“Oh yes, a few miles away. Mr Dillon, the magistrate, Leather’s late employer, is the nearest—ten miles distant.”
“Then home must be a very lonely place.”
“We have never found it so, Nic,” said his father drily. “Busy people are never lonely. Now then, I think I’ve behaved very well to you and spared your feelings. I promise that I will not laugh at you.”
“What about, father?”
“Your first essay at trotting. It is of no use to keep a horse and ride at a walk. You can progress as fast as that on your own legs.”
Nic drew a deep breath, and wished that he was bestriding a donkey on the common near the Friary, with his schoolmates looking on instead of his father.
“I’m ready, father,” he said.
“Wait a few minutes. I want to accustom you to holding your gun on horseback. You will always have either a gun or a stock-whip, but I don’t want you to begin your career as a squatter—”
“I say, father, what a horrible name that is for a sheep farmer!”
“‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ Nic. ‘Squatter’ does very well; and I say I don’t want you to begin your career by shooting your father or his horse. So you shall have a shot at something. You will not be afraid to fire your gun?”