“Evening and morning only,” replied Thompson, maintaining the fine apathy due to himself under the circumstances. “I was away all night with the bullocks, in a certain paddock. Didn’t recognise me; but I told him I had been there; and then he would talk about nothing but the little girl. Catholic priest in Hay sympathised very strongly with him, he told me, but couldn’t read the service over the child, on account of her not being baptised. So Ward read the service. His people are English Catholics. Most likely Spanker thought of this when he sent Ward. Dan didn’t seem to be as much cut-up as you’d expect. He was getting uneasy about his paddock; and he thought Spanker might be at some inconvenience. But that black beard of his is more than half white already. And⁠—something like me⁠—I never thought of mentioning this to Bob when he was here. Absence of mind. Bad habit.”

“This Dan has much to be thankful for,” remarked Stevenson, with strong feeling in his voice. “Suppose that thunderstorm had come on a few hours sooner⁠—what then?”

There was a silence for some minutes.

“Tell you what made me interrupt you, Thompson, when I foun’ fault with singin’-out after lost kids,” observed Saunders, at length. “Instigation o’ many a pore little (child) perishin’ unknownst. Seen one instance when I was puttin’ up a bit o’ fence on Grundle⁠—hundred an’ thirty-four chain an’ some links⁠—forty-odd links, if I don’t disremember. Top rail an’ six wires. Jist cuttin’ off a bend o’ the river, to make a handy cattle-paddick. They’d had it fenced-off with deadwood, twelve or fifteen years before; but when they got it purchased they naterally went-in for a proper fence. An’ you can’t lick a top rail an’ six wires, with nine-foot panels⁠—”

“You’re a bit of an authority on fencin’,” remarked Baxter drily.

“Well, as I was sayin’,” continued Saunders; “this kid belonged to a married man, name o’ Tom Bracy, that was workin’ mates with me. One night when his missus drafted the lot she made one short; an’ she hunted roun’, an’ called, an’ got excited; an’ you couldn’t blame the woman. Well, we hunted all night-me, an’ Tom, an’ Cunningham, the cove that was engaged to cart the stuff onto the line. Decent, straight-forrid chap, Cunningham is, but a (sheol) of a liar when it shoots him. Course, some o’ you fellers knows him. Meejum-size man, but one o’ them hard, wiry, deepchested, deceivin’ fellers. See him slingin’ that heavy red-gum stuff about, as if it was broad palin’. Course, he was on’y three-an’ twenty; an’ fellers o’ that age don’t know their own strenth. His bullocks was fearful low at the time, on account of a trip he had out to Wilcanniar with flour; an’ that’s how he come to take this job⁠—”

“Never mind Cunningham; he’s dead now,” observed Donovan indifferently.

“Well as I was tellin’ you,” pursued Saunders, “we walked that bend the whole (adj.) night, singin’ out ‘Hen-ree! Hen-ree!’ an’ in the mornin’ we was jist as fur as when we started. Tom, he clears-off to the station before daylight, to git help; an’ by this time I’d come to the conclusion that the kid must be in the river, or out on the plains. I favoured the river a lot; but I bethought me o’ where this deadwood fence had bin burnt, to git it out o’ our road, before the grass got dry. So I starts at one end to examine the line o’ soft ashes that divided the bend off o’ the plain⁠—an’ har’ly a sign o’ traffic across it yet. Hadn’t went, not fifteen chain, before I bumps up agen the kid’s tracks, plain as A.B.C., crossin’ out towards the plain. Coo-ees for Cunningham; shows him the tracks; an’ the two of us follers the line o’ ashes right to the other end, to see if the tracks come back. No (adj.) tracks. So we tells the missus; an’ she clears-out for the plain, an’ me after her. Cunningham, he collars his horse, an’ out for the plain too. Station chaps turns-up, in ones an’ twos; an’ when they seen the tracks, they scattered for the plain too. Mostly young fellers, on good horses⁠—some o’ them good enough to be worth enterin’ for a saddle, or the like o’ that. Curious how horses was better an’ cheaper them days nor what they are now. I had a brown mare that time; got her off of a traveller for three notes; an’ you’d pass her by without lookin’ at her; but of all the deceivin’ goers you ever come across⁠—”

“No odds about the mare; she’s dead long ago,” interposed Thompson.

