"WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY."
The girls, seeing how pale and depressed Mrs Braydon looked at
breakfast next morning, began by way of a diversion to banter their
brother by solemnly asking him for orders--whether he was going to be
very strict and severe in his rules; whether he intended to put the
station in a state of defence, and drill them or train them in the use
of their weapons.
Nic took it all in good part, as he made an excellent breakfast, his
appetite being sharpened by two hours' busy work with the men and
inspecting some of the stock, ending by finding for the three Englishmen
tasks that required performing close about the house, and others for the
three blacks, who had promised to be very industrious while the master
was away, were also found close at hand.
"They'll all be here if wanted," Nic confided to his sister Janet; "for
I must go a very long round to drive in some of the cattle on the far
run. Father meant to have gone with me to-day."
"It is hardly necessary to be so particular, dear," said Janet; "but it
will make mother more comfortable. I don't think I would say that you
are going far."
"No, I did not mean to," replied Nic. "I shall go round and see that
the men are at work all right, and then mount and be off just as if I
were only going a little way."
"When will you be back?"
"About three or four o'clock at the latest."
Directly after breakfast he went and saw that the men were at work, said
a word or two of praise to the blacks, whose faces shone with
satisfaction; then going to the stable he saddled his horse, led it to
the fence while he fetched his gun, mounted and rode off, unconscious of
the fact that Brookes, who was busy in the wood-shed, was watching him.
Samson also rested upon his spade in the garden, and gazed with a smile
at the lithe, active lad as he cantered easily away, looking as if he
and the beautiful little highly bred horse were one.
Then Leather caught sight of the lad, and his face darkened, as he felt
low-spirited and had an intense longing to go with him somewhere far
away from the work about the station.
Just at the same moment Bungarolo, who had been busy weeding, raised his
keen eyes, noted the direction Nic had taken, gave his trousers a hitch,
grinned, dropped upon his chest, and began to creep rapidly like a slug
toward the gate in the fence, through which he passed, and continued his
way to where the other two blacks were busy cleaning out the cow-shed.
What followed did not take long. There was a whispered jabbering, a
happy grin upon each face, and then, as if by one consent, the three
blacks stripped off their shirts, unbuttoned and kicked off their
trousers, and stood up in their native costume of a waistcloth.
The clothes were bundled together into a corner, three spears and as
many nulla-nullas and boomerangs drawn from where they were tucked in
the rafters, and the trio astonished a cow tied up in a corner with her
tender calf by going through a kind of war dance, and all in silence.
Then the cow felt better in all probability, for there was no sign of
the calf being stunned with a club to be cooked for a holiday, the
performers of the dance stepping lightly to the door, out of which
Bungarolo peered cautiously before dropping down upon his breast and
crawling rapidly off to the garden fence, without disturbing the two
collies, though Nibbler, who lay as if asleep, opened one eye, lifted
his tail, and brought it down with a rap and closed the eye again.
He opened it, though, twice more as the other two blacks passed him in
the same way, gave two more sharp raps with his tail, and then sniffed
at the last black as if wondering how he would taste. But as he had had
a pretty good piece of a drowned sheep, he subsided and closed the eye,
not even turning his head to gaze after the three blacks as they glided
on right under the fence on the side farthest from the house, and close
by where old Sam was contentedly digging, in perfect unconsciousness
that the three great children were off to the bush for a jovial day,
hunting for fat grubs, honey, snakes, and other picnic delicacies in the
glorious open wilds.
Half an hour had passed, during which Brookes went to the door of the
wood-shed three times to scowl at Leather; but the convict was hard at
work at the end of the wood-yard, chopping away at rails which he was
splitting, tapering at the ends and piling on a heap, ready for some
fencing that was to be done as soon as there was a little time.
Brookes felt ill-used. He would have liked to find the assigned servant
yawning and doing nothing, or taking advantage of the master's absence
to have a nap, and give him cause, as he was in his own estimation head
man now, to let loose his tongue at the man he hated intensely.
But there was no excuse, and Brookes went back into the shed.
"I shall catch him yet," he muttered. "Only let him give me a chance."
