“Not if you run off back,” cried Nic. “If you don’t I’ll pepper you.”
“No pepper Bung, no mumkull. Baal shoot gun. Little White Mary fellow say Bung come.”
“You go back home,” cried the boy, following him up.
“Little White Mary say—”
“Go home.”
“Little—”
“Will you go, sir? Here, Rum—Turn! Run him home.”
The dogs made a rush, and the black darted off, but a hundred yards away ran behind a tree, where the dogs hunted him out.
“Home!” roared Nic, and the black darted on again, Nic riding after him again and again, till, satisfied that the black was really making for the station, followed by the dogs, he made a circuit in among the trees, and rode hard for a time, altering his course at last, and not pausing till he was close up to the precipitous edge of the huge gorge.
Here the boy dismounted in a patch of rich grass surrounded by mighty trees, hobbled his horse, removed the bit, which he hung to the saddle, and then paused to think.