there was a long red scar on his bare neck, where he had on a former
occasion cut his throat.  All the scholars were afraid of Barney, and
the girls climbed up on the benches and began to scream.

Philip went up to the Boozer and said:

"Well, my friend, what do you want here?"

"The devil knows," replied Barney.

"Very likely, but he is not here, he has gone down the road."

Then taking Barney by the arm he turned him round and guided him to
the road.  Barney went about twenty yards until he came to a pool of
water.  He stepped on to the fence and sat on the top rail gazing
into the pool.  At last he threw his hat into it, then his boots,
coat, shirt, and trousers.  When he was quite naked, he stamped on
his clothes until they were thoroughly soaked and buried in mud.
Barney then resumed his search for the devil, swinging his arms to
and fro in a free and defiant manner.

The school was also visited by a bishop, a priest, a squatter, and a
judge.  The dress and demeanour of the judge were very impressive at
so great a distance from any centre of civilization, for he wore a
tall beaver hat, a suit of black broadcloth, and a white necktie.
Philip received him with reverence, thinking he could not be anything
less than a lord spiritual, such is the power of broadcloth and fine
linen.  Nosey, the shepherd, was then living at Nyalong, having
murdered the other shepherd, Baldy, about six months before, and this
judge sent Nosey to the gallows seventeen years afterwards; but
neither Nosey nor the judge knew what was to happen after seventeen
years.  This is the story of Nosey and Baldy.

THE TWO SHEPHERDS.

By the men on the run they were known as Nosey and Baldy, but in a
former stage of their existence, in the days of the Emperor Augustus
Cæsar, they were known as Naso and Balbus.  They were then rivals in
love and song, and accused each other of doing things that were mean.
And now, after undergoing for their sins various transmigrations into
the forms of inferior animals, during two thousand years, as soon as
shepherds are required in Australia Felix, they appear once more
following their flocks and herds.  But they are entirely forgetful of
all Greek and Roman civilization; their morals have not improved, and
their quarrels are more bitter than ever.  In the old times they
tootled on the tuneful reed, and sang in purest Latin the sweetest
ditties ever heard, in praise of Galatea and Amyntas, Delia and
Iolla.  But they never tootle now, and never sing, and when they
speak, their tongue is that of the unmusical barbarians.  In their
pagan days they stained their rustic altars with the blood of a kid,
a sacrifice to Jupiter, and poured out libations of generous wine;
but they offer up neither prayer nor sacrifice now, and they pour
libations of gin down their throats.

The Italian rustic is yet musical, and the Roman citizen has not lost
the genius of his race.  He is still unrivalled in sculpture and
architecture, in painting, in poetry, and philosophy; and in every
handicraft his fingers are as deft as ever.  But empire has slipped
from his grasp, and empire once lost, like time, never returns.  Who
can rebuild Ninevah or Babylon, put new life into the mummies of the
Pharoahs, and recrown them; raise armies from the dust of the
warriors of Sesostris, and send them forth once more to victory and
slaughter?  Julian the Apostate tried to rebuild the Holy City and
Temple of Israel, to make prophecy void--apparently a small
enterprise for a Roman Emperor--but all his labours were vain.
Modern Julians have been trying to resuscitate old Rome, and to found
for her a new empire, and have only made Italy another Ireland, with
a starving people and a bankrupt government.  'Nos patriæ fines, nos
dulcia linquimus arva'.  The Italians are emigrating year after year
to avoid starvation in the Garden of Europe.  In every city of the
great empire on which the sun never sets they wander through the
streets, clad in faded garments of olive green--the toga long since
discarded and forgotten--making sweet music from the harp and
violin, their melancholy eyes wandering after the passing crowd,
hoping for the pitiful penny that is so seldom given.

