Free Dash and Dingo by Catt Ford, Sean Kennedy Page B

bankrupt.”
    “You’re dealing with a historian here, Baz,” Dingo said, as if that explained everything.
    Which apparently it did, to Baz. “Ah.”
    “I suppose being a plunderer, you quickly lose respect for the dead,”
    Henry said snottily.
    “Who’s a plunderer?” Baz demanded.
    “Dash,” Dingo warned, and Henry couldn’t help but heed the tone.
    “Is he calling our dad a plunderer?” Baz asked, his voice rising.
    “I think he was actually insulting me,” Dingo drawled.
    “Oh,” Baz relaxed behind the wheel again. “That’s okay, then.”
    Henry turned to Dingo. “I wasn’t—”
    “I’m not a plunderer,” Dingo said softly.
    “Oh, you two are going to work perfectly together.” Baz laughed. “A regular Burke and Wills.”
    Dingo groaned, and Henry felt confused all over again as he still hadn’t recovered from the shame he felt at apparently insulting the man.
    “Who?” Henry asked.
    “Australian explorers,” Baz explained. “They died trying to map the north.”
    “Oh,” Henry said, crestfallen. “That’s not exactly a cheery analogy.”
    “ Comrades in great achievement, and comrades in death ,” Dingo mused.
    “Pardon?” Henry asked.
    “That’s what’s written on their tomb.” Dingo grinned.
    “You’re just as bad as your brother,” Henry murmured unhappily.
    “That’s what they say,” Baz said, shifting slightly in his seat. “Almost home.”
    Henry felt Dingo sit up, more alert. There was a genuine smile on his face; he was happy to be home and see his family again. Henry wondered if
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    there had ever been a period in his life when he had worn the same expression in respect to his own homestead. As bad as boarding school had been, the prospect of returning home in the hols had never seemed that much more attractive.
    “I still can’t believe Dingo found somebody as crazy as himself to tag along on this expedition,” Baz muttered.
    “You don’t understand, Baz,” Dingo said tiredly and simply, a reaction to an oft-repeated argument.
    “Nah, I guess I don’t. That’s why Dad’s so glad you’ve taken on after him.”
    “Your father knows about the thylacine?” Henry asked Dingo,
    dumbfounded.
    “Knows about it?” Baz exclaimed. “He’s a bloody expert! What, you didn’t tell him, Jack?”
    Dingo glowered at the use of his real name. “I thought Dad would be the best to talk about it.”
    Baz directed the car to pull up outside a two-story Victorian terrace house. It didn’t look as stately as some of the others on Faraday Street, but it looked comfortable and lived-in. Henry liked it immediately, his mood in no way dampened by the bickering of the brothers he was sandwiched between.
    “So your new friend doesn’t know that our grandfather was one of the biggest bounty hunters of the thylacine in his day?” Baz asked, incredulous.
    Henry was too shocked to speak; all he could do was turn to Dingo with wide eyes and an open mouth.
    “Thanks, Barry,” Dingo said dryly.
    “Well,” Baz said, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll meet you blokes inside. It looks like you need to have a chat.”
    “Thanks, Barry,” Dingo repeated in the same tone of voice.
    Baz gave both of the other men a quick look and then hightailed it into the safety of his parents’ house.
    “Dash—” Dingo began.
    “That’s not my name,” Henry reminded him, feeling childish but still resisting the nickname as if it gave Dingo some right to claim him. For this moment, anyway. He was too angry.
    “Henry, then,” Dingo said, and it sounded strange coming from him.
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    “Why didn’t you tell me?” Henry asked plaintively.
    “Because it’s got nothing to do with me,” Dingo said, frowning.
    “Of course it has something to do with you!” Henry interjected. “Your grandfather contributed to the massacre of the thylacines!”
    “And that’s why my father and I are trying to save