“About two o’clock,” continued Saunders cheerfully, “I was deadbeat an’ leg-tired; an’ I went back to the tent, to git a bite to eat; an’, comin’ back agen, I went roun’ to have another look at the tracks. Now, thinks I, what road would that little (wanderer) be likeliest to head from here? An’ I hitches myself up on a big ole black log that was layin’ about a chain past the tracks, an’ I set there for a minit, thinkin’ like (sheol). You wouldn’t call it a big log for the Murray, or the Lower Goulb’n, but it was a fair-size log for the Murrumbidgee. I seen some whoppin’ redgums in Gippsland too; but the biggest one I ever seen was on the Goulb’n. Course, when I say ‘big,’ I mean measurement; I ain’t thinkin’ about holler shells, with no timber in ’em. This tree I’m speakin’ about had eleven thousand two hundred an’ some odd feet o’ timber in her; an’ Jack Hargrave, the feller that cut her⁠—”

“His troubles is over too,” murmured Baxter.

“Well, as I was tellin’ you, I begun to fancy I could hear the whimper of a kid, far away. ’Magination, thinks I. Lis’ns fit to break my (adj.) neck. Hears it agen. Seemed to come from the bank o’ the river. Away I goes; hunts roun’; lis’ns; calls ‘Hen-ree!’; lis’ns agen. Not a sound. Couple o’ the station hands happened to come roun’, an’ I told ’em. Well, after an hour o’ searchin’ an’ lis’nin’, the three of us went back to where I heard the sound. I hitches myself up onto the log agen, an’ says I:

“ ‘This is the very spot I was,’ says I, ‘when I heard it.’ An’ before the word was out o’ my mouth, (verb) me if I didn’t hear it agen!

“ ‘There you are!’ says I.

“ ‘What the (sheol) are you blatherin’ about?’ says they.

“ ‘Don’t you hear the (adj.) kid?’ says I.

“ ‘Oh, that ain’t the kid, you (adj.) fool!’ says they, lookin’ as wise as Solomon, an’ not lettin’-on they couldn’t hear it. But for an’ all, they parted, an’ rode roun’ an’ roun’, as slow as they could crawl, stoppin’ every now an’ agen, an’ listening for all they was worth; an’ me settin’ on the log, puzzlin’ my brains. At last I hears another whimper.

“ ‘There you are again!’ says I.

“An’ one cove, he was stopped close in front o’ the butt end o’ the log at the time; an’ he jumps off his horse, an’ sticks his head in the holler o’ the log, an’ lets a oath out of him. Fearful feller to swear, he was. I disremember his name jis’ now; but he’d bin on Grundle ever since he bolted from his ole man’s place, in Bullarook Forest, on account of a lickin’ he got; an’ it was hard to best him among sheep; an’ now I rec’lect his name was Dick⁠—Dick⁠—it’s jist on the tip o’ my (adj.) tongue⁠—”

“No matter hees name,” interposed Helsmok; “he have yoined der graat mayority too.”

“Well, as I was sayin’,” continued the patient Saunders, “we lis’ned at the mouth o’ the holler, an’ heard the kid whinin’ inside; an’ when we sung-out to him, he was as quiet as a mouse. An’ we struck matches, an’ tried to see him, but he was too fur along, an’ the log was a bit crooked; an’ when you got in a couple o’ yards, the hole was so small you’d wonder how he done it. Anyhow, the two station blokes rode out to pass the word; an’ the most o’ the crowd was there in half-an-hour. The kid was a good thirty foot up the log; an’ there was no satisfaction to be got out of him. He wouldn’t shift; an’ by-’n’-by we come to the impression that he couldn’t shift; an’ at long an’ at last we had to chop him out, like a bees’ nest. Turned out after, that the little (stray) had foun’ himself out of his latitude when night come on; an’ he’d got gumption enough to set down where he was, an’ wait for mornin’. He’d always bin told to do that, if he got lost. But by-’n’-by he heard ‘Hen-ree! Hen-ree!’ boomin’ an’ bellerin’ back an’ forrid across the bend in the dark; an’ he thought the boody-man, an’ the bunyip, an’ the banshee, an’ (sheol) knows what all, was after him. So he foun’ this holler log, an’ he thought he couldn’t git fur enough into it. He was about seven year old then; an’ that was in ’71⁠—the year after the big flood⁠—an’ the shearin’ was jist about over. How old would that make him now? Nineteen or twenty. He left his ole man three year ago, to travel with a sheep-drover, name o’ Sep Halliday, an’ he’s bin with the same bloke ever since. Mos’ likely some o’ you chaps knows this Sep? Stout butt of a feller, with a red baird. Used to mostly take flocks for truckin’ at Deniliquin; but that got too many at it⁠—like everything else⁠—an’ he went out back, Cooper’s Creek way, with three thousand Gunbar yowes, the beginnin’ o’ las’ winter, an’ I ain’t heard of him since he crossed at Wilcanniar⁠—”

