So it was at last decided, much to Harry’s own
astonishment, much to his wife’s delight.
Kate, therefore, when she lay awake, thinking of the
one word that had been spoken, knew that there would
be an opportunity for another word.
Medlicot drove his mother home safely, and, after
he had taken her into the house, encountered Nokes
on his return from Boolabong, as has been told at
the close of the last chapter.
“I do wish he would come!”
On the Monday morning Harry came home as usual, and,
as usual, went to bed after his breakfast. “I
wouldn’t care about the heat if it were not
for the wind,” he said to his wife, as he threw
himself down.
“The wind carries it so, I suppose.”
“Yes; and it comes from just the wrong side—from
the northwest. There have been half a dozen fires
about to-day.”
“During the night, you mean.”
“No; yesterday—Sunday. I can
not make out whether they come by themselves.
They certainly are not all made by incendiaries.”
“Accidents, perhaps.”
“Well, yes. Somebody drops a match, and
the sun ignites it. But the chances are much
against a fire like that spreading. Care is wanted
to make it spread. As far as I can learn, the
worst fires have not been just after midday, when,
of course, the heat is greater, but in the early night,
before the dews have come. All the same, I feel
that I know nothing about it—nothing at
all. Don’t let me sleep long.”
In spite of this injunction, Mrs. Heathcote determined
that he should sleep all day if he would. Even
the nights were fearfully hot and sultry, and on this
Monday morning he had come home much fatigued.
He would be out again at sunset, and now he should
have what rest nature would allow him. But in
this resolve she was opposed by Jacko, who came in
at eleven, and requested to see the master. Jacko
had been over with the German; and, as he explained
to Mrs. Heathcote, they two had been in and out, sometimes
sleeping and sometimes watching. But now he wanted
to see the master, and under no persuasion would impart
his information to the mistress. The poor wife,
anxious as she was that her husband should sleep,
did not dare in these perilous times to ignore Jacko
and his information, and therefore gently woke the
sleeper. In a few minutes Jacko was standing by
the young squatter’s bedside, and Harry Heathcote,
quite awake, was sitting up and listening. “George
Brownbie’s at Boolabong.” That at
first was the gravamen of Jacko’s news.
“I know that already, Jacko.”
“My word!” exclaimed Jacko. In those
parts Georgie Brownbie was regarded almost as the
Evil One himself, and Jacko, knowing what mischief
was, as it were, in the word, thought that he was entitled
to bread and jam, if not to a nobbler itself, in bringing
such tidings to Gangoil.
