“But Brooky’s there, sir.”
“No, I saw him go off toward the fern gully an hour ago, with a gun upon his shoulder.”
“Look here, sir. You’d better lock up all the guns, and keep ’em till they’re wanted, or maybe we shall be having mischief done.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mean, sir? As Brooky’s always going about with a gun, and on the watch. He don’t want a gun to go and look round o’ they cows. He feels as Leather’s close handy somewhere, and afraid he’ll take him unawares. If you was to ask him, he’d tell you he was sure the blacks knew where Leather’s hiding. There, I’m sorry for him after all.”
“So am I, poor fellow.”
“Nay, I don’t mean Leather: I mean Brooky. He can’t even sleep of a night for fear Leather should come and pay him out. It sarves him right, I know, for he always was a brute to Leather; but there, he’s being paid back pretty severe. You go and talk to them there black boys. You’ll get it out of them with that jam.”
Nic strode across toward the wool-shed, and found the blacks jabbering away hard, and evidently quite excited; but they heard his steps, and three rough black heads came softly into sight, one round each doorpost, and the other above a couple of broad boards which ran in grooves, used to keep pigs or other animals from entering to make a warm bed in the wool. But the moment they caught sight of their young master they disappeared, the middle man going off cart-wheel fashion, like a black firework, with arms and legs flying, so as to get behind a stack of wool.
“Here, you fellows,” cried Nic, looking over the board, “come here!”
“Baal go floggee blackfellow,” protested Bungarolo.