“Roaring squalls?” said Mark, laughing. “Yes, Mr Mark, sir, roaring squallers, who as soon as they scent us out will be full of the idee that we have come here on purpose to bring them a change of wittles.”
“Oh, you mean that they are rather tired of venison and want to have beef.”
“That’s right, Mr Mark, sir; and we can’t pay them out, because though they can eat my bullocks we can’t eat them.”
“No, Buck, but we can pepper their hides and salt their skins.”
“Pepper ’em, sir? We want to give them something stronger than that—some of the hard bullets you have got in the waggon. I have been having it over with black Mak, and he’s quite at home here and is on the look out for a place where we can build up what they calls a zareba of bushes and rock with a good fire inside. We mustn’t have another night like that last.”
Just then Peter Dance and Bob Bacon came into sight, laden with a pretty good faggot of dry wood that they had hacked off, and which they secured to the tail of the second waggon ready for starting the cooking fire when they made camp.
The men were intent upon their work; and each had a light billhook stuck behind him in his belt, and while Dance was readjusting his faggot his chopping tool nearly slipped out of where it was slightly stuck, while in trying to save it from falling, the keeper, who had quite forgotten his bruises, glanced for a moment in their direction.
“I say, young gentlemen,” said the big driver, speaking from behind his hand, “warn’t it rum? It was just as if Peter felt that we were talking about him.”
“What, about his letting the fire out?” said Mark. “Oh, we must forget that. I don’t believe he would ever do it again.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Buck, and he swung himself along to overtake the waggon, giving his big whip a crack or two and his span of bullocks a few verbal admonitions to trek.