First in the Field Part 32

"Take your feet out o' the stuff, will yer?" he roared. "They do make good pork and bacon and ham, Master Nic, but they are about the savagest, fiercest things I know. Fine pigs, though, ain't they? Come on: I want to see if that chap's getting on with the milking."

Sam led the way to a shed with open side, where the black whom Nic had seen on the previous day was busy milking; the thick, rich milk given by one of half a dozen beautifully clean cows descending in its double stream, _quisk_--_whish_, and frothing up in the white pail.

"Take some in to White Mary soon," said Samson, and the man raised his s.h.i.+ning black face and grinned.

"I say, why do you say White Mary?" asked Nic, as they left the cow-shed. "Who's she?"

"Because you've got to talk to them blackfellows so's they can understand you, sir. White Mary's white woman to them. He's going to take the pails as he fills 'em in to Miss Janet: she sees to the dairy.

And Miss Hilda, she's White Mary too, and so's your mar."

"Oh," said Nic thoughtfully. "Now then, I want to see the horses."

"Which? those on the run or in the stable?"

"On the run?"

"Yes. They're miles away, and you'd want to ride."

"Well, in the stable."

"This way, then; but won't you come and see my garden first? I've got real apple trees a-growing."

"I'll see the garden after. I want to look how Sour Sorrel is."

"Fresh as a daisy, sir."

"I want to feed him."

"You should have got up sooner, Mister Nic. I fed the horses more'n hour ago, and rubbed 'em down. Do you like Sorrel?" said Samson, showing his teeth.

"Like him!" cried Nic, with a voice intense in its appreciation.

"That's right, sir. I bred him speshly for you, Master Nic. He was to be for you, and you won't ride him too hard, will you?"

"Why, it would be a sin!" cried Nic.

"Sin ain't half bad enough word for it, sir," cried the old man. "Any one as'd hurt a horse with a temper like Sorrel, and such a willin'

heart, ud do anything wicked, I don't care what it is. Why, I don't believe even a lifer ud do that."

"What's a lifer?" asked Nic.

"Transported for life, sir."

"Oh yes, I remember now," said Nic, as they turned into the long wooden stable. "Ah, father! you up already?"

"'Morning, Nic, my boy. Oh yes, we are early birds here. Been round the farm?"

"Yes, some of it. He has been showing me."

"Well, do you think you can be content with our rough life?"

"Oh, I say, father!" cried Nic protestingly, "don't talk to me like that! Like it? Everything seems too good. Why, I love it already."

"Don't be too enthusiastic, my boy," said the doctor, clapping him on the shoulder. "It is not all bliss. See what a journey it is to civilisation."

"Bother civilisation!" cried Nic. "That means me being away from home with people who don't care for me."

"You should make people care for you," said the doctor gravely. "Our friends.h.i.+ps depend much upon ourselves."

"But I wanted to come out, father."

"And you've come to where nearly all our neighbours are blacks--savages, and many of the others convicts, who are not merely blacks on the surface, Nic. Well, we shall see how you get on. You may alter your tone, my boy."

Nic said nothing, and the horses--six--were inspected.

"Janet and Hilda ride those two little mares, Nic," said the doctor; "and sometimes I get your mother to mount this old favourite, but not often. The others are away grazing."

"You have plenty of horses, then?"

"Yes. They are a necessity here, where so many miles have to be covered a day. You think you will be contented here?"

"Of course, father."

"But you'll have to work, Nic."

"To be sure, father. I'm sure I shall like it."

"A great change from school, my boy."

"Yes, father; but it was a great change for you to come from your London practice."

"So it was, Nic," said the doctor: "a greater change, perhaps, for I was no longer young and sanguine. Greatest of all was the change for your mother and sisters--leaving, as they did, all the pleasant comforts of life, to be their own servants and stoop to all kinds of work. But they were very good. They saw health was the great thing. Nic, boy, for once let me refer to this seriously. I came out believing that I might prolong my poor weary life a year. At the end of that year I thought I could prolong it two more; and at the end of those three years I began to be hopeful of living with those dear to me another three."

"And now, father, you are going to live to be a fine, healthy, hearty old man."

"Please G.o.d, Nic," said the doctor, reverently raising his hat,--"for the sake of your mother and the girls."

"He might have said, 'and for your sake too,'" thought Nic, as the doctor walked away to pat one of the horses, returning directly after to talk in a bright cheery way.

"I'm glad you like the horses and the place, Nic," he said. "Your mother and I were a little nervous about it being dull for you."

"Oh, I shan't be dull, father," cried the boy. "Not if you have a boy's healthy appreciation of nature, Nic; and that I hope you have. No, you can't be dull; there is too much to take your attention. It will be a rougher education, but it is a grand healthy life--one like this out in a new land, to make a good simple natural home. People fear to come to some of these places, because they say there's no doctor. I am a doctor, Nic."

"Yes, father; and I've heard say that you were a very clever one."

"I did my best, boy. But I was going to say I am a doctor, and saving for an occasional accident, which nature would heal, I am like a fish out of water."

"Break-fast!" cried a merry, girlish voice; and Hilda, looking bright and eager, looked in at the stable door.