The two shepherds were employed on a station north of Lake Nyalong.
It is a country full of dead volcanoes, whose craters have been
turned into salt lakes, and their rolling floods of lava have been
stiffened into barriers of black rocks; where the ashes belched forth
in fiery blasts from the deep furnaces of a burning world have
covered the hills and plains with perennial fertility.

Baldy had been entrusted with a fattening flock, and Nosey had in his
care a lambing flock.  From time to time the sheep were counted, and
it was found that the fattening flock was decreasing in numbers.  The
squatter wanted to know what had become of his missing sheep, but
Baldy could give no account of them.  His suspicions, however, soon
fell on Nosey.  The latter was his nearest neighbour, and although he
had only the same wages--viz., thirty pounds a year and rations--
he seemed to be unaccountably prosperous, and was the owner of a wife
and two horses.  He had been transported for larceny when he was only
fifteen years of age, and at twenty-eight he was suspected of being
still a thief.  Girls of the same age were sent from Great Britain to
Botany Bay and Van Diemen's Land for stealing one bit of finery,
worth a shilling, and became the consorts of criminals of the deepest
dye.  You may read their names in the Indents to this day, together
with their height, age, complexion, birthplace, and other important
particulars.

Baldy went over to Nosey's hut one evening when the blue smoke was
curling over the chimney, and the long shadows of the Wombat Hills
were creeping over the Stoney Rises.  Julia was boiling the billy for
tea, and her husband was chopping firewood outside.

"Good evening, Julia," said Baldy; "fine evening."

"Same to you, Baldy.  Any news to-day?" asked Julia.

"Well, there is," said Baldy, "and it's bad news for me; there's ten
more of my fatteners missing"  (Nosey stopped chopping and listened)
"and the master says I'll have to hump my swag if I can't find out
what has become of them.  I say, Nosey, you don't happen to have seen
any dingoes or blacks about here lately?"

"I ain't seen e'er a one, neither dingo nor blackfellow.  But, you
know, if they were after mischief they'd take care not to make a
show.  There might be stacks of them about and we never to see one of
them."

Nosey was proud of his cunning.

"Well," said Baldy, "I can hear of nobody having seen any strangers
about the Rises, nor dingoes, nor black fellows.  And the dingoes,
anyhow, would have left some of the carcases behind; but the thieves,
whoever they are, have not left me as much as a lock of the wool of
my sheep.  I have been talking about 'em with old Sharp; he is the
longest here of any shepherd in the country, and knows all the
blacks, and he says it's his opinion the man who took the sheep is
not far away from the flock now.  What do you think about it, Nosey?"

"What the----should I know about your sheep?" said Nosey.  "Do you
mean to insinivate that I took 'em?  I'll tell you what it is, Baldy;
it'll be just as well for you to keep your blasted tongue quiet about
your sheep, for if I hear any more about 'em, I'll see you for it; do
you hear?"

"Oh, yes, I hear.  All right, Nosey, we'll see about it," said Baldy.

There would have been a fight perhaps, but Baldy was a smaller man
than the other and was growing old, while Nosey was in the prime of
life.

Baldy went to Nyalong next day.  His rations did not include gin, and
he wanted some badly, the more so because he was in trouble about his
lost sheep.  Gin, known then as "Old Tom," was his favourite remedy
for all ailments, both of mind and body.  If he could not find out
what had become of his sheep, his master might dismiss him without a
character.  There was not much good character running to waste on the
stations, but still no squatter would like to entrust a flock to a
shepherd who was suspected of having stolen and sold his last
master's sheep.

