"Conal does it," he said. "And you all think no end of him."
"Oh, Conal! What has he got to do with it?" The Schoolmaster hesitated. "Conal does it ... but then he's a roadster. It comes natural to him. It doesn't to you. You're Cameron's son and—"
"Cameron's son!" Davey scoffed. "Much good that does me!"
"What's your father going to say when he hears about this business at the Black Bull," the Schoolmaster asked.
"Say? Oh, he'll cut up at first. He's got to understand though, I've got to go my own way—have some money to call my own. He won't know more than's good for him though. That's arranged between McNab and me."
"You don't mean to say you've got into any—arrangement with McNab?" the Schoolmaster asked.
"Oh, you needn't look like that about it," Davey replied. "It's a harmless one. He's been decent. I'm not fool enough to give McNab any real handle against me."
"You're a darned fool, Davey," the Schoolmaster said, his voice ripping the silence with startled energy. "McNab and his crew'll have you in a hole before you know where you are."
Davey flicked the reins across his mare's neck. She leapt forward along the track.
There was not a man in Wirreeford who did not think he knew what Thad was driving at, that he was working for a shot at Donald Cameron through Young Davey. Only he did not see it, the calf, they said. They laughed and followed the course of Thad's snaring, with winks, chuckles of amusement, and sly jokes at Young Davey's expense, although they drank with him, flattered and applauded him, playing up to the part McNab had set them.