He looked about the stacks of wood, stepping softly and peering round into shady corners, expecting and hoping to see his fellow-servant asleep; but he was disappointed, and five minutes elapsed before the convict came back, axe in hand.
“Seen either of the blacks about, Mr Brookes?” he said.
“Why?” snarled Brookes.
The convict looked surprised, but he said gently: “I want one of them to come and turn the grindstone handle. This axe is getting very dull.”
“You lie, you lazy hound!” roared Brookes. “I’ve had my eye upon you. Your master’s out, and so you think you’re going to skulk, do you? If there’s any more of it, over you go to Dillon’s for a taste of the cat.”
The blood flushed through the convict’s bronzed skin and his eyes glistened, but only for a moment, and he said quite gently, for he saw Nic in his mind’s eye: “It was the simple truth. I was wasting time.”
“Yes, I know you were wasting time!” roared Brookes. “You’re always wasting time, and I won’t have it. Your master’s out, and I won’t have it. Get on. I’ll have that pile o’ rails done before you leave off to-night; so no more shirking, do you hear?”
A feeling of fierce resentment made the convict’s nerves quiver; but he thought of Nic, and, controlling his anger, he took a step or two to the block on which he cut the rails, picked up one, and gave it a couple of chops.
“Quicker there, lout!” roared Brookes; “and none of your sulky looks with me.”
The convict took up another rail, while Brookes stood over him with the fork-shaft playing up and down in his hand; while, emboldened by the other’s meekness, he went on with a brutal tirade of abuse, calling up every insulting expression he could think of, and garnishing them with bad language, till the convict winced as if under blows.