“Of course, Sam.”
“They get their likes same as little children do. The lazy black rascals!” continued the old man, grinning; “they always want to be at play, and I give it ’em well sometimes, but they know they deserve it; and, after all, they’d do anything for me, Master Nic, and so they would for you.”
“Oh, I’ve done nothing to please them, Sam.”
“Oh yes you have, Master Nic, often; and just you look here—they didn’t show their white teeth for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you, sir. They was along with Dillon’s blackfellows yes’day most o’ the arternoon, and Dillon’s blackfellows didn’t find old Leather.”
“No; you said so before.”
“Ay, I did, sir; but don’t you see why they didn’t hit out Leather’s track?”
“Because the rain had washed it away.”
“Nay!” cried Sam, with a long-drawn, peculiar utterance; “because our fellows wouldn’t let ’em. They belongs to the same tribe.”