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 t