“Hallo!” called out Stanesby, as he came quite close, “who the devil are you?”
The horse was done. They could hear his gasping breath, and the man bent forward as if he too had come far and fast, but he did not answer, and as he came closer Turner saw he was a blackfellow.
Stanesby saw it too, and saw more, for he recognised his own black boy Jimmy.
“Good God! Jimmy, is it you?”
There must be something wrong, very wrong indeed, that would bring a black-fellow, steeped in superstitious fears of demons and evil spirits, out at dead of night.
“Jimmy!” Stanesby caught him by the shoulder, and fairly pulled him from his horse, “What’s the meaning of this?”
Jimmy did not answer for a moment. He was occupied with his horse’s bridle, then he said carelessly, as if he were rather ashamed of making such a fuss about a trifle.
“Myalls pull along a hut.”
“My God!” cried Turner. It seemed like the realisation of his worst fears.
But Stanesby refused to see any cause for alarm.