While they were waiting for the great case to come on a sort of
depression seemed to spread itself over the station. The owner was
mostly shut up in her room with her thoughts; the old lady was
trying to comfort her, and Ellen Harriott, with sorrow always at her
heart, went about the household work like an automaton. No wonder
that as soon as breakfast was over all the men cleared out to work
on the run. But one day it so happened that Carew did not go out
with the others. The young Englishman was a poor correspondent, and
had promised himself a whole quiet day to be spent in explaining
by letter to his people at home the mysterious circumstances under
which he had found and lost Patrick Henry Considine. Ellen Harriott
found him in the office manfully wrestling with some extra long
words, and stopped for a few minutes' talk. She had a liking for
the young Englishman, and any talk was better than to be left alone
with her thoughts.
"These are bad times for the old station, Mr. Carew," she said.
"We don't know what is going to happen next."
Carew was not going to haul down the flag just yet. "I believe
everything 'll come all right in the long run, don't you know," he
said. "Never give up first hit, you know; see it out--eh, what?"
"I want to get away out of this for a while," she said. "I am run
down. I think the bush monotony tells on women. I don't want anyone
to fall sick, but I do wish I could get a little nursing to do
again--just for a change. I would nurse Red Mick himself."
Is there anything in telepathy? Do coming events sometimes send
warnings on ahead? Certain it is that, even as she spoke, a rider
on a sweating horse was seen coming at full speed up the flat; he
put his horse over the sliprails that led into the house paddock
without any hesitation, and came on at a swinging gallop.
"What is this?" said Ellen Harriott, "more trouble? It is only
trouble that comes so fast. Why, it is one of Red Mick's nephews!" By
this time the rider was up to them; without dismounting he called
out Miss! Please, Miss! There's been an accident. My uncle got run
agin a tree and he's all smashed in the head. I'm off to the Doctor
now; I'll get the Doctor here by to-morrow night, and would you
go out and do aught you can for Mick? There's no one out there but
old Granny, and she's helpless like. Will you go?"
"Is he much hurt?"
"I'm afraid he's killed, Miss. I found him, He'd been out all night
and the side of his head all busted. After a dingo he was--I seen
the tracks. Coming back from Gavan Blake's he must 'a' seen the
dorg off the track, and the colt he was on was orkard like and must
have hit him agen a tree. The colt kem home with the saddle under
his belly, and I run the tracks back till I found him. Will you go
out, Miss?"