“No wonder,” I observed; “he’s gone aloft, like the rest.”

There was a pause, broken by Stevenson, in a voice that brought constraint on us all:

“Bad enough to lose a youngster for a day or two, and find him alive and well; worse, beyond comparison, when he’s found dead; but the most fearful thing of all is for a youngster to be lost in the bush, and never found, alive or dead. That’s what happened to my brother Eddie, when he was about eight year old. You must remember it, Thompson?”

“Wasn’t my father out on the search?” replied Thompson. “Tom’s father, too. You were living on the Upper Campaspe.”

“Yes,” continued Stevenson, clearing his throat; “I’ve been thinking over it every night for these five-and-twenty years, and it seems to me the most likely thing that could have happened to him was to get jammed in a log, like that other little chap. Then after five years, or ten years, or twenty years, the log gets burned, and nobody notices a few little bones, crumbled among the ashes.

“I was three or four years older than Eddie,” he resumed hoarsely “and he just worshipped me. I had been staying with my uncle in Kyneton for three months, going to school; and Eddie was lost the day after I came home. We were out, gathering gum⁠—four of us altogether⁠—about a mile and a half from home; and I got cross with the poor little fellow, and gave him two or three hits; and he started home by himself, crying. He turned round and looked at me, just before he got out of sight among the trees; and that was the last that was ever seen of him alive or dead. My God! When I think of that look, it makes me thankful to remember that every day brings me nearer to the end. The spot where he turned round is in the middle of a cultivation-paddock now, but I could walk straight to it in the middle of the darkest night.

“Yes; he started off home, crying. We all went the same way so soon afterward that I expected every minute to see him on ahead. At last we thought we must have passed him on the way. No alarm yet, of course; but I was choking with grief, to think how I’d treated the little chap; so I gave Maggie and Billy the slip, and went back to meet him. I knew from experience how glad he would be.

“Ah well! the time that followed is like some horrible dream. He was lost at about four in the afternoon; and there would be about a dozen people looking for him, and calling his name, all night. Next day, I daresay there would be about thirty. Next morning, my father offered £100 reward for him, dead or alive; and five other men guaranteed £10 each. Next day, my father’s reward was doubled; and five other men put down their names for another £50. Next day, Government offered £200. So between genuine sympathy and the chance of making £500, the bush was fairly alive with people; and everyone within thirty miles was keeping a lookout.

“No use. The search was gradually dropped, till no one was left but my father. Month after month, he was out every day, wet or dry, and my mother waiting at home, with a look on her face that frightened us⁠—waiting for the news he might bring. And, time after time, he took stray bones to the doctor; but they always turned out to belong to sheep, or kangaroos, or some other animal. Of course, he neglected the place altogether, and it went to wreck; and our cattle got lost; and he was always meeting with people that sympathised with him, and asked him to have a drink⁠—and you can hardly call him responsible for the rest.

“However, on the anniversary of the day that Eddie got lost, my mother took a dose of laudanum; and that brought things to a head. My father had borrowed every shilling that the place would carry, to keep up the search; and there was neither interest nor principal forthcoming, so the mortgagee⁠—Wesleyan minister, I’m sorry to say⁠—had to sell us off to get his money. We had three uncles; each of them took one of us youngsters; but they could do nothing for my father. He hung about the public-houses, getting lower and lower, till he was found dead in a stable, one cold winter morning. That was about four years after Eddie was lost.”

