Still, at different times Nic could not help noticing what a rooted dislike there was in the regular men against their convict fellow-servant, even old Samson shaking his head and expressing his belief that the station would be far better without “such as he.”
“I don’t want to be hard on anything ’cept blight, Master Nic,” said the old man one day; “but it comes nat’ral to a man to feel shy of a gaol bird who may rise agen you at any time and take to the bush.”
“Oh, but Leather is not that sort of man, Sam,” said Nic.
“Ah, that’s very nice, young gentleman; but you don’t know, and I don’t know. All I say is if there’s a bull about on that side o’ the fence it’s best to walk on this.”
“But the bull may not mean to do you harm, Sam.”
“P’r’aps not, sir; but bulls have mad fits now and then, so does convicts. I’ve know’d two stations ’tacked and every one killed, and they said it was the blacks; but they very soon found that it warn’t, for in each case a lot had escaped from the chain gang, took to the bush, and every ’signed servant as they come across jyned ’em.”
“That’s very horrible,” said Nic. “And what became of them?”
“Ah, you may well say that, sir: some was shot down by the soldiers, some was killed by the natives, some was lost in the bush and died o’ hunger and thirst, while the blacks speared the rest all but one, and he gave himself up. They do a lot o’ mischief, these chaps, when they take to the bush, sir; but, fortunately for honest folk, they all come to a bad end.”
Then came a more leisure time, when old Samson took a holiday, as he called it—that is to say, he worked from daylight to darkness over his rather neglected garden; while Nic had leisure to think again of his natural history specimens, and went out with his gun; but he did not feel at all keen about sitting down in a woody place near the river to fish and offer himself as a mark for any black who meant to practise hurling his spear. It was so much more satisfactory to mount Sour Sorrel and ride off, gun in hand, through the open woodland with the soft breeze sweeping by his cheek, and pick up a beautifully feathered bird from time to time.
The injured sheep had grown quite well, and, save that it limped as it grazed, its leg was as strong as ever; “and that lameness does not interfere with its promising to be a good mother,” said the doctor, smiling, as he pointed to the pair of white lambs gambolling by the lame sheep’s side.