DUSK fell, and the stars came out to ride in a blue-black sky, before the sound of horses’ feet, galloping, floated to the quiet house at Billabong. Mrs. Brown came out on the verandah, one hand at her ear, listening.
“Here they are—an’ thank goodness!” she uttered. “I’m never easy in me mind when they’re out on them young horses—not as anything ever happens, but who’s to say it isn’t goin’ to? It’s always a relief, like, to see them come scrimmagin’ in!”
Hogg, a dim figure in the gloom of a big clump of hydrangea, merely grunted. Norah considered that a serious realization of the claims of his name had induced Hogg to practise grunting. It was a fine art with him, and capable of innumerable shades of expression.
Just now he was hunting snails—his dour face occasionally revealed in an almost startling manner by gleams from the tiny lantern he carried.
“Watter will always bring them,” he remarked.
“Eh?” asked Brownie, sharply.
“Ay. The place was free a week back—an’ noo they’re crawlin’ all through it—rapacious beasts!”
“What on earth are you saying, man?” demanded Brownie, bristling.
“Tes the snails, Mistress Broon. Whiles, ’a wes thinkin’ there wes none; but sin’ ’a’ve been soakin’ this pairt o’ the gairden they’ve made ma life a burrden. ’A ken fine there’s nae gairdener wull get to heaven gin he has to deal much in life wi’ snails!” said Hogg, desperately.
“Nasty beasts!” said Brownie sympathetically. She shuddered as a crunching sound came from under Hogg’s boot, and fled indoors; and the Scotchman worked on, pondering upon the peculiar and painful susceptibilities of women. “It makes ma heart glad to scrunch ’em!” he reflected, demolishing half a dozen of his enemies with a massive boot.