Stevenson paused, and restlessly changed his position, then muttered, in evident torture of mind:

“Think of it! While he was going away, crying, he looked back over his shoulder at me, without a word of anger; and he walked up against a sapling, and staggered⁠—and I laughed!⁠—Great God!⁠—I laughed!”

That was the end of the tank-sinker’s story; and silence fell on our camp. Doubtless each one of us recalled actions of petty tyranny toward leal, loving, helpless dependents, or inferiors in strength⁠—actions which now seemed to rise from the irrevocable past, proclaiming their exemption from that moral statute of limitations which brings self-forgiveness in course of time. For an innate Jehovah sets His mark upon the Cain guilty merely of bullying or terrifying any brother whose keeper he is by virtue of superior strength; and that brand will burn while life endures. (Conversely⁠—does such remorse ever follow disdain of authority, or defiance of power? I, for one, have never experienced it).

Soon a disquietude from another source set my mind at work in troubled calculation of probabilities. At last I said:

“Would you suppose, Steve, that the finding of George Murdoch’s body was a necessary incitement among the causes that led to the little girl’s getting lost?”

“Domson’s ascleep,” murmured Helsmok. “I tink dey all ascleep. I wass yoos dropp’n off mineself.”

And in two minutes, his relaxed pose and regular breathing affirmed a kind of fellowship with the rest, in spite of his alien birth and objectionable name. But I couldn’t sleep. Dear innocent, angel-faced Mary! perishing alone in the bush! Nature’s precious link between a squalid past and a nobler future, broken, snatched away from her allotted place in the long chain of the ages! Heiress of infinite hope, and dowered with latent fitness to fulfil her part, now so suddenly fallen by the wayside! That quaint dialect silent so soon! and forever vanished from this earth that keen, eager perception, that fathomless love and devotion! But such is life.

Yet it is well with her. And it is well with her father, since he, throughout her transitory life, spoke no word to hurt or grieve her. Poor old Rory! Reaching Goolumbulla, after his sorrowful journey, his soft heart would be stabbed afresh by the sight of two picture-books, which I had posted a fortnight before. And how many memories and associations would confront him when he returned to his daily round of life! How many reminders that the irremediable loss is a reality, from which there can be no awakening! How many relics to be contemplated with that morbid fascination for the re-quickening of a slumbering and intolerable sense of bereavement! But the saddest and most precious of memorials will be those little copper-toed boots that she left along the way. Deepest pathos lies only in homely things, since the frailness of mortality is the pathetic centre, and mortality is nothing but homely.

Hence, no relic is so affecting as the half-worn boots of the dead. Thus in the funeral of that gold-escort trooper, when I was but little older than poor Mary. The armed procession⁠—the Dead March⁠—the cap and sword on the coffin⁠—seemed so imposing that I forthwith resolved to be a trooper myself. That ambition passed away; but the pathos of the empty boots, reversed in the stirrups of the led horse, has remained with me ever since.

From sad reflections, I seemed to be thus drifting into philosophic musing, when Helsmok shook me gently by the shoulder. A glance at the setting moon showed that I had been asleep, and that it was long past midnight. Here, therefore, ends the record of January the 9th; and you might imagine this chapter of life fitly concluded.

But sometimes an undercurrent of plot, running parallel with the main action, emerges from its murky depths, and causes a transient eddy in the interminable stream of events. Something of this kind occurred on the morning of the 10th.

“Collince,” said the Dutchman softly. “Don’ wake op der odder vellers⁠—do no goot yoos now. I gone ’way roun’ der liknum, und der bullock und der horse not dere. Notteen cronk, I hope. Mi’s well com anodder trip?”

