“I don’t believe it. What horses ran away?”
“Kimmeroi, bulla, metancoly (one, two, ever so many),” cried Rigar, from the back.
“It’s all a lie. Come: out with you!”
“No, leave him alone, Brookes,” said Nic sternly. “I’ll have no more quarrelling to-day.”
The man faced round sharply.
“Look here, young master, are you going to manage this here station, or am I?” he cried.
“I am, as far as I know; and I won’t have the black-fellows knocked about.”
The three culprits understood enough English to grasp his meaning, and burst out together in tones of reproach:
“Baal plenty stick. No Nic coolla (angry). Black-fellow nangery (stay), do lot work.”
“Work! Yes,” cried Nic. “Go away with you, and begin.”