“We have had an accident, Oom, and by bad luck not a drop of brandy in the camp. Can you let us have a little? Enough to keep the man going until we get him into hospital.”
“I have brandy but not for you,” was the surly response.
Braddon reddened angrily, but he knew the old man’s trouble, and strove to be patient.
“Oom, it is not for me. The poor fellow’s leg is broken in two places. I ask you in common humanity.”
“That talk is no good here. You will get no brandy of mine.”
“Sis, Poppey, then—” put in Chrissie in soft remonstrance. But Poppey turned on her bellowing like a wounded bull.
“Is this my house or yours? Mastag! Do I keep brandy to pour down the throats of rooi-neks who steal my land?”
Braddon who had been standing with his hat off now replaced it and turned away. It was only too clear that he was wasting time. But he threw one Parthian shot over his shoulder.
“As a matter of fact it is a Dutchman who is hurt. A decent young fellow, too, of the same name as your own.” He walked away.
“How can you be so cruel, Poppa, then?” cried the girl turning fiercely on her father, her eyes bright with tears and anger.