It was a typical Australian Spring day. The sky was blue, the air
was fresh, the breeze made great, long, rippling waves in the grass,
and every soul in the place--Mary in particular--seemed determined
to enjoy it to the utmost.
Revoke, the station champion, came in first in his race, and was
promptly disqualified for short weight, but Mary didn't care.
"What is the use of worrying over it?" she said. "It doesn't really
matter."
"I have been done," said the bushman. "Red Mick lent me the lead-cloth,
and helped me saddle up, and I believe he took some lead out while
we were saddling. It never dropped out. That I'm sure of."
"Oh, never mind, Mr. Gordon! Forget it! There's your brother, Hugh,
thinks we ought not to have come, and now you are turning sulky.
Why do all you Australian people amuse yourselves so sadly?"
"I don't know what you mean by sadly," said Charlie, huffed. "I
think you ladies had better go home soon. Things are likely to be
a bit lively later on. They have got a door off its hinges and laid
on the ground, and a fiddler playing jigs, and the men and women
are dancing each other down; it won't be long till there'll be a
fight, and somebody will get stretched out."
Sure enough, they could see an excited crowd of people gathered
round a fiddler, who was playing away for dear life, and the yells
and whoops told them that partisanship was running high.
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