I left my lair, and we walked out across the plain, followed by the faithful Pup. When we had ranged for an hour, in half-mile zigzags, day began to break; and nothing had turned-up, except four of Stevenson’s horses. But we heard, through the stillness of the dawn, a faint, faraway trampling of hoofs. We headed for the sound, and presently found ourselves meeting three or four dozen of mixed bullocks and horses convoyed by five mounted Chinamen. We stood aside to let them pass. By this time, an advancing daylight enabled me to recognise the roan horse of Sam Young (also called Paul) with a rider who was more likely to be that proselyte than anyone else. At all events, he turned upon me the light of a countenance, broad, yellow, and effulgent as the harvest moon of pastoral poetry; and, like a silver clarion, rung the accents of that unknown tongue:

“Ah-pang-sen-lo! Missa Collin! sen-lo! Tlee-po’ week, me plully liah, all li; nek time, you plully liah, all li! Missa Smyte talkee you bimeby! Hak-i-long-see-ho! You lescue Walligal Alp bullock⁠—eh? You killee me, by cli! Whe’ you holse? Ling-tang-hon-me! My wuld, Tlinidad plully goo’ glass, no feah! Hi-lung-sing-i-lo-i-lo!”

“Goo’ molnin’, Missa Helsmok!” chanted another yellow agony. “Nicee molnin’, Missa Helsmok! Whaffoh you tellee me lah wintel you sclew my plully neck? Lak-no-ha-long-lee! Missa Smyte wakee you up⁠—tyillin’-ahead you holse! Man-di-sling-lo-he!”

“Donder und blitzen!” retorted the Dutchman, striding toward the escort, which scattered at his approach. “Yomp off dem olt crocks, every man yack of you, und swelp mine Gott! I weel ponch der het of der vive of you altogedder mit, ef so moch der yudge seegs mons pot me into der yail bot!”

“Helsmok,” said I, restraining him; “upon the heat and flame of thy distemper sprinkle cool patience. Let us accept the situation with dignity. Let us pit the honest frankness of the played-out Caucasian against the cunning of the successful Mongol.” Then, addressing the Turanian horde, and adapting my speech to the understanding of our lowest types: “My word!” I exclaimed admiringly, “you take-um budgeree rise out-a whitepeller, John! Merrijig you! Borak you shift-um that peller bullock; borak you shift-um that peller yarraman. Whitepeller gib-it you fi’ bob, buy-it opium. You savvy? Bale whitepeller tell-um boss. Bimeby whitepeller yabber like-it, ‘Chinaman berry good’-yabber likeit, ‘Comenavadrink, John’⁠—yabber like-it, ‘Chinaman brother b’long-a whitepeller.’ You savvy, John?”

“Lak-hi-lo-hen-slung!” carolled a third Chow disdainfully. “You go hellee shut up! Eulopean allee sem plully whool! Lum-la-no-sunhi-me!” And the raiders went on their way, warbling remarks to each other in their native tongue, while the discomfited foreign devils hurried toward their camp, to give the alarm.

But Baxter, Donovan, Thompson, and Saunders had already gone out to feast their eyes on the change which such a night would make in the appearance of their stock. Stevenson was just getting on his feet, and feeling for his pipe. Cartwright was still asleep. It seemed a pity to disturb him. Sharply whetted to this form of self-indulgence by hardship that would have finished any civilised man, he had gently dozed off as the last bite of a copious and indigestible supper reached his emu-stomach, and had never moved since.

“Now who’d’a’thought them Chinks was so suddent?” he mused, as I woke him with the tidings. “Trapped! Gosh, what a slant I’d ’a’ had at that (fellow)’s horsepaddick, if I’d on’y knowed! Cut-an’-dried, I be boun’. No good chewin’ over it now, anyhow. After you with them matches, Stevenson; mine’s all done.”

“Barefooted Bob’s mixed-up in this,” remarked Stevenson, handing the matches. “Now, who would have suspected it, from his manner last night? But no one is to be trusted. Better take our saddles and bridles with us.”

“In respect of imbecility and ignorance, I grant you,” I replied. “But in respect of deliberate deceit, most men are to be trusted. By-the-way, there’s four of your frames left⁠—out near those coolibahs.”

“Stake the question on Bob,” he suggested. “May as well catch them, and ride.”

“So be it⁠—to both proposals.”