Baldy walked to Nyalong along the banks of the lake.  The country was
then all open, unfenced, except the paddocks at the home stations.
The boundary between two of the runs was merely marked by a ploughed
furrow, not very straight, which started near the lake, and went
eastward along the plains.  In the Rises no plough could make a line
through the rocks, and the boundaries there were imaginary.  Stray
cattle were roaming over the country, eating the grass, and the main
resource of the squatters was the Pounds Act.  Hay was then sold at
80 pounds per ton at Bendigo; a draft of fat bullocks was worth a
mine of gold at Ballarat, and, therefore, grass was everywhere
precious.  No wonder if the hardy bullock-driver became a cattle
lifter after his team had been impounded by the station stockman when
found only four hundred yards from the bush track.  Money, in the
shape of fat stock, was running loose, as it were, on every run, and
why should not the sagacious Nosey do a little business when Baldy's
fat sheep were tempting him, and a market for mutton could be found
no farther away than the Nyalong butcher's shop.

Baldy left the township happier than usual, carrying under his arm
two bottles of Old Tom.  He was seen by a man who knew him entering
the Rises, and going away in the direction of Nosey's hut, and then
for fifteen years he was a lost shepherd.  In course of time it was
ascertained that he had called at Nosey's hut on his way home.  He
had the lost sheep on his mind, and he could not resist the impulse
to have another word or two with Nosey about them.  He put down the
two bottles of gin outside the door of the hut, near an axe whose
handle leaned against the wall.  Nosey and his wife, Julia, were
inside, and he bade them good evening.  Then he took a piece of
tobacco out of his pocket, and began cutting it with his knife.  He
always carried his knife tied to his belt by a string which went
through a hole bored in the handle.  It was a generally useful knife,
and with it he foot-rotted sheep, stirred the tea in his billy, and
cut beef and damper, sticks, and tobacco.

"I have been to Nyalong," he said, "and I heern something about my
sheep; they went to the township all right, strayed away, you know,
followed one another's tails, and never came back, the O. K. bullocks
go just the same way.  Curious, isn't it?"

Nosey listened with keen interest.  "Well, Baldy," he said, "and what
did you hear?  Did you find out who took 'em?"

"Oh, yes," said Baldy; "I know pretty well all about 'em now, both
sheep and bullocks.  Old Sharp was right about the sheep, anyway.
The thief is not far from the flock, and it's not me."  Baldy was
brewing mischief for himself, but he did not know how much.

"Did you tell the police about 'em?" asked Nosey.

"Oh, no, not to-day!" answered Baldy.  "Time enough yet. I ain't in
no hurry to be an informer."

Nosey eyed him with unusual savagery, and said:

"Now didn't I tell you to say no more about your blasted sheep, or
I'd see you for it?  and here you are again, and you can't leave 'em
alone.  You are no better than a fool."

"Maybe I am a fool, Nosey.  Just wait till I get a light, and I'll
leave your hut and trouble you no more."

He was standing in the middle of the floor cutting his tobacco, and
rubbing it between the palms of his hands, shaking his head, and
eyeing the floor with a look of great sagacity.

Nosey went outside, and began walking to and fro, thinking and
whispering to himself.  It was a habit he had acquired while slowly
sauntering after his sheep.  He seemed to have another self, an
invisible companion with whom he discussed whatever was uppermost in
his mind.  If he had then consulted his other self, Julia, he might
have saved himself a world of trouble; but he did not think of her.
He said to himself:  "Now, Nosey, if you don't mind, you are going to
be in a hole.  That old fool inside has found out something or other
about the sheep, and the peelers will have you, if you don't look
out, and they'll give you another seven years and maybe ten.  You've
done your time once, Nosey, and how would you like to do it again?
Why couldn't you leave the cursed sheep alone and keep out of
mischief just when you were settling down in life comfortable, and
might have a chance to do better.  Baldy will be telling the peelers
to-morrow all he knows about the sheep you stole, and then they'll
fetch you, sure.  There's only one thing to stop the old fool's jaw,
and you are not game to do it, Nosey; you never done a man yet, and
you are not game to do it now, and you'll be damned if you do it, and
the devil will have you, and you'll be hanged first maybe.  And if
you don't do him you'll be lagged again for the sheep, and in my
opinion, Nosey, you are not game.  Yes, by the powers, you are,
Nosey, damned if you ain't.  Who's afeered?  And you'll do it quick
--do it quick.  Now or never's your time."

