“Don’t be hard on me, Sir Gordon. I want to say something to you. I was going to your friend, Mr Christie Bayle, but—I couldn’t do that.”
Sir Gordon watched him curiously.
“You haven’t turned bushranger, then? You’re not going to rob me?”
“No,” said Crellock grimly. “Haven’t I robbed you enough!”
“Humph! Well?”
“Ah, that’s better,” said Crellock; “now you’ll listen to me. The fact is, sir, I’ve been thinking, since I’ve been living all alone, that forty isn’t too old for a man to begin again.”
“Too old? No, man. Why, I’m—there, never mind how old. Older than that, and I’m going to begin again. Forty! Why, you’re a boy!”
“Well, Sir Gordon, I’m going to begin the square. I gave up the drink because—there, never mind why,” he said huskily. “I had a reason, and now I’m going to make a start.”
“Well, go and do it, then. What are you going to do?”
“Oh, get up the country, sir, stockman or shepherding.”