“We’ll take lunch out, I suppose, Dad?”
“Yes, I sent Brownie a message some time ago,” said his father. “You’ll have to run up the horses after breakfast, Jim, and when you’ve caught ours turn the others out into the big paddock.”
Jim glanced up inquiringly. It was an unusual command.
“I wouldn’t trust that beggar, Harvey,” his father said, answering the glance. “If the horses were close at hand the temptation to borrow one to get as far as Cunjee might be too strong; but he couldn’t catch one in the big paddock. It won’t take long to put them back when we come in.”
“You’re not going to send him in to the township then?”
“I’m not,” said Mr. Linton, firmly. “He came carrying his swag, and he can carry it away—after the flood of bad language and insolence I had from him this morning, I really don’t feel any obligation to have him driven in. The walk may give him time to get a little sense—not that you could put sense into a man of the Harvey type by any known means.”
“Well, it won’t hurt him—and I don’t see who would have driven him, anyhow,” Jim said. “Are you letting him have any tucker?”
“Oh, yes; I said he could get some from the kitchen.”
“Then he’s got nothing to grumble at,” Jim declared. “Not that that is in the least likely to keep him from grumbling. I expect it wouldn’t be a bad precaution to lock up pretty carefully at the stables, Dad.”
“Certainly, lock up everything,” his father answered. “I’d have been glad to see him fairly off the place, as Murty and Boone are away—still Hogg and Lee Wing are about, so there’s really no need—and we can’t afford the time.”