but there was that in Roddy’s face which made him anxious.
“Pick that up and go on with your work,” he said, sharply. “Leave him alone, Kiliat, and go an’ spring your little jokes on someone else. Roddy hasn’t any sense of humour.”
“He has insulted me,” raved Kiliat.
“You’d better go and handle a slave-gang if you want soft answers to your lip. Roddy won’t offend again. I’ll vouch for him. Good-night.”
But Ormond had stern words for the boy when Kiliat had gone.
“If you play up with your work and your masters as you are doing, you’ll find yourself fired out very shortly,” he said. “Art Scannell’s to blame for this, I suppose———”
“He’s my mate,” said Roddy, sullenly.
“Then your mate will have to find you another billet before long, if you’re not careful. Remember what I say, Roddy. If I sweat myself I make my men sweat too, and you haven’t tightened your traces this fortnight.”
He left Roddy alone in the darkening night, with the work that took toll of the boy’s body and freed his mind to search in morbid terror through Lou’s words. Down in the desolate creek-bed each clump of flax and slender cabbage-tree was alive with its Maori birthright of mystery and gloom, and the roar of the water shut him in on himself relentlessly.