But Brookes could not rest. He pitched the soft bundled-up fleeces
about irritably, for they annoyed him. He wanted something hard, and
growing more restless from a desire to show his authority, he went to
where the two blacks should have been cleaning out the cow-shed.
Brookes had come out of the blinding sunshine, and the shed was dark and
cool. He did not see the blacks, but he was not surprised, for their
faces would naturally assimilate with the gloom.
"Here, you two," he growled, "nearly done?" an unnecessary question, for
he knew that their task to be done thoroughly would take them some hours
at their rate of working.
"Do you hear, you charcoal-faced beggars?" he shouted; but of course all
was still, and satisfying himself, by picking up a manure fork, that
they were not asleep in a heap of straw by jobbing the handle in
savagely, after making an offer with the tines, he uttered a low growl,
and, fork in hand, went out to look sharply round about the yards; but
not a soul was in sight.
"Ah!" muttered Brookes, "that's it, is it? Cuss 'em, I might have
known." Then, urged by a sudden thought, he went back into the long
cow-shed, and looked round till he caught sight of the old trousers and
shirts lying in a heap.
"Hah!" he ejaculated, shaking the fork handle, "just wait till they come
back. I'll make them see stars."
Then, striding out, he made for the garden, where, with his sleeves
rolled up and the neck and breast of his shirt open, old Samson was
digging away, turning over the moist earth, and stooping every now and
then to pick out some weed that was sure not to rot.
"Hi, Sam!" cried Brookes.
"Hullo!" said the little old fellow, going on with his digging,
whistling softly the while.
"Where's Bungarolo?"
"Down yonder weeding."
"Nay," he cried.
"Yes, he is. I saw him ten minutes ago."
"He's started off with the other two."
"Nay!"
"He has, I tell you!" cried Brookes. "They've left their rags in the
cow-shed, and all gone."
Samson showed his yellow teeth and chuckled.
"Just like 'em," he said; "just like 'em."
"I don't see anything to grin at," growled Brookes.
"Nay, you wouldn't, my lad; but I do. `When the cat's away the mice
will play.' I wonder they've stopped steady at work so long."
"What?"
"They're on'y big savage children, lad," said the old man, "and you
can't alter 'em. `'Tis their natur' to.'"
"Natur' or no natur', they shan't play those games while I'm master
here."
"Eh? Didn't know you was, Brooky."
"Then you know it now. P'r'aps you're going to give yourself a
holiday."
"Having one," said the old man, breaking a refractory clod.
"And going to take yourself off to the bush to have a corroborree with
the blackfellows."
"And if I was I shouldn't ask your leave, Snaggy," said the old man,
showing more of his teeth. "There, let 'em go. They'll come back and
work all the better after."
"Heugh!" cried Brookes, giving vent to a final grunt; and he turned away
and stalked out of the garden, striking the fork-handle down at every
step.
"Lookye here," said old Samson, taking up a spadeful of earth, and
addressing it as if part of the dust of the earth of which he was made,
and therefore worthy of his confidence: "sooner than I'd have old
Brooky's nasty temper I'd be a kangaroo or a cat. I'm sorry they sloped
off, though. Hang the black rascals! Master Nic'll be so wild, an'
nat'rally, when he comes back."
Brookes turned and glared once at old Samson, who occupied the position
about the place that he felt ought to be his; and, going straight back
past the various sheds, he looked round toward the wood-yard, and then
his eyes glistened with satisfaction. Short as the time had been,
Leather had left his work.
He paused for a moment or two, to make sure that there was no regular
_chop-chop_ at the end of the rails, and with a grin of satisfaction he
walked quickly to the spot where he had seen the convict at work.
He looked about the stacks of wood, stepping softly and peering round
into shady corners, expecting and hoping to see his fellow-servant
asleep; but he was disappointed, and five minutes elapsed before the
convict came back, axe in hand.
"Seen either of the blacks about, Mr Brookes?" he said.
"Why?" snarled Brookes.
The convict looked surprised, but he said gently: "I want one of them to
come and turn the grindstone handle. This axe is getting very dull."
"You lie, you lazy hound!" roared Brookes. "I've had my eye upon you.
Your master's out, and so you think you're going to skulk, do you? If
there's any more of it, over you go to Dillon's for a taste of the cat."
