“Ah!” cried Nic.
“That’s it, sir. Our boys give ’em a hint, or else they’d ha’ found him fast enough.”
“Then he’ll escape!” cried Nic eagerly.
“Nay! There’s no saying. Government’s very purticlar about running a pris’ner down. ’Bliged to be. Soon as it’s reported as Leather’s jumped for the bush, some o’ they mounted police’ll be over, and they’ll bring blackfellows with ’em as don’t know him and don’t belong to our boys’ tribe, and they’ll find him. ’Sides, there’s black tribes in the bush as’d take a delight in throwing spears at him. And then again, how’s a white man going to live? He ain’t a black, as’ll get fat on grubs, and worms, and snakes, and lizzars, and beadles, when he can’t get wallabies and birds. But there, we shall see. I’m sorry he jumped for the bush; but don’t you go and think I want to see him caught and flogged.”
“I don’t, Sam.”
“Then you’re right, Master Nic; on’y raally you mustn’t keep me a-talking here. I say, though,” he whispered confidentially, and chuckling with delight all the time, “Brooky won’t enjy his wittles till Leather is ketched.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s going about, sir, in the most dreadfullest stoo. He walked over in the night to the Wattles, and come back all of a tremble, and he’s got a loaded gun behind the wool-shed door, and another behind the stable.”
“Yes; I saw that, and wondered how it came there.”
“He put it there, sir,” chuckled the old man. “Just you watch him next time you see him. He’s just like a cocksparrer feeding, what keeps on turning his head to right and then to left and all round, to see if Leather’s coming to pounce on him and leather him. The pore chap don’t know it, but he’s sarving out Mister Brooky fine. There, now I must go, sir, raally. One word, though: Brooky’s doing nothing but grumble, and look out for squalls, and the master away—not as that matters so much, for the way in which you’re a-steppin’ into his shoes, sir, is raally fine. But I want things to look to-rights when he comes back.”