The sun was now above the indefinable horizon, looming bloodred through the smoky haze. All objects, even in the middle distance, showed vague and shadowy; but, knowing which way the marauders had taken their prey, we went after them, making a slight detour to secure the four horses. But we were just in time to discern a Chinese patrol tailing the same beasts toward a larger detachment, which was moving in the direction taken by the earlier draft. We followed; and, for my own part, even if I had not been personally interested, I should have judged it well worth going a mile to witness the strong situation which supplied a sequel to our homely little drama.

Precise and faithful execution, cooperating with masterly strategy had realised one of the most magnificent hauls of assorted trespassers that I have been privileged to survey. I jotted down a memo of the numbers. There were 254 head of overworked and underfed beasts⁠—173 bullocks and 81 horses. These were in the custody of nine Mongolians, two Young-Australians, and two gentlemen⁠—the latter being Mr. Smythe and Bert. Also, 7 bullocks and 3 horses left their bones in the paddock, as evidence of the bitter necessity which had prompted this illegal invasion of pastoral leasehold. There were (including myself) 23 claimants, present in person, or arriving by twos or threes. A few of these were ludicrously abashed; others were insolent; but the large majority observed a fine nonchalance, shading down to apathy. And Mr. Smythe, true to his order of mind, treated the first with outrageous contumely, the second with silent contempt, and the third with a respect born of vague disquietude and anxiety for the morrow. A squatter⁠—just or unjust, generous or avaricious, hearty or exclusive, debonair or harsh⁠—should be a strong man; this was a weakling; and my soul went forth in genuine compassion for him.

The three hours occupied in sorting-out and settling-up, furnished, perhaps, as varied and interesting experiences to me as to anyone else in the cast: first, a thrill of dismay, altogether apart from the drama; and afterward, the fortuitous cognisance of a bit of byplay in the main action.

My horses, of course, were among the captives; each of them with both hobble-straps buckled round the same leg. Early in the reception, whilst treating for them, I was fairly disconcerting Mr. Smythe with my affability, when that sudden consternation came over me. Where was Pup?

I put the two pairs of hobbles round Bunyip’s neck, and saddled Cleopatra without delay. The gallant beast, as if he knew the need for despatch, bucked straight ahead till he merged into an easy gallop. A few minutes brought me to the camp; and my anxiety was dispelled. The chaps had hung their tucker-bags on some adjacent lignum, out of reach of the wild pigs, but at a height accessible to Pup. The absence of the owners, though desirable, would not have been absolutely necessary to the performance which followed, for a kangaroo-dog can abstract food with a motion more silent⁠—and certainly more swift⁠—than that of a gnomon’s shadow on a sundial.

So I returned to the scene of interest, accompanied by Bunyip and Pup. Twelve or fifteen of the outlaws, having secured their saddle-horses, were sternly ordering the Chinamen to refrain from crowding the stock. The grass in this corner of the paddock was especially good; and these unshamed delinquents rode slowly through and through the mob, each vainly trying to identify and count his own; while now and then one would pass out to overbear some encroaching pagan by loud-spoken interrogations respecting a bay mare with a switch tail, or a strawberry bullock with wide horns⁠—such ostentatious inquiry being accompanied by a furtive and vicious jabbing of evidence’s horse, or evidence himself, with some suitable instrument. Yet batch after batch was withdrawn and paid for; while the red sun rose higher, and Mr. Smythe became impatient and crusty, by reason of the transparent dallying.

Helsmok, after protracted and patient sorting, brought out nineteen of his horses, and paid for twenty, besides his hack. He said he would have to borrow a whip from someone, to “dost der yacket” of the impracticable animal that remained in the mob. Relevantly, one of the Chows had a stockwhip, the handle of which represented about six months’ untiring work on a well-selected piece of myall. Helsmok had all along been pained by the incongruity of such a gem in such keeping; and now having discharged his trespass-liability, the iron-wristed Hollander politely borrowed this jewel from its clinging owner, and so recovered his horse without difficulty. Then, when the bereaved boundary man followed him across the plain, intoning psalms of remonstrance, Helsmok, making a playful clip at a locust, awkwardly allowed the lash to curl once-and-a-half round the body of John’s horse; close in front of the hind-legs. The cheap and reliable rider saved himself by the mane; but he let the stockwhip go at that.

