Chapter Thirty One.
Black Sympathy.
Nic found the next day that in their tiny world of the Bluff there were others sufficiently interested in the convict’s fate to have been making inquiries about the proceedings instituted by Mr Dillon; for on going round the place in the fresh early morning to see how the live stock was getting on, the first person he met was old Sam, who saluted him with one of his ugly smiles, and a chuckle like that of a laughing jackass—of course the bird.
“They didn’t ketch him, Master Nic,” he cried.
“Why, you ought to be vexed, Sam,” replied the boy.
“Yes, I know that, sir; but I ain’t. I don’t like Leather ’cause he’s a convict, and it ain’t nice for honest men to have them sort for fellow-servants. But I don’t want him ketched and flogged. Not me.”
“But will they catch him, do you think, Sam?”
“Ah, that’s what nobody can say. Most likely yes, because if the dogs get on his scent they’ll run him down.”
“But the rain?”
“Ay, that’s in his favour, sir. But, then, there’s another thing: the blacks will be set to work again.”