Creek were familiar, and so were the bellows of laughter from the men feeding in the gay sunlight by the pipes. The pallor of the toi-toi plumes meant nothing, nor the blood-red biddy-bid spread over the scarp behind the Glory which men called Fighting Hill. Ormond had never asked for the legend.
“Any fellow can scare himself dead in a month if he lets imagination take grip enough. But I didn’t think you were quite such an ass, Murray. So long as a man dresses by his reason he does his work as he should do. But once he loses step———”
And then came something headlong from the dead broom to clasp him about the knees, and to pray him, for God’s sake, to win Murray’s forgiveness for this horror that walked in broad day. Roddy’s eyes were set with despair, and his speech broke as Ormond jerked him to his feet in a sudden spate of anger.
“By the Lord Harry, but I’ve had enough of this tommy-rot for one day! What the devil do you mean by eavesdropping, you young———”
“Murray—tell Murray I did it. Don’t let him touch me. Don’t———”
“You needn’t fret. I’ll take as much out of you as Murray could if I find you deserve it. Stand up and speak when I tell you. Now—what have you got to do with this?”
