down, yer know. An’ it’s bin makin’ me dream o’ nights. There—there ain’t any bad news down ter the township, o’ course?”
The keenness of the tracker ran into Murray’s eyes. He shaded them, watching the little man folding the rabbit-skins.
“Bad news? Let’s see. The Corin girl has hooked Pat Armstrong from the Glory, and the keas are rough on the Mains ewes all along the river downs. Scannell has squads out shooting every night, and Ted Douglas is nearly off his head———”
Jimmie spilt the tea that he was shaking into the sputtering billy.
“Let him go off his head,” he said. “I ’ope he will, an’ die of it. He got me the chuck-out from Mains. He as allers called hisself my mate.”
“There are folk who say that he’ll get himself the chuck-out before long.” Murray’s every nerve was set to observe the man opposite. “Old Buggy is dead. Died alone of starvation. He sent away the woman who looked after him because he couldn’t pay her wages, and he starved, the proud old fool, because he wouldn’t ask for help. He kept all his money in the house, and—some—men—say that Ted Douglas took it.”
Jimmie thumped a skin very flat, and he did not look up. At last he said:
“Ain’t they ’cusing me too?”
