CHAPTER IX
HUBERT WARLEIGH, YR., OF WARBROK
Next morning early, Mr. Effingham was enjoying the fresh, cool air when Dick marched up to him.
‘Well, Evans,’ said Effingham, ‘Christmas Day is over. Tell me, were you able to abstain?’
‘Believe me, I got drunk, sir,’ answered the veteran, ‘but I’m all right now till New Year’s Day.’
‘I am afraid that your constitution will suffer, Evans, if you continue these regular—or rather irregular—excesses.’
‘Can’t say for that, sir. Been drunk every Christmas since the year as I ’listed in the old rigiment; but I wanted to tell you about that young man as was in our hut last night. Do you know who he is, sir?’
‘No, indeed, Evans! I suspected he was no ordinary station-hand.’
‘Well, no, sir; that’s the youngest of the old Colonel’s sons. Him as they used to call “Gyp” Warleigh. He was allers fond of ramblin’ and campin’ out, from a boy, gipsy fashion. When the Colonel died, he went right away to some of the far-out stations beyond Monaro, and never turned up for years. Old Tom knowed him at once, but didn’t let on.’
‘Poor fellow! How hard that he should have come back to his father’s house penniless and poorly clad. I wonder if we could find him employment here?’
‘H—m! I don’t know, sir; we haven’t much to keep hands goin’ at this season, but you can see him yourself. I daresay he’ll come up to thank you afore he goes.’