“Where is it? Where d’yer s’pose it is?” said Brookes fiercely. “Down in the narrer.”
“The sheep were all safe a few minutes ago,” said Leather; and he ran off.
“Oh, yes,” said Brookes, in a sneering tone; “’course they were.”
“Is it badly hurt?”
“Badly hurt? I s’pose so. It’ll have to be killed.”
He trudged on, muttering surlily, and Nic followed up on to the level ground, where they could see the convict lowering himself down, only his head and shoulders being visible.
The next minute they were standing at the edge of a narrow rift some six feet wide and as many deep—a rift that ran on down into the valley they had just quitted, and at the bottom of which lay a sheep bleating piteously as Leather bestrode its woolly carcass.
“Why didn’t you pull it out instead of coming sneaking after us?” cried Nic.
“Eh? What?” cried Brookes, staring. “’Tain’t my place to look after they sheep. Leatherhead was set to do it, and he goes on neglecting his work. Ah! here comes the master. Now we shall see.”
For the doctor was coming cantering toward them over the level ground from about a quarter of a mile away, and Nic felt vexed and in dread of what was to follow.