“Yes, yes, my boy,” cried Mrs Braydon.
“Of course she will,” said the doctor. “Mamma has grown quite nervous since she has had a fresh chicken to take care of: she makes more fuss over you than she does over the girls.”
“But they know the place better, my dear,” pleaded Mrs Braydon.
“Nic will know it ten times better in a fortnight,” said the doctor. “Eh, Nic?”
“I’ll try, father,” cried the boy, laughing. “I’m not going to be beaten by a couple of girls.”
“Off with you, then!”
“Shall I take the dogs, father?”
“Yes. No: not to-day. I shall keep them chained up for another week, to get them more used to the place. They may do what you will not do—go astray.”
Five minutes later Nic was waving his hand to his mother at the window as he strode off, proud and elate, with his gun over his shoulder and his shot belt across his breast, the powder flask peeping out of his breast pocket—for in those days men had not dreamed of even percussion guns, let alone breech-loaders and cart ridges ready to slip into the piece.
“Nic!”