"Good shot!" said Brown, laughing again.
"Oh, Cywil, do smash him," begged Betty in desperation.
"He daren't, he hasn't the pluck," mocked Brown.
"No Bruce is afraid," said Betty, using her favourite taunt. "Come on Cyril!"
But when she looked over her shoulder Cyril was nowhere in sight, and Nancy was scudding away, like a terrified rabbit, through the scrub around her.
Through the air rang a clear shrill voice—it belonged to golden haired Dorothea—"Betty, come home."
"You're called," said Brown, winding up a yard or so of his line.
Betty stooped, grasped another stone, took aim at a distant wattle in sheer desperation, and caught Brown on the hand.
The pain of it drew a sharp exclamation from him, and brought him from his post in a towering rage.
And Betty took to her bare heels and ran—ran as though her grandfather and all his emus were after her.