“But, Mr Dillon, promise me that—that you—you will not flog him,” said Nic, in a husky whisper.
“I promise you, my good lad, that tomorrow morning I shall have him out in front of my men and my four assigned servants—convicts, and have him given a good sound application of the cat. Now that business is settled in a way that ten years hence you will agree is quite just; so come in like a sensible young neighbour, have a good feed, and I’ll ride part of the way back with you after.”
“Do you mean this, sir?” said Nic hoarsely.
“I always say what I mean, boy, and act up to it. Once more, come in.”
Nic walked straight to where the man was rubbing down his horse, stopped him, picked up and girthed his saddle, saw to the bridle, and then mounted, while Mr Dillon stood watching him, half amused, half angry.
Then a thought struck Nic, and he bent down as if to reach the cheek-piece of the bit, and slipped a shilling into the man’s hand.
“Where’s our man shut up?” he whispered.
“In the big shed behind the house,” said the man, staring.
Then at a touch Sour Sorrel started off.
“Going now?” shouted Mr Dillon.