"Right," said her father.  He gathered up pipe, tobacco and matches, and strode from the house, and ’Possum disappeared in the direction of the shed. There was a sick calf to be tended, and instructions to be given to Bertha and young Bill as to its feeding during the day, with a dozen other jobs that needed her before she could leave the house with an easy mind.  She was not, indeed, finished when she heard her father’s coo-ee, after which there was a wild rush, which did not include time to make any additions to her toilet.  Not that it mattered, she reflected; the Simpsons would not be likely to know whether she had a dress on or not. Blue dungaree was good enough for them.