“Yes, Mrs Westonley!” came the reply in a boyish treble, and the owner of it wondered what made her voice sound so differently from its usual hard, sharp tone.
“Jim, come here and see my brother. He, you, and Mary, and I are all going down to the cubby house.”
Suppressing a gasp of astonishment, the boy came to her to where Gerrard and she were now sitting.
“Thomas, this is Jim.”
Gerrard jumped up and held out his hand.
“How are you, Jim? Glad to see you,” and he smiled into the boy's sunburnt face. “By Jove! you are a big chap for a ten year old boy. What are you going to be—soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, eh?”
“I did want to be a sailor, sir; but now I'm going to be a stockman.”
Gerrard smiled again, and surveyed the boy closely. He was rather tall for his age, but not weedy, with a broad sturdy chest, and his face was almost as deeply bronzed as that of Gerrard himself, and two big, honest brown eyes met his gaze steadily and respectfully; the squatter took a liking to him at once, as he had to his sister's child.
“Well, Jim, I'm going to stay here a week, and you'll have to tote me around, and keep me amused—see? You and Mary between you.”
“Yes, sir.”