Billy and Old Smoko Read Online Free Page B

lying in a heap of cow poop. While his father leg-roped a cow, Billy stuck his head in a can and had a good swig of warm milk.
    After milking, they carried the cans down to the river for the milk launch to collect. “This can’s a bit on the light side,” said Billy’s dad.
    Billy nodded. “Maybe the cows are going dry.”
    â€œIt’s supposed to be the flush.” His dad pulled off the lid. “My giddy aunt,” he said, “it’s half empty!”
    Billy looked at his feet. “I cannot tell a lie, Dad,” he said. “I snuck a drink out of that can.”
    â€œWere you hungry?” Billy nodded. His father whistled “Home On the Range”, leaned against a strainer post, and looked up at the Kaimais. Billy took the half-empty can and gave the full one to his father.
    â€œThat’s better,” his dad grunted, as they picked them up and carried them down to the jetty. “This can’s real heavy, full to the top. Them cows must be milking real well!”

Chapter Eight
The Sort of Thing Billy’s Father Liked to Hear, How Bo-Bo Invented Roast Pork and Old Smoko Learned to Read, and Last Night’s Cold Mashed Turnip for Tea.
    T hey dumped the cans on the jetty for the milk launch. “How’d it go today, Billy – riding Old Smoko to school?”
    â€œBeaut, thanks, Dad. I wonder what Mum’s cooking for tea?”
    Dad looked up at the Kaimais and whistled the first line of “Home On the Range” out of the corner of his mouth.
    Billy skipped as they walked up to the house. “I hope it’s something good.”
    His father’s mouth dried up so it wouldn’t whistle. He licked his lips and said, “We had dinner midday – roast leg of mutton. Matter of fact, Billy, me and your stepmother, we were so hungry, we didn’t leave much for you.”
    â€œThat’s a shame,” said Billy. “I was looking forward to tea. I need my tucker, because I’m a growing boy.”
    â€œWe’ll see what your stepmother’s got in the safe. There might be something left on the bone.”
    Billy’s stepmother grumbled, but she brought out the bone. “Some good pickings there,” she said, “lots of lovely gristle!”
    Billy chewed away at the gristle and pretended he was Old Smoko, chewing the eel’s head. “Why are you neighing?” Dad asked.
    â€œI got my nose squashed against the bone,” Billy gasped.
    â€œYou’ve polished that bone clean I meant it to do for your tea tomorrow as well you needn’t think you’re going to come home and gormandise like a king every night,” said his stepmother. “And why you have to come to the table reeking of liniment I’ll never understand for the life of me you know very well if there’s one smell I can’t stand it’s oil of wintergreen.”
    Billy looked at his father, but he glanced away, licked his lips, and tried to whistle.
    â€œThat school the boy’s going to,” his stepmother told Billy’s dad, “they reckon they’re going to waste time on learning him frills.”
    â€œFrills?”
    â€œReading and rubbish like that writing and spelling all frills and fal-de-rals I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
    Dad put on a pinny, leaned against the sink, started washing the dishes, and whistled “Home on the Range” while Billy dried.
    â€œWell?” said Billy’s stepmother. “Say something to the boy!”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Billy’s father, looking down at thesoap shaker, a tin he’d punched full of nail holes and with a lump of yellow soap inside. He shook it by the number eight wire handle till the sink was full of bubbles. “Here I spend the best years of my life in the cowshed, working my fingers to the bone to pay for your education, and they fritter it away on frills and