“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and saw nothing that the town-crier at the market-place (is there one in this droll country, I wonder?) might not have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any ‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainly guessed after I visited Mr. Bruce that I might just as well not advertise the O’Haras, and as Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life on Razor Back, how could I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”
“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I suppose Mr. Bruce is pretty wild about it, after you being at his house and all that. He’s a fine man, Mr. Bruce; all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he worked like niggers when first they came from home. Now they’re well off, and on the way to be richer still. But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor. He’ll have Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as he is.”
“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”
“I suppose it does,” said the girl, hesitatingly; “but I can’t help feeling sorry for him, he’s so pleasant and plucky, and such a bushman. He can find his way through those Wombat Ranges, they say, the darkest night that ever was, and drive cattle besides.”
“‘’Tis pity of him, too, he cried,
Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,’
as the Douglas said about Marmion, who, though more highly placed than poor Jack, was but indifferent honest after all. Do you read Walter Scott?”
“Well, I’ve read bits of the Lady of the Lake and Marmion too. We had them to learn by heart at school. Only I haven’t much time to read now, have I? It’s early up and down late. But you’d better finish your breakfast; it’s getting on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down to the stable.”
“So I will; but tell me, how do you write out a receipt for a horse when you’ve sold him?”
“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I have sold my bay horse, branded “J. R.” (or whatever he is) to Job Jones for value received.’ That’s enough; you’ve only to sign your name and put a stamp on.”