Then the Clerk of the Weather messed-up everything. We had suffered from a drought since Christmas, and it was now late in March. The sky was overcast. Henry received word to come in on the Wednesday for urgent business with the Show officials. He apologised, but said he would take charge of me the moment Pa and Ma arrived on Thursday morning, and would drive me to the Show Ground.

“Ha!” scoffed Ma. “You’ll find you won’t have your own way with a hard-shelled old lady-killer.”

The drought took a notion to break on Wednesday. It poured all the afternoon so that I could hardly make old Bandicoot face it when I went to meet Great-aunt Jane, who was arriving from Gool Gool; and the cattle went shivering campwards with humped backs and lowered heads. It was called a heavy thunderstorm, most opportune to lay the dust for the morrow, but rain fell again during the night. The morning was grey, but held up sufficiently for us to start. I shared the back seat with Aunt Jane.

The rain got heavier and heavier, obscuring the horizon, and Auburn Street was running creeks as we took refuge in the hotel yard. Mr. Beauchamp and Billy were both at the front door awaiting us. They did not know each other, but had been talking.

The rain was so torrential that there was no hope of going to the Show Ground. Ring events were impossible until it lifted. When we came into the hotel parlour, Billy and Mr. Beauchamp were both there. I introduced them. Billy immediately “turned dawg” and looked most bilious.

Mr. Beauchamp was in high spirits. Something seemed to so amuse him that he could not contain himself. I whispered to him that my plans, like his, had to be altered somewhat, that I was to be photographed on Mr. Olliver’s horse, but that Aunt Jane would companion him to the show. “She’s a dear,” I said. “Ma is never done singing her praises, and says she wishes I was only a quarter as good.”

Mr. Beauchamp’s eyes danced. I withdrew to Billy. He muttered a curse on the drought having taken this day to break and said that young Masters had a wonderful gramophone at the Royal and had invited me to come and hear it if the rain continued.

We set off at once, Billy carrying the handbag with my habit, as I could dress at the Royal later. I had friends there in mine host and his wards. Mr. Beauchamp came to the door and wished us well with unforced glee, but Billy looked angry and chapfallen.

“Is Beauchamp a married man?” he really hissed, as soon as we were safely in the street.

“No.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“He’s the Show judge, and Ma and Pa knew him up the country.”

“AAAAH! He told me he was staying at ’Possum Gully.”

I wondered what Mr. Beauchamp could have said to Billy to make him so queer. He turned quite wooden. He had no reason to be glum, as I went off with him, keeping my word under Mr. Beauchamp’s nose. Billy bought me the regulation chocolates—a huge box—and we proceeded to the gramophone until the clouds should break. One of the Masters from out our way was the proud possessor. It played “Arrah go on,” and some other songs. During the recital a messenger arrived with a note for me.