Smythe⁠—high-strung and delicate, in spite of his stockkeeper’s rig-out⁠—was taking little interest in anything except the shillings he collected. At last, with a heart-drawn sigh, he beckoned to his brother.

“You must meet me with the buggy, Bert, when this is over. I have a splitting headache. We can do without you now.” Alas! what doth a station manager with splitting headaches? Answer, ye pastoralists!

Stevenson had just drafted and paid for his batch, when Barefooted Bob stalked up, bearing an unmistakable scowl on his frank face, and a saddle on his shoulder.

“Did you receive my message last night, Bob?” demanded Smythe.

“Well,” drawled Bob, “I couldn’t say whether it was las’ night or this mornin’⁠—but I got your message right enough.”

“And why didn’t you turn-up?”

“Why didn’t I turn-up,” repeated Bob thoughtfully. “P’r’aps you’ll be so good as to inform me if my work’s cleanin’ out reservoys or mindin’ paddicks?”

“But you should be loyal to your employ,” replied Smythe severely.

“Meanin’ I shouldn’t turn dog?” conjectured Bob. “No more I don’t. I ain’t turnin’ dog on anybody when I stick to my own work, an’ keep off of goin’ partners with opium an’ leprosy. Same time, mind you, I’d be turnin’ dog on the station if I took advantage o’ your message, to go round warnin’ the chaps that was workin’ on the paddick. Way I was situated, the clean thing was to stand out. An’ that’s what I done.”

Meanwhile, Stevenson had lingered to feel his pockets, sort his papers, examine his horse’s legs, and so forth, while his draft spread out over the grass.

“You were right, and I was wrong,” he remarked, aside to me. “Bob is trustworthy⁠—ruthlessly so.”

“Only in respect of conscience, which is mere moral punctilio, and may coexist with any degree of ignorance or error,” I replied. “I wouldn’t chance sixpence on his moral sense⁠—nor on yours, either.”

“Thank-you, both for the lesson and the compliment. Don’t forget to call round at my camp, any time you’re crossing Koolybooka. Goodbye.”

“Are your bullocks here, Bob?” demanded Smythe.

“Horses too,” replied Bob. “Ain’t you lookin’ at ’em?” But Smythe didn’t know half-a-dozen beasts on the station; and Bob (as he afterward told me) was aware of his boss’s weakness in individuality.

“Take them and get to work then,” retorted Smythe. “How many bullocks are you working?” he added, with sudden suspicion⁠—his idea evidently being that Bob might wish to do a good turn to some of the bullock drivers.

“Well, I’m workin’ ten, but⁠—”

“ ‘But!’⁠⸺⁠I’ll have no ‘but’ about it!” snapped Smythe. “Take your ten, and go!”

“Right,” drawled Bob, and he slowly strode toward one of his own horses.

“And look-sharp, you fellows!” vociferated Smythe. “This paddock must be cleared within fifteen minutes, or I shall proceed to more extreme measures.”

Whereupon Thompson withdrew his lot, deliberately followed by four other culprits, whose names are immaterial. Meanwhile, Bob had some trouble in sorting out his ten⁠—often slowly crossing and re-crossing the paths of Donovan and Baxter, in their still more arduous and long-drawn task. At last the eagle-eye of the squatter counted Bob’s ten, accompanied by his spare horse, as he tailed the lot toward his camp; and the same aquiline optic tallied-off an aggregate of thirty-six to Baxter and Donovan⁠—who, to my own private knowledge, had entered the paddock with thirty-four. This disposed of the whole muster.

Months afterward, when the two Mondunbarra bullocks had been swapped-away into a team from the Sydney side, I camped one night with Baxter and Donovan, who discussed, in the most matter-of-fact way, their own tranquil appropriation of the beasts. Each of these useful scoundrels had the answer of a good conscience touching the transaction. They maintained, with manifest sincerity, that Smythe’s repudiation of the bullocks, and his subsequent levy of damages upon them as strangers and trespassers, gave themselves a certain right of trover, which prerogative they had duly developed into a title containing nine points of the law. Not equal to a pound-receipt, of course; but good enough for the track. And throughout the discussion, Bob’s name was never mentioned, nor his complicity hinted at. Such is life.