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The flies buzzed round them under the hot iron roof; out in the garden locusts rasped; but the interminable hour passed at last, and then hats were put on, and away they all sped across the paddocks to the shed. The engine was beating steadily, running the machines within the shed, where the sweating shearers passed comb and cutter over the prostrate sheep, bringing off the gray matted fleece in one thick piece. Holmes and Rodney were in the yards, drafting the ewes and lambs through the race—the swinging gate, shutting mothers into one yard, children into another. What an alarmed protest of bleating and baa-ing filled the air! The men shouting to hurry them on, the dogs barking, and the Maori boys—the sheep-os—laughing and chattering as they filled up the pens inside the shed ready for the shearers.

“Come along to give us a hand?” shouted Holmes to Ann.

She nodded, smiling at him, and leaned against the outer post and rail fence of the yards. He came across to her.

“Like to have a look at the shed first?”

“I’d love to.”

He glanced a trifle doubtfully at her fresh linen frock.

“You’ll probably get a bit dirty in there. What about your dress?”

“It’ll wash,” she answered cheerfully.

“Come on, then. Come on, young ’uns.”

He led the way in at the back of the shed. Along the length of the building the shearers were ranged, each man at his machine; they were all Maoris, clad in old belted trousers, with a wisp of singlet, or