“Why, that the lads are safe.”
“Safe! Of course they’re safe. What the devil is to harm them?”
“Oh, nothing; nothing, to be sure,” said old Tom. “You see, George, since the old woman died, Maurice has been all to me; and it makes me kinder anxious. It’s a week since they started from the mine, and you’d ha’ thought they’d be here now. But it’s nothing unusual, I s’pose; nothing at all. Just my darned folly.”
“What’s to harm them?” repeated George Hutton again, arguing to convince himself rather than his comrade. “It’s a straight road from the diggin’s to Rathurst, and then through the hills past Bluemansdyke, and over the Wawirra by the ford and so down to Trafalgar by the bush track. There’s nothin’ deadly in all that, is there? My son Allan’s as dear to me as Maurice can be to you, mate,” he continued; “but they know the ford well, and there’s no other bad place. They’ll be here to-morrow night, certain.”
“Please God they may!” said Broadhurst; and the two men lapsed into silence for some time, moodily staring into the glow of the fire and pulling at their short clays.
It was indeed, as Hutton had said, a dirty night. The wind was howling down through the gorges of the western mountains, and whirling and eddying among the streets of Trafalgar; whistling through the chinks in the rough wood cabins, and tearing away the frail shingles which formed the roofs. The streets were deserted, save for one or two stragglers from the drinking shanties, who wrapped their cloaks around them and staggered home through the wind and rain toward their own cabins.
The silence was broken by Broadhurst, who was evidently still ill at ease.
“Say, George,” he said, “what’s become of Josiah Mapleton?”
“Went to the diggin’s.”
“Ay; but he sent word he was coming back.”