he dropped Norah's wrist and bridle and roared like any bull. The
"something" hung on fiercely, silently, and the victim hopped and raved
and begged for mercy.

Norah had ridden a little way on. She called softly to Puck.

"Here, boy!"

Puck did not relinquish his grip. He looked pleadingly at his little
mistress across the swagman's trouser-leg. Norah struck her saddle
sharply with her whip.

"Here, sir!--drop it!"

Puck dropped it reluctantly, and came across to Bobs, his head hanging.
The swagman sat down on the ground and nursed his leg.

"That served you right," Norah said, with judicial severity. "You hadn't
any business to grab my watch. Now, if you'll go up to the house they'll
give you some tucker and a rag for your leg!"

She rode off, whistling to Puck. The swagman gaped and muttered various
remarks. He did not call at the house.

Norah was supposed to manage the fowls, but her management was almost
entirely ornamental, and it is to be feared that the poultry yard would
have fared but poorly had it depended upon her alone. All the fowls were
hers. She said so, and no one contradicted her. Still, whenever one was
wanted for the table, it was ruthlessly slain. And it was black Billy
who fed them night and morning, and Mrs. Brown who gathered the eggs,