“Yes, and I’m glad you have. The blacks for miles and miles are friendly to us, for we have done them no harm. There is not the smallest likelihood of any evil-disposed tribe coming near. If one did, you have a brave son and trusty men to defend you till one of our own fellows went over to Mr Dillon’s for help. Now are you satisfied?”
“Yes, my dear, quite.”
“And Janet and Hilda, both of them to fight for their mother, if there is need.”
“Of course,” said Hilda merrily.
“Janet had better use the poker,” said the doctor, taking his cue from his younger daughter, and laughing too, so as to hide the pang he felt at the near-at-hand parting.
“You know I can fire a gun, father,” said Janet.
“To be sure: yes,” said the doctor. “But, Hilda, my dear,” he continued, “if you have to shoot at a blackfellow, be sure and remember that it is the wooden stock you hold to your shoulder, not the muzzle of the gun.”
“Oh, father, what a shame!” cried Hilda. “Did I point the stock at that big hawk I shot for coming and stealing my beautiful little chickens?”
“No: I remember now. But bustle! those men want a good tea meal.”
Two hours had not elapsed when, with the two government messengers well refreshed, and their horses dry and ready for a long afternoon’s work, saddle-bags and blankets strapped on, guns and ammunition ready, the doctor sprang upon his horse, and Nic moved toward Sorrel, whose rein was thrown over a post, the boy meaning to ride a few miles of the way.