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.