The blood flushed through the convict's bronzed skin and his eyes
glistened, but only for a moment, and he said quite gently, for he saw
Nic in his mind's eye: "It was the simple truth. I was wasting time."
"Yes, I know you were wasting time!" roared Brookes. "You're always
wasting time, and I won't have it. Your master's out, and I won't have
it. Get on. I'll have that pile o' rails done before you leave off
to-night; so no more shirking, do you hear?"
A feeling of fierce resentment made the convict's nerves quiver; but he
thought of Nic, and, controlling his anger, he took a step or two to the
block on which he cut the rails, picked up one, and gave it a couple of
chops.
"Quicker there, lout!" roared Brookes; "and none of your sulky looks
with me."
The convict took up another rail, while Brookes stood over him with the
fork-shaft playing up and down in his hand; while, emboldened by the
other's meekness, he went on with a brutal tirade of abuse, calling up
every insulting expression he could think of, and garnishing them with
bad language, till the convict winced as if under blows.
"Trying to humbug me with your lying gammon about the axe. It's as
sharp as sharp."
"It is not, sir," cried the convict, angrily now. "Take it and judge
for yourself."
He held it out so quickly that Brookes started back, and brought down
the fork-handle with all his might, striking the axe from the man's
hand.
"What!" he roared. "Would you, you murderous dog? Take that--and
that--and that!"
As he spoke he struck again savagely with the stout ash handle, the
second blow falling heavily upon the convict's shoulder, the third
coming sharply upon his head and making the blood spurt forth from a
long deep cut.
Then the fork was raised for another blow; but, quick as lightning, the
convict flung himself forward, and his fist, with all the weight of his
body behind it, caught his assailant full in the face, sending him down
to strike the back of his head against the edge of the wood block, and
lie there yelling for help.
"Murder! help! Sam!" he roared, as he lay there, a ghastly object, with
the convict's foot planted upon his chest, he too bleeding freely from
the wound in his head.
At one and the same time Mrs Braydon, her daughters, and old Samson
came running up in alarm.
"Here! what's the matter?" said the latter, while Mrs Braydon turned
sick at the horrible sight, and caught at her elder daughter's hand.
"Can't you see what's the matter?" cried Brookes. "Get a gun, Sam,
quick! He tried to murder me."
"No, no!" cried the convict, startled by the charge, and shrinking from
the horrified and indignant-looking Mrs Braydon and the two girls.
"He did, missus," cried Brookes, struggling to his feet. "I had to
speak to him for idling, and he struck at me with the axe. There it
lies, and if I hadn't had this fork he'd ha' killed me. You see, he's
most mad: why don't you get a gun, Sam?"
"I don't want no gun," said old Sam snappishly. "He didn't cut your
head like that with the chopper, did he?"
"Yes, yes: look! I'm bleeding 'most to dead."
"Looks more as if you'd gone down on the block. There, missus: hadn't
you and the young ladies best go indoors?"
"No; not yet," cried Mrs Braydon indignantly. "In my husband's absence
too! Man, man, have you not been well treated here?"
"Yes, madam," said the convict hoarsely.
"Such an outrage--such a cruel outrage on Dr Braydon's trusted
servant!"
"What he said, madam, is not true," cried the convict, recovering
himself now from the giddiness produced by the stunning blow. "I did
not, I could not raise the axe to him."
As he spoke he turned his eyes from Mrs Braydon to her daughters, and
he shivered as he saw Janet's indignant look.
"I tell you he did," cried Brookes, holding the fork now threateningly,
as soldiers would bayonets. "He tried to murder me. Sam, are you going
to fetch a gun?"
"Yah! I'm going to fetch a bucket o' water if you won't do it yourself.
Missus--young ladies, why don't you go? This ain't the place for you."
"No," said Mrs Braydon, taking Hilda's hand. "Come in, Janet."
But for a moment Janet did not stir, held as she was by the convict's
imploring look as he said, addressing Mrs Braydon, though as if for
her:
"Indeed, madam, it is not true. This man struck me brutally: I forgot
myself--I did strike him in return."
"Yes," said Mrs Braydon coldly; and; uttering a sob, Janet gave the
convict a reproachful look and followed her mother into the house.