“And so do I,” roared Brookes. “Look here, young gentleman; don’t you think because you’ve come home that you’re to lord it over me. I’ll have you to know that you’ve got to beg my pardon, insulting me before that lazy, lying, idle convict, you miserable young whippersnapper!”
“What!” said Nic, beside himself now with passion. “How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that! Insult you—you common, foul-mouthed bully. Go on with your work, sir. I’m your master’s son, and if I’d a horsewhip here instead of this gun, I’d lay it across your back.”
Brookes stooped, picked up the brush viciously, and rolled up his sleeves.
“Oh,” he cried; “that’s it, is it? Horsewhip me, eh? We’ll soon see about that. Here, you convict.”
“Do you want me to strike you?” cried Nic.
“Yes; you’d better,” growled the man, dropping on his knees. “We’ll soon see about that. Here, you, bring me another sheep.”
“No. Stop!” cried Nic, turning to Leather, who was bringing on the sheep; “let him fetch them for himself. While my father’s away I’m master here. Go away. You shall not be bullied like that, whatever you have done. Go and find some other work amongst the sheep.”
Leather looked at him strangely.
“You heard what I said,” cried Nic.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, in a husky voice.