Five minutes after he ran in dripping wet, and had hard work to keep Mrs Braydon from embracing him.

"Not till I've changed, mother," he cried.

"But where have you been?"

"Over to Dillon's, to get him not to punish Leather, and let him come away."

"Yes, Nic?" cried Janet excitedly.

"He wouldn't let him come."

Janet heaved a piteous sigh and sank back in her chair, while Nic hurried to his room to get rid of his soaking garments.

When he came out to go to the room where the meal had been kept waiting all those many hours for his return, he met Janet.

"You coward!" she whispered: "you have not tried."

"I did my best," whispered Nic. "But, I say, Jan, can you keep a secret?"

"Yes: what?" she cried excitedly.

"Old Dillon must be as mad as mad. Leather has escaped, and has made for the myall scrub."

Janet uttered a peculiar sound: it was caused by her pressing her hands to her lips to suppress a cry, as she ran to her own room.

"Poor chap!" said Nic to himself. "I'm glad she likes him too."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE QUEST.

As Nic had supposed would be the case, hoof-marks were either obliterated or looked faint and old from the heavy soaking they had received in the storm, while those made by a man were invisible, unless to the ultra-keen eyes of some natives.

He noted this when he went out that same morning in pretty good time, for he felt convinced that Mr Dillon would give him the credit of helping Leather to escape.

It was a glorious morning, the dust being washed away by the storm, and everything looking beautifully fresh and green in the sunshine.

When he went out he was soon aware of something else being wrong, for Brookes was rating the three blacks, who had thoroughly enjoyed their truant holiday, and would have stayed away for days in the myall scrub, but the bush in wet weather is to a blackfellow not pleasant, from the showers of drops falling upon his unclothed skin. Consequently the storm had sent them back, and they were all found clothed and curled up fast asleep in the wool-shed by old Sam, who had roused them up.

His words had brought Brookes on the scene, armed with a stout stick, with which he was thrashing them, while the rascals were hopping about in a peculiar shuffling dance, whose steps consisted in every one wanting to be at the back and pushing his fellow to the front.

Bungarolo was the least adept player, and Damper and Rigar managed to keep him before them as a kind of breastwork or shield, behind which they could escape the threatening stick.

"Baal mumkull! baal mumkull! (don't kill)," he kept crying piteously.

"But that's all you're fit for, you lazy rascals. Where did you go?"

"Plenty go find yarraman. Budgery yarraman (good horses). Plenty go find. Run away."

"I don't believe it. What horses ran away?"

"Kimmeroi, bulla, metancoly (one, two, ever so many)," cried Rigar, from the back.

"It's all a lie. Come: out with you!"

"No, leave him alone, Brookes," said Nic sternly. "I'll have no more quarrelling to-day."

The man faced round sharply.

"Look here, young master, are you going to manage this here station, or am I?" he cried.

"I am, as far as I know; and I won't have the black-fellows knocked about."

The three culprits understood enough English to grasp his meaning, and burst out together in tones of reproach:

"Baal plenty stick. No Nic coolla (angry). Black-fellow nangery (stay), do lot work."

"Work! Yes," cried Nic. "Go away with you, and begin."

The three blacks set up a shout like school-children who had escaped punishment, and danced and capered off to the work that they had left the day before.

"Look here, sir--" began Brookes again.

"Why don't you hold your tongue, Brooky?" cried old Sam. "You ain't looked in the gla.s.s this morning, or you'd see enough mischief was done yesterday."

"Who spoke to you?" cried Brookes fiercely.

"Not you, or you'd get on better. Young master's quite right. You can't deal with the blacks that way."

"Breakfast!" cried a clear voice; and Nic turned to find his sister Janet coming to meet him, looking very pale, but quite contented.

"I shall keep it a secret, Nic," she whispered. "I'm so glad, for all that seemed so dreadful to me."

At that moment Mrs Braydon appeared at the door, she too looking pale, but eager to welcome her son; and no allusion was made during breakfast to the previous day's trouble.

But hardly had they finished when Nibbler burst into a deep-toned volley of barking, which immediately started the two collies, and they rushed round to the front.

"Some one coming," cried Hilda. "Oh,--they're bringing back poor Leather!"

Nic sprang to the window, to see Mr Dillon, followed by five of his men, three blacks, and seven or eight dogs, among which were three gaunt, grey, rough-haired, Scottish deer-hounds.

The boy had expected that Mr Dillon would come, but his sister's words staggered him and gave him a sharp pang.

The next moment, though, he saw that she was wrong; and turning from the window, he exchanged glances with Janet, as he said quite coolly, "What does he want so soon?" and made for the door, thinking that he knew well enough that they were on a man-hunting expedition, but congratulated himself on the convict's long start.

"Good morning, Mr Dominic," said the magistrate, riding up, while the two collies ran on to investigate the strange dogs, and Nibbler tore furiously at his chain.