While talking thus to himself, Nosey was pacing to and fro, and he
glanced at the axe every time he passed the door.  The weapon was
ready to his hand, and seemed to be inviting him to use it.

"Baldy is going to light his pipe, and while he is stooping to get a
firestick, I'll do him with the axe."

When Baldy turned towards the fire, Nosey grasped the axe and held it
behind him.  He waited a moment, and then entered the hut; but Baldy
either heard his step, or had some suspicion of danger, for he looked
around before takingup a firestick.  At that instant the blow,
intended for the back of the head, struck him on the jaw, and he fell
forward among the embers.  For one brief moment of horror he must
have realised that he was being murdered, and then another blow
behind the head left him senseless.

Nosey dragged the body out of the fireplace into the middle of the
floor, intending, while he was doing a man, to do him well.  He
raised the axe to finish his work with a third blow, but Julia gave a
scream so piercing that his attention was diverted to her.

"Oh, Nosey," she said, "what are you doing to poor Baldy?  You are
murdering him."

Nosey turned to his wife with upraised axe.

"Hold your jaw, woman, and keep quiet, or I'll do as much for you."

She said no more.  She was tall and stout, had small, sharp, roving
eyes; and Nosey was a thick-set man, with a thin, prominent nose,
sunken eyes, and overhanging brows.  He never had a prepossessing
appearance, and now his look and attitude were so ugly and fierce
that the big woman was completely cowed.  The pair stood still for
some time, watching the last convulsive movements of the murdered
Baldy.

Nosey could now pride himself on having been "game to do his man,"
but he could not feel much glory in his work just yet.  He had done
it without sufficient forethought, and his mind was soon full of
trouble.

Murder was worse than sheep stealing, and the consequences of his new
venture in crime began to crowd on his mind with frightful rapidity.
He had not even thought of any plan for hiding away the corpse.  He
had no grave ready, and could not dig one anywhere in the
neighbourhood.  The whole of the country round his hut was rocky--
little hills of bare bluestone boulders, and grassy hollows covered
with only a few inches of soil--rocks everywhere, above ground and
below.  He could burn the body, but it would take a long time to do
it well; somebody might come while he was at the work, and even the
ashes might betray his secret.  There were shallow lakes and swamps,
but he could not put the corpse into any of them with safety:  search
would be made wherever there was water, on the supposition that Baldy
had been drowned after drinking too freely of the gin he had brought
from Nyalong, and if the body was found, the appearance of the skull
would show that death had been caused, not by drowning, but by the
blows of that cursed axe.  Nosey began to lay all the blame on the
axe, and said, "If it had not stood up so handy near the door, I
wouldn't have killed the man."

It was the axe that tempted him.  Excuses of that sort are of a very
ancient date.

Luckily Nosey owned two horses, one of which was old and quiet.  He
told Julia to fasten the door, and to open it on no account whatever,
while he went for the horse, which was feeding in the Rises hobbled,
and with a bell tied round his neck.  When he returned he saddled the
animal, and Julia held the bridle while he went into the hut for the
body.  He observed Baldy's pipe on the floor near the fire-place, and
he replaced it in the pocket in which it had been usually kept, as it
might not be safe to leave anything in the hut belonging to the
murdered man.  There was a little blood on the floor, but he would
scrape that off by daylight, and he would then also look at the axe
and put away the two bottles of gin somewhere; he could do all that
next morning before Baldy was missed.  But the corpse must be taken
away at once, for he felt that every minute of delay might endanger
his neck.  He dragged the body outside, and with Julia's help lifted
it up and placed it across the saddle.  Then he tried to steady his
load with his right hand, and to guide the horse by the bridle with
his left, but he soon found that a dead man was a bad rider; Baldy
kept slipping towards the near side or the off side with every stride
of the horse, and soon fell to the ground.

