“Now you, Brookes.”
Brookes told the same tale he had told Mr Dillon when he rode over to Wattles Station, embellishing it with cuts—that is to say, showing his wounds.
“No chopper would make a place like that!” cried Nic fiercely. “I don’t believe a word of it, you brute. It’s a lie.”
“So it is, Master Nic,” cried Sam, showing his teeth. “He give it to the poor fellow brutal.”
“Tell me, then—all you know. Quick, man, quick!”
“Oh, if father had been at home!” as soon as he had heard the old man’s tale. Then snatching the rein, he threw it over Sorrel’s head, touched the beautiful little creature’s sides and went off at a gallop.
“Who’s that?” cried Janet, starting up wildly as the hoofs were heard beating on the turf.
“Nic!” cried her sister, running to the window to look out. “He has gone off at a gallop.”
“Gone!” cried Mrs Braydon—“and at a time like this!”
“He has galloped off. I know: he has gone over to save that poor fellow.”