“Then why don’t you go and fetch the sheep, and let him have a turn with the tar?” roared the boy, with his face scarlet.
“What?” cried Brookes, swinging himself round, and dropping the brush.
“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me,” cried Nic. “You heard what I said. You’re always bullying and insulting people. It’s abominable. The man’s working like a slave, and you’re kneeling there and doing hardly anything.”
“I’m blest!” panted out Brookes, with rings of white round the irises of his eyes.
Leather was panting too. His face looked corrugated, and he stood there bent down, frowning hard at the ground.
“It’s shameful!” cried Nic. “I’m sure my father does not know you speak to your fellow-servants like that.”
“My what?” roared Brookes furiously. “Do you know he’s only a convict?”
“Yes, I do. But what’s that got to do with it, sir? As long as he works and does his duty to my father, he’s to be properly treated. You’re always bullying him. I’ve heard you ever since I’ve been home.”
“Here! Where’s your father?” cried Brookes, rising to his feet, and advancing toward the fence with a threatening look, while Leather bent lower.
“Gone on one of his rounds,” said Nic, springing over the fence, and facing him. “I wish he were here.”