Part 11 (1/2)
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 ent.i.tled to bread and jam, if not to a n.o.bbler itself, in bringing such tidings to Gangoil.
”Is that all?” asked Heathcote.
”And Bos is at Boolabong, and Bill Nokes was there all Sunday, and Jerry Brownbie's been out with Bos and Georgie.”
”The old man wouldn't say any thing of that kind, Jacko.”
”The old man! He knows nothing about it. My word! they don't tell him about nothing.”
”Or Tom?”
”Tom's away in prison. They always cotches the best when they want to send 'em to prison. If they'd lock up Jerry and Georgie and Jack! My word! yes.”
”You think they're arranging it all at Boolabong?”
”In course they are.”
”I don't see why Boscobel shouldn't be at Boolabong without intending me any harm. Of course he'd go there when he left Gangoil. That's where they all go.”
”And Bill Nokes, Mr. Harry?”
”And Bill Nokes too. Though why he should travel so far from his work this weather I can't say.”
”My word! no, Mr. Harry.”
”Did you see any fires about your way last night?”
Jacko shook his head.
”You go into the kitchen and get something to eat, and wait for me. I shall be out before long now.”
Though Heathcote had made light of the a.s.semblage of evil spirits at Boolabong which had seemed so important to Jacko, he by no means did regard the news as unessential. Of Nokes's villany he was convinced.