Nosey was in a furious hurry, he was anxious to get away; he cursed
Baldy for giving him so much trouble; he could have killed him over
again for being so awkward and stubborn, and he begun to feel that
the old shepherd was more dangerous dead than alive.  At last he
mounted his horse, and called to Julia to come and help him.

"Here, Julia, lift him up till I catch hold of his collar, and I'll
pull him up in front of me on the saddle, and hold him that way."

Julia, with many stifled moans, raised the body from the ground,
Nosey reached down and grasped the shirt collar, and thus the two
managed to place the swag across the saddle.  Then Nosey made a
second start, carefully balancing the body, and keeping it from
falling with his right hand, while he held the bridle with his left.

The funeral procession slowly wound its way in a westerly direction
among the black rocks over the softest and smoothest ground to avoid
making any noise.  There was no telling what stockman or
cattle-stealer the devil might send at any moment to meet the
murderer among the lonely Rises, and even in the darkness his
horrible burden would betray him.  Nosey was disturbed by the very
echo of his horse's steps; it seemed as if somebody was following him
at a little distance; perhaps Julia, full of woman's curiosity; and
he kept peering round and looking back into the darkness.  In this
way he travelled about a mile and a half, and then dismounting,
lowered the body to the ground, and began to look for some suitable
hiding place.  He chose one among a confused heap of rocks, and by
lifting some of them aside he made a shallow grave, to which he
dragged the body, and covered it by piling boulders over and around
it.  He struck several matches to enable him to examine his work
carefully, and closed up every crevice through which his buried
treasure might be visible.

The next morning Nosey was astir early.  He had an important part to
act, and he was anxious to do it well.  He first examined the axe and
cleaned it well, carefully burning a few of Baldy's grey hairs which
he found on it.  Then he searched the floor for drops of blood, which
he carefully scraped with a knife, and washed until no red spot was
visible.  Then he walked to Baldy's and pretended to himself that he
was surprised to find it empty.  What had happened the previous night
was only a dream, an ugly dream.  He met an acquaintance and told him
that Baldy was neither in his hut nor with his sheep.

The two men called at old Sharp's hut to make enquiries.  The latter
said, "I seen Baldy's sheep yesterday going about in mobs, and nobody
to look after them."  Then the three men went to the deserted hut.
Everything in it seemed undisturbed.  The dog was watching at the
door, and they told him to seek Baldy.  He pricked up his ears,
wagged his tail, and looked wistfully in the direction of Nosey's
hut, evidently expecting his master to come in sight that way.

The men went to the nearest magistrate and informed him that the
shepherd was missing.  A messenger went to the head station.
Enquiries were made at the township, and it was found that Baldy had
been to Nyalong the previous day, and had left in the evening
carrying two bottles of gin.  This circumstance seemed to account for
his absence; he had taken too much of the liquor, was lying asleep
somewhere, and would reappear in the course of the day.  Men both on
foot and on horseback roamed through the Rises, examining the hollows
and the flats, the margins of the shallow lakes, and peering into
every wombat hole as they passed.  They never thought of turning over
any of the boulders; a drunken man would never make his bed and
blanket of rocks; he would be found lying on the top if he had
stumbled amongst them.  One by one as night approached the searchers
returned to the hut.  They had discovered nothing, and the only
conclusion they could come to was, that Baldy was taking a very long
sleep somewhere--which was true enough.

Next day every man from the neighbouring stations, and some from
Nyalong, joined in the search.  The chief constable was there, and as
became a professed detector of crime, he examined everything minutely
inside and outside the two huts, but he could not find anything
suspicious about either of them.  He entered into conversation with
Julia, but the eye of her husband was on her, and she had little to
say.  Nosey, on the contrary, was full of suggestions as to what
might have happened to Baldy, and he helped to look for him eagerly
and actively in every direction but the right one.

