“So I see. My saddles. What have you been doing with them? Where did you find them, eh?”
The tone was loud and blustering, but uncertain and surprised. In the moonlight Tom looked his enemy coolly and steadily in the face. And the girl drew away from her companion and gazed at Tom, who never so much as glanced at her as he replied:—
“They were stolen. Thieves broke into the saddle-room and stole your saddles. I heard them and followed them, but I never saw their faces close to, and I wouldn’t swear to a voice. I followed them to Jarmant hut; and, you see, I’ve brought you your saddles back.”
Mr. Nat never said a word. His blue eyes glared fixedly at Tom, out of a white face, from which the girl O’Brien edged further and further away.
“No; I can’t tell you who the men were,” continued Tom. “But I can tell you who put them up to it. It was not a convict, Mr. Sullivan, but a meaner hound than any convict on your farm. One who has a special spite against me— the Lord knows why! So he bribed these men to take the saddles, simply in order to get me into trouble. What do you think of that? I overheard all about it out at Jarman’s hut. I heard his name, too. Would you like to know what it is?”
“Sure it’s himself—the dhirty divil!”
And Peggy O’Brien was at Tom’s side, with one hand clutching his arm, and the other pointing scornfully at the baleful blue eye and the vile, quivering lips of the younger Sullivan.
What followed was the affair of a moment. It was as if a mad bull had made a rush, though whether at the girl, or Tom, or both, it was impossible to say. Tom thought the first, dropped the saddles, and his right arm
