“Lizzie,” he called to his wife, “here is Brooke. I expect he will have some breakfast, so tell Mrs Patton.”
Brooke, a tall, powerfully-built man, and usually as boisterous as a school-boy in his manner, seemed very quiet as he dismounted, shook hands with Westonley and his wife, and patted Mary's head.
“Just in time for breakfast, Mr Brooke.”
“No, thank you, Mrs Westonley. I had mine at five o'clock—I made an early start, as I wanted to get here as soon as possible, thinking that very likely Westonley might be going out on the run somewhere, and that I might miss him. I want to have a talk with you, old man.”
Mrs Westonley and Mary at once left the room, both wondering what was the matter with Brooke—he looked so worried and depressed.
“Westonley, old fellow,” he said, as he sat down, “give me a big brandy and soda. I've ridden hard all the way from my place.” Then he looked at the letters and newspapers still lying upon the breakfast table. The latter, he saw, were unopened. Drinking off the brandy and soda, he said:
“You haven't opened your Argus yet, I see?”
“No, we had some bad news about Tom Gerrard—he's been mauled by an alligator, and we haven't bothered about newspapers this morning.”
“Not seriously hurt, I trust?” anxiously asked the squatter, who had a sincere regard for Gerrard.
“No, I am glad to say. I'll show you his letter presently. But what is the matter, Brooke? You look worried.”