“So do I, George, and I think his song must be a psalm, if we knew all.”
“That it is, for Heaven taught it him. We must try and keep all this in our hearts when we get among the broken bottles, and foul language, and gold,” says George. “How sweet it all smells, sweeter than before.”
“That is because it is afternoon.”
“Yes! or along of the music; that tune was a breath from home that makes everything please me. Now this is the first Sunday that has looked, and smelled, and sounded Sunday.”
“George, it is hard to believe the world is wicked. Everything seems good, and gentle, and at peace with heaven and earth.”
A jet of smoke issued from the bush, followed by the report of a gun, and Carlo, who had taken advantage of George's revery to slip on ahead, gave a sharp howl, and spun round upon all fours.
“The scoundrels!” shrieked Robinson. And in a moment his gun was at his shoulder, and he fired both barrels slap into the spot whence the smoke had issued.
Both the men dashed up and sprang into the bush revolver in hand, but ere they could reach it the dastard had run for it; and the scrub was so thick pursuit was hopeless. The men returned full of anxiety for Carlo.
The dog met them, his tail between his legs, but at sight of George he wagged his tail, and came to him and licked George's hand, and walked on with them, licking George's hand every now and then.
“Look, Tom, he is as sensible as a Christian. He knows the shot was meant for him, though they didn't hit him.”