“And the Spaniards only tried to frighten us away, Morgan,” I said one day.
“Well, I s’pose so, Master George; but you see we’re so shut up here we never know what’s going to take place unless a ship puts in. It’s a very beautiful place, but there isn’t a road, you see, that’s worth calling a road. Ah, there were roads in Carnarvon!”
“I don’t believe you’d care to go back to them though, Morgan,” I said.
“Well, I hardly know, Master George; you see this place don’t ’pear to agree with our Sarah’s temper. It gets very trying sometimes when it’s hot. It was very hot this morning, and she was so put out that when young Pomp put his black head in at the door she threw the big wooden shovel at him.”
“But what for?”
“That’s what I said to her, Master George. ‘Sarah,’ I says, ‘what had the poor black boy done to make you throw things at him?’
“‘Done,’ she says; ‘didn’t you see him put his head round the door and grin at me?’
“‘Well,’ I says, ‘Sarah, my girl, that’s only his way of showing that he likes you.’
“‘Then I don’t want him to like me, and he’s more trouble than he’s worth.’ And there’s a lot of truth in that, Master George.”
“Why he works hard, Morgan,” I said.