“’Nother sheep gone, Master Nic,” said Brookes next morning.
“Then we’ll have the dogs out and have a hunt round. Whose flock was it among?”
“Bung’s.”
“All right, then; we’ll have a turn at once.”
Old Sam was told of what was to take place, Damper and Rigar were fetched from their charges, and gladly joined in, while the dogs nearly went mad—all three seeming to fully understand what was going to take place, and displaying their mad delight by charging and rolling one another over, and a sham worry all round, that suggested horrors for any unfortunate dingo with which they were not at play.
As Nic rode on between his two men, with the dogs and blacks in front, he began to feel a little suspicious of the latter, from the way in which they talked and laughed one to the other, as if they enjoyed the loss of a sheep as a very good joke; and the boy could not help asking himself whether they were taking advantage of his inexperience to help themselves to the wherewithal for an occasional feast.
This impressed him so much at last that he mentioned his suspicions to old Sam.
But the man shook his head.
“No, sir; I think not,” he replied. “We look too sharp after ’em, and they’re too well fed. I won’t say what a hungry blackfellow mightn’t do, but our boys ain’t hungry, and that makes all the difference. What do you say, Brooky?”
“I say it ain’t the blacks; but I know.”