Nokes was a big fellow, with a broad, solid face, which would not
have condemned him among physiognomists but for a bad eye, which
could not look you in the face. He had been a boundary rider for
Heathcote, and on an occasion had been impertinent, refusing to leave
the yard behind the house unless something was done which those about
the place refused to do for him. During the discussion Harry had come
in. The man had been drinking, and was still insolent, and Harry had
ejected him violently, thrusting him over a gate. The man had
returned the next morning, and had then been sent about his business.
He had been employed at Medlicot's Mill, but from the day of his
dismissal to this he and Harry had never met each other face to face.

"I'm pretty well, thank ye, Mr. Heathcote. I hope you're the same,
and the ladies. The master's about somewhere, I take it.--Picky, go
and find the master." Picky was one of the Polynesians, who at once
started on his errand.

"Have you been over to Gangoil since you left it?" said Harry,
looking the man full in the face.

"Not I, Mr. Heathcote. I never go where I've had words. And, to tell
you the truth, sugar is better than sheep. I'm very comfortable here,
and I never liked your work."

"You haven't been at the wool-shed?"

"What, the Gangoil shed! What the blazes 'd I go there for? It's a
matter of ten miles from here."

"Seven, Nokes."