“All right, miss. So this is young master? How do, sir? Glad to see you. Master close home?”
“No, no, Samson,” said Mrs Braydon anxiously. “What do you think? My son was sent on to see if we were safe here. The blacks are out, and a party surprised them by the waggon.”
To Nic’s annoyance the man showed a few very old yellow teeth in an ugly laugh.
“Master’ll surprise some o’ them if they don’t take to their legs mighty sharp, missus.”
“Then you don’t think there’s any danger?”
“Yes, I do—for them,” said the man. “Some on ’em’ll be howling while t’others picks shot-corns out o’ their black hides with a pynted stone.”
“Yes, of course,” said Hilda coolly.
“Then you don’t think I ought to send over to Mr Dillon to get help for him?”
“Help? Tchah! Don’t you be so narvous, missus. They blackfellows don’t know no better. They comes out with some streaks of white chalk on their black carcadges, and they goes up to a waggon flourishing their hop-poles and making faces, and frightens some people, and then they steal flour and stores; but if they’ve gone to our waggon, I ’magine they’ve gone to the wrong un. Take a precious ugly face to scare the doctor. Tell you what he’ll do, ladies all. He’ll shoot over their heads first.”
“Yes, of course,” said Hilda.