But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing came to the door with the axe on his shoulder.
They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered piteously—too scared even to cry out.
He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes, approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to grip the axe with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered the room and shattered the looking-glass into fragments.
He bent down and looked closely at the pieces.
"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.
Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut. He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages. His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours called him "CRANKY Jack."
Chapter VIII.
A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut.
We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it, and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger.