But their services were needless here. The sorrel nag had been to the Wattles more than once before its young master’s time, and, besides, its natural instinct led it to gallop along where its fellows had been before.
Two great ostrich-like birds started up from right and left, and though he had not come across them before Nic knew that they must be emus; but he only glanced at them as they raced away, with the rapid motion of their legs making them almost as invisible as the spokes of a running wheel. Twice over, too, he saw a drove of kangaroos, which went flying over the bushes in their tremendous leaps; but they excited no interest now. He must get to the Wattles soon, or he would be too late.
It was a long ten miles—more probably twelve—and Nic’s heart was low, for he seemed to have been riding three hours, and he began to fear that the horse would go on following tracks until rein was drawn, so he stopped; when all at once, as they turned a clump of magnificent gum trees standing alone upon a beautiful down, there below him, and not a mile away, was the place he sought—a group of buildings, with the sheep and cattle dotting the country as far as his eye could range.
And now he checked his horse’s speed to a gentle canter, and thought of what he should do.
He knew that he would be most welcome as a stranger, much more so as Dr Braydon’s son; so he rode straight up to the fence, leaped down, and hitched his rein over a post close to where several saddles rode upon a rail, and was going up to the door of the house, when Mr Dillon himself appeared, and came to meet him with a friendly nod.
“Dr Braydon’s son, for a wager!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Nic; and before he could say another word the big, bluff-looking squatter shouted:
“Hi, Belton! Come and rub down and feed Mr Braydon’s nag. Now, my lad, come in. We’re just going to have a meal, and you must be hungry after your ride.”
Nic was hungry after his ride, which was a far longer one than Mr Dillon guessed, for the boy had had nothing since the morning, and the mention of food struck a responsive chord in his breast. But he had not come to visit, and, flushing slightly, he spoke out at once, plunging boldly into the object of his coming, though he felt that the magistrate knew.
“Thank you, no, Mr Dillon,” he said. “I have come over about our man.”