“Wolfing, you mean, sir.”
“Oh, no, I don’t, Sir Gordon,” said Crellock, laughing. “There’s plenty of work to be got, and I like horses and cattle better than I do men now.”
“Well, look here,” said Sir Gordon testily; “I don’t believe you.”
“Eh?”
“I don’t believe you, sir. If you meant all this you’d have gone and begun it instead of talking. There, be off. I’m hot and tired, and want to be alone.” Crellock frowned again, but his good genius gave him another grip of the shoulder, and the smile came back. “You don’t understand me yet, Sir Gordon,” he said. “No, I never shall.”
“I wanted to tell you, sir, that since Hallam was taken, I’ve been living up in the Gully House. I’d nowhere else to go, and I was desperate like. I thought every day that you or somebody would come and take possession, but no one did. Law seems all anyhow out here. Then the days went on. This horse had been down—sprained leg from a bad jump.”
“Confound your horse, sir! I don’t want to hear your stable twaddle,” cried Sir Gordon.
Crellock seemed to swallow a lump in his throat, and paused, but he went on after a while:
“The poor brute was a deal hurt, and tending and bandaging his leg seemed to do me good like. Then I used to send one of the blacks to town for food.”
“And drink?” said Sir Gordon acidly.