“I know of him, too. He would be as bad as the captain if he dared, but he is a coward. His turn will come after a while. But, Lucy”—here he addressed his daughter—“you are not treating your guests very well. Where are your potatoes and other vegetables?”
“They were so hungry they preferred not to wait for them, papa.”
“You may put them in the pot now. I want them, and I think our young friends will be able to eat them later.”
“You are very kind, sir, but I am afraid Jack and I will not be able to compensate you. The bushrangers took all we had, and left us penniless.”
“I don’t want your money, boy. You are welcome to all you get in this house. We don’t have visitors very often. When they do come, they have no bills to pay.”
“Unless they are bushrangers, father!” said Lucy, with a smile.
“If they are bushrangers they will meet with a still warmer reception. And now, daughter,” said the shepherd, “hurry up supper, for I have a very fair appetite myself.”
Lucy moved about quietly but actively in obedience to her father’s directions. An hour later, or perhaps less, the table was spread once more, and all got up to it. The boys, though the edge of their appetite was taken away, managed to eat the vegetables with a relish, not having had a chance to eat any for a considerable time.
After supper they sat down beside the fire and talked. Living so much alone, the shepherd and his daughter were anxious to hear all that the boys could tell them of the great world from which they lived aloof. Later in the evening, the shepherd, whose name, by the way, was Andrew Campbell, said, “Now, let us have a little music. Lucy, bring me the bagpipe.”
His daughter went into an adjoining room, and brought out a Highland bagpipe, which Campbell received, and straightway began to play upon it some characteristic Scotch tunes. It was loud and harsh, but the boys enjoyed it for want of better.