“Can’t you get one of the boys?” said his aunt.

“There’s not one in.  I sent every one off to the Triangle paddock today to do some drafting.  They all took their quart pots and a snack in their saddle-bags, and won’t be home till dark.”

“Let me go,” I persisted; “I often blow the bellows for uncle Jay-Jay, and think it great fun.”

The offer of my services being accepted, we set out.

Harold took his favourite horse, Warrigal, from the stable, and led him to the blacksmith’s forge under an open, stringybark-roofed shed, nearly covered with creepers.  He lit a fire and put a shoe in it.  Doffing his coat and hat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and donning a leather apron, he began preparing the horse’s hoof.

When an emergency arose that necessitated uncle Jay-Jay shoeing his horses himself.  I always manipulated the bellows, and did so with great decorum, as he was very exacting and I feared his displeasure.  In this case it was different.  I worked the pole with such energy that it almost blew the whole fire out of the pan, and sent the ashes and sparks in a whirlwind around Harold.  The horse—­a touchy beast—­snorted and dragged his foot from his master’s grasp.

“That the way to blow?” I inquired demurely.

“Take things a little easier,” he replied.

I took them so very easily that the fire was on the last gasp and the shoe nearly cold when it was required.

“This won’t do,” said Beecham.

I recommenced blowing with such force that he had to retreat.

“Steady I steady!” he shouted.

“Sure O’i can’t plaze yez anyhows,” I replied.

“If you don’t try to plaze me directly I’ll punish you in a way you won’t relish,” he said laughingly.  But I knew he was thinking of a punishment which I would have secretly enjoyed.

“If you don’t let me finish this work I’ll make one of the men do it tonight by candle-light when they come home tired.  I know you wouldn’t like them to do that,” he continued.

“Arrah, go on, ye’re only tazin’!” I retorted.  “Don’t you remember telling me that Warrigal was such a nasty-tempered brute that he allowed no one but yourself to touch him?”

“Oh well, then, I’m floored, and will have to put up with the consequences,” he good-humouredly made answer.

Seeing that my efforts to annoy him failed, I gave in, and we were soon done, and then started for the river—­Mr Beecham clad in a khaki suit and I in a dainty white wrapper and flyaway sort of hat.  In one hand my host held a big white umbrella, with which he shaded me from the hot rays of the October sun, and in the other was a small basket containing cake and lollies for our delectation.