“Natur’ or no natur’, they shan’t play those games while I’m master here.”
“Eh? Didn’t know you was, Brooky.”
“Then you know it now. P’r’aps you’re going to give yourself a holiday.”
“Having one,” said the old man, breaking a refractory clod.
“And going to take yourself off to the bush to have a corroborree with the blackfellows.”
“And if I was I shouldn’t ask your leave, Snaggy,” said the old man, showing more of his teeth. “There, let ’em go. They’ll come back and work all the better after.”
“Heugh!” cried Brookes, giving vent to a final grunt; and he turned away and stalked out of the garden, striking the fork-handle down at every step.
“Lookye here,” said old Samson, taking up a spadeful of earth, and addressing it as if part of the dust of the earth of which he was made, and therefore worthy of his confidence: “sooner than I’d have old Brooky’s nasty temper I’d be a kangaroo or a cat. I’m sorry they sloped off, though. Hang the black rascals! Master Nic’ll be so wild, an’ nat’rally, when he comes back.”
Brookes turned and glared once at old Samson, who occupied the position about the place that he felt ought to be his; and, going straight back past the various sheds, he looked round toward the wood-yard, and then his eyes glistened with satisfaction. Short as the time had been, Leather had left his work.
He paused for a moment or two, to make sure that there was no regular chop-chop at the end of the rails, and with a grin of satisfaction he walked quickly to the spot where he had seen the convict at work.