“Why cut them up, sir?” replied the big driver, staring at the boy wonderingly. “Best bits—beef.”
Chapter Seventeen.
A Deed of Mercy.
“Come, I call this good luck,” cried the big driver, as, following the black foreloper and with the Hottentot behind, the long line of bullocks two and two came placidly into sight, looking none the worse for the night attack, and in no wise troubled for the loss of two of their brethren.
“Luck!” cried Mark. “It’s glorious! I shall be glad when father knows.”
“Ah, we will soon let him know,” said Buck good-humouredly; “leastways, as soon as I can; but it takes longer to inspan than it does to fill one’s pipe. But poor old Peter won’t hurt much. He’s a bit sore, of course. A span of bullocks arn’t a nice thing to dance over a fellow, even if he is by natur’ like a bit of Indy-rubber. I say—now you listen.”
For as the little Hottentot came into sight Buck hailed him with some incomprehensible question, the response to which was that he and the foreloper had climbed a big tree that was close to the first waggon.
“There, what did I tell you?” said the big fellow, with a chuckle, as he interpreted the Hottentot’s reply. “My chaps know how to take care of theirselves when them great cats are on the way. Here, you have it out with old Dunn Brown.”