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“It makes a difference in the value of the wool, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, a little frown drawing down his brows above troubled eyes.

“Fleeces are light, too. The dry winter and spring meant very little feed for the stock.”

“Will it be a bad shearing?”

“Just about as bad as it can be. A record bad clip, I should say.”

“Poor Mr. Holmes. How worried he must be.”

“Well, you’ve got to take the rough with the smooth. But things haven’t been too easy for him lately, I’m thinking.”

He pulled himself up suddenly, and shot a little, half-resentful glance at the girl beside him, as though by some obscure mind process he blamed her for his lapse into this semi-confidential discussion of “the boss.”

“All sheep-farmers have bad years and good years,” he went on. “You’ve got to expect a poor clip sometimes.”

Hicky—the big half-caste in charge of the shearing gang—appeared at the back of the shed, and hailed Marsh.

“Come here a minute, Rod.”

There was an easy assurance, almost insolence of command in the tone, and Ann knew that the young shepherd beside her stiffened.

“What is it?” he asked coolly.

“The boss wants you.”

“That’s all right, Hicky,” said Holmes, who now appeared beside the half-caste in the doorway. Hicky, dismissed, went back into the shed, and Holmes,