“To Mr Dillon’s?”
“Yes, sir. He had a few words with Brooky, and went off directly. Here, let me clap the saddle on for you, sir.”
“No, thank you, Sam,” said the boy, with the tone of his voice changing. “I don’t think I wish to go now.”
The old man looked at him compassionately. “Don’t you be downhearted, my lad,” he said. “You’ve done right enough. You out with the plain truth, and you call me for a witness ’bout Leather. My word’s as good with your father as Brooky’s. Don’t you be afraid. You and me’s going to win.”
“Yes, Sam, I hope so,” said Nic; and he walked away, to busy himself about the farm stock till breakfast time.
Just before it was ready the doctor rode back, threw the rein to old Sam, nodded to Nic, and, looking unusually stern, he entered the house with his son.
Breakfast was ready, the governor and his wife up, and the latter kept the conversation going merrily enough, for she could read the doctor’s face, and felt from Nic’s looks that something was wrong—something for which he was about to be blamed.
Every one was glad when the meal was at an end, and the doctor rose, when Mrs Braydon darted an imploring look at her husband, the two girls one of commiseration at their brother, whose forehead did not wrinkle, but became crumpled and pitted, just as it used to at the Friary when he had to deal with a knotty sum or equation.
“Oh dear!” said Lady O’Hara. “I thought we had left all the business at home. Are you coming with me, John?”
“No; my dear; I think Braydon wants me.”