A furious oath of a strictly British character escaped Rayon’s lips, but the next instant he collected himself together, apologized most deeply for swearing, and explained that having had a fever, he was obliged to wear a “peruke.”
“Yes, I see,” laughed Mat; “but I wish you would give me the address of the gentleman who cropped you. I want my own hair cut!”
By this time Rayon had mounted a horse which was tied up close to the hut, and which Mat saw was a stranger to the station, a better class of animal than he had seen on the run yet. Feeling himself now safe, the “Professor” turned to Mat with a scowl,—
“You’ll find out before long, you low-bred gipsy.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” yelled our forester, as the man rode away. “You lost your head when you lost your wig. Why didn’t you keep to French, you fool? I mightn’t have understood you then. I do now.”
Rayon seemed half inclined to rein up as he heard this parting shot, but thinking better of it, only replied by an insulting gesture, and the next minute galloped out of sight.
Mat was now in a dilemma.
He would have given anything to have stayed behind, and let the squire and Tabor go on to Tom’s abode; but when, upon meeting with Bell, he suggested this, and gave his reasons, the latter would not listen to him, but for once lost his temper with our hero, replying in an angry tone,—
“Stop behind? We go without you? Don’t talk like that, Mat, when there’s all this bother at the out-station. You don’t know foreigners as I do (the squire had met somewhere about a dozen in his life). Three parts of the French nation wear wigs, just as all the Germans wear spectacles. Tell “Dromoora” to look after the station; we shan’t be gone long. Come.”
Mat was not convinced, but was fain at length to let the old man have his way, as he was getting more purple than ever with rage. So calling up the chief, he put him on his guard, at the same time telling him to warn Tim, who might arrive any hour.