“Black fellows all a-coming—one—two—ten hundred.”
The next instant he threw himself into an attitude of attack, poising his spear for hurling at the first who should cross the threshold.
“Get out,” exclaimed Samson, recovering himself; “here have I lived now two years and only seen a party or two of the poor wretches begging, and—”
“But they burned Riley’s hut, and butchered his wife and children,” said Tom, earnestly.
“Don’t believe it,” said Samson, sturdily, “only a bugbear made up by some of them pioneering chaps to frighten new-comers from going up country and taking claims, so that they may have best choice themselves.”
“Wallace’s boy’s head was battered in,” said Tom.
“Gammon,” said Samson, who, however, could not help looking uneasily towards the black.
“Then there was Ellis’s poor gal; you know how they served her.”
“Hold your tongue, will you?” growled Samson; “do you want to frighten the women to death?” and as he spoke he clapped his hand over his convict servant’s mouth, and glanced uneasily towards the door which led into the interior of the hut—one that was unusually large, for during Samson’s pleasant sojourn in this smiling wilderness, matters had prospered with him, and bit by bit he had added to his dwelling, and found himself compelled to make fresh arrangements for his flocks and ever-multiplying herds.
“Did you call?” said a pleasant voice, and then the door opened, and Samson’s comely wife made her appearance.