"Nebber mine see that white pfeller t'ouser," she screamed angrily. "I good lubra—nebber steal!" She paused and added a convincing proof. "Boss's t'ouser no good for Ben—he too big!"
"And that's true," said Mrs. Macleay. "What's more, ma'am, you sent four pairs down by Jacky and I counted them over to Julia, and there was only three."
"What you done with 'em, Jacky?" Mrs. Warner asked severely.
"Mine gibit all them things to Julia," reiterated Jacky. "She no good."
Mrs. Warner knitted her brows.
"You not telling me truth, Jacky," she said. "I send you to boss unless you do."
"Mine thinkit always tell truth," said Jacky. "That pfeller God him kill Jacky if not tell truth. Jacky very good black pfeller." He beamed on his mistress in a childlike fashion.
A tall man strode into the kitchen verandah—a stockman, so bronzed that he might almost have been taken for a native. He carried in his hand a begrimed and crumpled pair of flannel trousers.
"Morning, missus!" he said. "Glad you've got that chap on the carpet." He nodded wrathfully at Jacky, who suddenly assumed the air of a hurt baby. "I seen him last night doin' the grand in these down at the camp—reckon he got lost if he tried to put 'em on, so he was wearin' 'em tied round his dirty neck! I wasn't able to stop just then—I was after a bullock—but I turned out his hut this mornin' and got 'em from his gin. Good pants, too. They'll take a bit of washin' now."
"I go wash 'em, missis," said Julia, in a voice of oil. "I tell you that pfeller Jacky no good." She seized the trousers and departed.