“By Jimini! what’s that?” said Jacko.
“Did you hear any thing?”
Jacko pointed with his finger down the centre walk
of the shed, and Harry, striking another match as
he went, rushed forward. But the match was out
as soon as ignited, and gave no glimmer of light.
Nevertheless he saw, or thought that he saw, the figure
of a man escaping out of the open end of the shed.
The place itself was black as midnight, but the space
beyond was clear of trees, and the darkness outside
being a few shades lighter than within the building,
allowed something of the outline of a figure to be
visible. And as the man escaped, the sounds of
his footsteps were audible enough. Harry called
to him, but of course received no answer. Had
he pursued him, he would have been obliged to cross
sundry rails, which would have so delayed him as to
give him no chance of success.
“I knew there was a fellow about,” he
said; “one of our own men would not have run
like that.”
Jacko shook his head, but did not speak.
“He has got in here for shelter out of the rain,
but he was doing no good about the place.”
Jacko again shook his head.
“I wonder who he was?”
Jacko came up and whispered in his ear, “Bill
Nokes.”
“You couldn’t see him.”
“Seed the drag of his leg.” Now it
was well known that the man Nokes had injured some
of his muscles, and habitually dragged one foot after
another.
“I don’t think you could have been sure
of him by such a glimpse as that.”
“Maybe not,” said the boy, “only
I’m sure as sure.”
Harry Heathcote said not another word, but getting
again upon his horse, galloped home. It was past
one when he reached the station, but the two girls
were waiting up for him, and at once began to condole
with him because he was wet. “Wet!”
said Harry; “if you could only know how much
I prefer things being wet to dry just at present!
But give Jacko some supper. I must keep that young
fellow in good humor if I can.”
So Jacko had half a loaf of bread, and a small pot
of jam, and a large jug of cold tea provided for him,
in the enjoyment of which luxuries he did not seem
to be in the least impeded by the fact that he was
wet through to the skin. Harry Heathcote had another
nobbler— being only the second in the day—and
then went to bed.
Medlicot’s mill.
As Harry said, they might all now lie in bed for a
day or two. The rain had set aside for the time
the necessity for that urgent watchfulness which kept
all hands on the station hard at work during the great
heat. There was not, generally, much rest during
the year at Gangoil. Lambing in April and May,
washing and shearing in September, October, and November,
with the fear of fires and the necessary precautions
in December and January, did not leave more than sufficient
intervals for looking after the water-dams, making
and mending fences, procuring stores, and attending
to the ailments of the flocks. No man worked
harder than the young squatter. But now there
had suddenly come a day or two of rest—rest
from work which was not of itself productive, but
only remedial, and which, therefore, was not begrudged.
