“Bungarolo. But I sent him home before I was halfway here.”
“He would not tell tales, poor fellow. They have had my life in their hands ever since.”
“But, I say, Leather, it’s awkward talking like this. I’ll come up to you;” and he moved toward the edge.
“No, no, don’t stir,” cried the man fiercely. And Nic stamped angrily upon the rock.
“Why don’t you shoot me?” he cried. “You’ve got the gun. There, be off; I don’t want to see which way you go. Look here, Sorrel’s over yonder somewhere. Go and find him, and ride off up the country as far as you like. Only send him back some day by one of the blacks, I’ll pay him with blankets and things. I can’t give him to you, because, as you know, he was father’s gift. There’s a pack of meal on his back; I brought it in case I could find you; but you’d better take this lump of damper too.”
The convict made no reply for some minutes, but lay there at the edge of the rocks gazing sadly down at Nic, who had thrown himself upon his chest, and was looking into the gorge.
“Nic,” he said at last.
“Well,” was the reply; but the boy did not turn his head.
“Don’t misunderstand me, lad; I said don’t try to come up, because the risk of going along there made me shudder. I’m coming down to help you—where’s your hand?”
“Oh, I say, I beg your pardon,” cried Nic, springing up. “I didn’t mean—I thought—I—I say, Leather, mind how you come.”