For many days the Rises were peopled with prospectors, but one by one
they dropped away.  The chief constable was loath to leave the riddle
unsolved; he had the instinct of the sleuth-hound on the scent of
blood.  He had been a pursuer of bad works amongst the convicts for a
long time, both in Van Diemen's Land and in Victoria, and had helped
to bring many men to the gallows or the chain-gang.  He had once been
shot in the back by a horse thief who lay concealed behind the door
of a shepherd's hut, but he secured the horse thief.  He was a man
without nerves, of medium height, strongly built, had a broad face,
massive ears, wide, firm mouth, and strong jaws.

One night after the searchers had departed to their various homes,
the chief remained alone in the Rises, and leaving his horse hobbled
at a distance, cautiously approached Nosey's hut.  He placed his ear
to the outside of the weatherboards, and listened for some time to
the conversation of Nosey and his wife, expecting to obtain by chance
some information about the disappearance of the other shepherd.
Nosey was in a bad temper, swearing and finding fault with
everything.  Julia was prudent and said little; it was best not to
say too much to a man who was so handy with the family axe.  But at
last she made use of one expression which seemed to mean something.
She said, "Oh, Nosey, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be
hanged."  There was a prophetic ring in these words which delighted
the chief constable, and he glued his great ear to the weatherboards,
eagerly listening for more; but the wrangling pair were very
disappointing; they would not keep to the point.  At last he walked
round the hut, suddenly opened the door, and entered.  Nosey was
struck dumb at once.  His first thought was that his plan had been
sprung, and that the murder was out.  The chief addressed Julia in a
tone of authority, imitating the counsel for the crown when examining
a prevaricating witness.

"Now, missus, remember you will be put on your oath.  You said just
now, 'Oh, Nosey, you murdering villain, you know you ought to be
hanged.'  Those were your very words.  Now what did you mean?  On
your oath, mind; out with it at once."

But Julia was not to be caught so easily.  She replied:

"Oh, bad luck to him, he is always angry.  I don't know what to do
with him.  I did not mean anything."

"You did not mean anything about Baldy, I suppose, did you, now?"
queried the constable, shamefully leading the witness, and looking
hard at Nosey.

Julia parried the question by heaving a deep sigh, and saying:  "Hi,
ho, Harry, if I were a maid, I never would marry;" and then she began
singing a silly old song.

The constable was disgusted, and said:

"My good woman, you'll find there will be nothing to laugh at in this
job, when I see you again."

As he left the hut, he turned at the door and gave one more look at
Nosey, who had stood all the time rivetted to the ground, expecting
every moment that the constable would produce the handcuffs.  Soon
afterwards Julia went outside, walked round the hut, and stayed
awhile, listening and looking in every direction.  When she returned,
Nosey said, in a hoarse whisper:

"Is he gan yet?"

"I think," replied Julia, "he won't be coming again to-night.  He has
thrown away his trouble this time, anyhow; but ye must hould your
tongue, Nosey, if ye want to save your neck; he means to have you if
he can."

Nosey stayed on the run some weeks longer, following his sheep.  It
would not be advisable to go away suddenly, and, moreover, he
recollected that what the eye could not see might some time be
discovered by another of the senses.  So he waited patiently,
standing guard as it were over the dead, until his curiosity induced
him to pay a farewell visit by daylight to the place where Baldy was
buried.

There had been hot weather since the body had been deposited in the
shallow grave, and the crevices among the piles of bluestones had
been filled by the wind with the yellow stalks of decayed grass.
Nosey walked round his own particular pile, and inspected it closely.
He was pleased to find that it showed no signs of having been touched
since he raised it.  It was just like any of the other heaps of rocks
around it.  He had, at any rate, given Baldy as good a funeral as
circumstances would permit, better than that of many a man who had
perished of hunger, heat, and thirst, in the shelterless wastes of
the Never-Never Land, "beyond Moneygrub's farthest run."  Nosey and
the weather had done their work so well that for the next fifteen
years no shepherd, stockman, or squatter ever gave a second look at
that unknown grave.  The black snake coiled itself beneath the
decaying skeleton, and spent the winter in secure repose.  The native
cat tore away bits of Baldy's clothing, and with them and the yellow
grass made, year after year, a nest for its young among the whitening
bones.

