"Good pup," said Mick, "fitch him out, pup!--What
is it--native cat? Goo for 'im!"
Thus encouraged, the puppy darted forward barking, and Red Mick
stopped leisurely, picked up a large stone, and sent it crashing
among the branches. It passed between Hugh and Miss Grant, and came
near enough to stunning one or other of them. They jumped to their
feet hurriedly, and without dignity climbed out of the branches,
and advanced on Red Mick, while the puppy ran yelping behind his
master.
It is only reasonable to suppose that Mick was somewhat astonished
at the apparition. He could scarcely have expected his shot to
disturb two such fine birds from such an extraordinary nest; but
before they had extricated themselves from the branches his face
had assumed the stolid, cow-like, unintelligent look which had
so often baffled judges and Crown Prosecutors. He was bland and
child-like as Bret Harte's Chinee.
He spoke as if he were quite accustomed to unearthing young couples
out of trees. His voice had a sort of "I quite understand how it
is" tone, and he spoke cheerfully.
"Good-day, Misther Hugh! Where's your horses? Have you had a fall?"
"Fall! No!" snapped Hugh, whose temper was gradually rising as the
absurdity of the situation dawned on him. "We haven't had a fall.
We ran the tracks of a lot of our sheep from the big paddock, and
here they are now.
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