave Regan, the drover, and my old mate, Jack Barnes, and Andy Maculloch, an old droving chum of mine; and old Jim Bullock and Old Peter, station hands from Wall's; and little Jimmy Nowlett, the bullock-driver—he's just brought up a load of fencing wire for Wall; and Ryan, the horse-breaker; and some women and girls who had driven over in spring carts.
We were all camped on the verandah after dinner, smoking and yarning, and some snoozing, others draining the big canvas water-bag dry while getting through the heat and over the dinner. Some one spoke of James and asked where he was, and that reminded Ryan of his buck-jumping experience, and he told it again. It was about a horse he broke in once for a Mrs. Murphy at Talbragar.
