“There are men at Moncrieff’s, of course,” she said. “But he’d be out of sight long before we could get them, and once he gets to the cross-roads we wouldn’t be able to tell which way he went. Besides, he might jump into any paddock; you know, Father said that no fence would stop him except the stock-yard. And if he did any damage he might get shot. A policeman shot a stray bull in Barrabri last month.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Jean, I don’t see how we’re to hold up our heads if anything happens to him—he was left in our charge!”
“Well, he’s left it now,” said Jean dolefully. “And Father would know we couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t be angry.”
“Why, of course he wouldn’t: he’d never say a word about it to us. And that would make it all the worse, because we’d know how bad he felt about it,” Jo answered. “Jean, it’s no use talking, while the old beast gets further and further away every minute. I’m going after him!”
“After Father?”
“No, stupid, after the Jersey! I believe I can stop him, on Pilot. At least, I’m going to try!”
“You aren’t going to do any such thing, Jo Weston!” said Jean desperately. “You’ll get killed, and Father would be furious!”
“I won’t get killed at all,” said Jo, laughing. “And I’d never have any peace of mind if I didn’t go, and the old beast killed some poor little youngster by the roadside. And neither would you, and you know it!”
“Then we’ll both go,” said Jean decidedly.
“We can’t—some one must stay with Sarah and the house. And I’m the eldest!”
“Five minutes!” said her twin, resentfully. “That’s not fair, Jo!”