“No, I dunno as it’s nonsense, sir. I think he do, because if he didn’t he’d on’y have to give his head a cant on one side and send that there lantern a-flying; and he never do. Now steady: it’s a bit steeper here. See your way better, can’t you?”
“Yes, it’s so much more open; and how beautiful it looks in the moonlight!”
“Ay, it do, sir; but it looks better by day a deal. Now hold hard.”
Nic stopped, and the old man gave the Australian cry, which was answered hoarsely from the darkness round the swaying lantern. Then there were several sharp cracks of a whip and the rattle of chains.
“That’s old Brookes. He can slash a whip. Good workman, Brookes, on’y he hayve got too much tongue. There now, we’re down on the level, and you can make out the waggon. Leastwise I can.”
“Father!” shouted Nic excitedly. “All well?”
“All well?” came back.
“Yes!” and a minute later the boy was walking by his father’s side, holding on by the horse’s mane, answering questions and asking others.
“Oh yes,” said the doctor; “they came out at last and made a show of attacking us; but I sent a charge of shot spattering among the leaves over their heads, and they turned and ran.”
Half an hour after, while the oxen were still laboriously tugging the heavy waggon up the slope leading to the station, Nic and his father reached one illuminated door, where the doctor sprang down to embrace wife and daughters, after which he handed his horse’s rein to old Samson and waited till the wain was drawn up into the enclosure and the bullocks were turned loose to graze.