Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/51

much stronger now; and besides, the food at Paranui was good and plentiful; but he lay down at night worn out with more than bodily exertion, and woke before dawn (again it was his business to wake earlier than anyone else) with the dream-sound of Baldwin’s snarl in his ears.

That sound pursued him all day. He was always being snarled at for laziness and aristocratic airs and sulkiness. The last charge had truth—sulky he certainly was, but it did not affect his work. He did that to the best of his ability, but it was never well enough or quickly enough done to please Baldwin. He did anything—minor butchering, stable work, odd jobs (which he hated), drafting, skinning dead sheep—not a pleasant business when the sheep had been dead a fortnight or so—helping the others in any way he could. The riding work was what he liked best, but he either had a good deal too much of it, being in the saddle from dawn till after dark, tiring three horses without any rest himself, or he did not ride at all. When he dismounted after one of his riding days he could barely stand, and he was too sick and faint to eat, although in the saddle he had been hungry enough. He would unsaddle, reel to the Hut, and fall fast asleep, not waking even at the kindly cook’s offer of hot mutton and scones. But Baldwin’s voice was capable of dispelling his drowsiness, even at such times.

“Loafing again, you Tony? I’ll teach you what work means before I’ve done with you. You’re one of those young gentlemen who think it’s beneath your dignity, but———”

And so on. The pent rage was eating into Tony’s very soul.

The men were sorry for him, but as they were more in awe of Baldwin than ever, that meant little. He set his teeth and endured, counting the days till Robertson’s return. Matters grew gradually worse. Baldwin had always been rough-tongued, but he had never touched Tony