Everything, so far, had turned out quite as satisfactorily as any
murderer could expect.  Nosey had been game to do his man, and he had
done him well.  Julia was prudent enough to hold her tongue for her
own sake; it was unlikely that any further search would be made for
the lost shepherd; he had been safely put out of sight, and not even
Julia knew where he was buried.

Nosey began to have a better opinion of himself than ever.  Neither
the police nor the law could touch him.  He would never be called to
account for putting away his brother shepherd, in this world at any
rate; and as for the next, why it was a long way off, and there was
time enough to think about it.  The day of reckoning was distant, but
it came at last, as it always does to every sinner of us all.

Nosey resigned his billet, and went to Nyalong.  He lived in a hut in
the eastern part of the township, not far from the lake, and near the
corner of the road coming down from the Bald Hill.  Here had been
laid the foundation of a great inland city by a bush publican, two
storekeepers, a wheelwright, and a blacksmith.  Another city had been
started at the western side of Wandong Creek, but its existence was
ignored by the eastern pioneers.

The shepherd soon began to forget or despise the advice of his wife,
Julia; his tongue grew loose again, and at the bar of the inn of the
crossroads his voice was often heard loud and abusive.  He felt that
he had become a person of importance, as the possessor of a secret
which nobody could discover.  What he said and what he did was
discussed about the township, and the chief constable listened to
every report, expecting that some valuable information would
accidentally leak out.

One day a man wearing a blue jumper and an old hat came down the
road, stepped on to the verandah of the inn, and threw down his swag.
Nosey was there, holding forth to Bill the Butcher, Dick Smalley,
Frank Barton, Bob Atkins, Charley Goodall, and George Brown the Liar.
A dispute occurred, in which the presumptuous stranger joined, and
Nosey promptly knocked him off the verandah into the gutter.  A valid
claim to satisfaction was thus established, and the swagman showed a
disposition to enforce it.  He did not attempt to regain his position
on the boards, but took his stand on the broad stone of honour in the
middle of the road.  He threw up his hat into the air, and began
walking rapidly to and fro, clenched his fists, stiffened his sinews,
and at every turn in his walk said:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

This man's action promised real sport, and true Britons as we all
were we were delighted to see him.  Nosey stood on the verandah for a
minute or two, watching the motions of the swagman; he did not seem
to recollect all at once what the code of honour required, until Bill
the Butcher remarked, "He wants you, Nosey," then Nosey went.

The two men met in the middle of the road, and put up their hands.
They appeared well-matched in size and weight.  The swagman said:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

Nosey began the battle by striking out with his right and left, but
his blows did not seem to reach home, or to have much effect.

The swagman dodged and parried, and soon put in a swinging blow on
the left temple.  Nosey fell to the ground, and the stranger resumed
his walk as before, uttering his war cry:

"You'll find me as good a man as ever you met in your life."

There were no seconds, but the rules of chivalry were strictly
observed; the stranger was a true gentleman, and did not use his
boots.

In the second round Nosey showed more caution, but the result was the
same, and it was brought about by another hard blow on the temple.
The third round finished the fight.  Nosey lay on the ground so long
that Bill, the Butcher, went over to look at him, and then he threw
up the sponge--metaphorically--as there was no sponge, nor any
need of one.

The defeated Nosey staggered towards his hut, and his temper was
afterwards so bad that Julia declined to stay with him any longer;
she loosed the marriage bonds without recourse to law, and
disappeared.  Her husband went away westward, but he did not stay
long. He returned to Nyalong and lived awhile alone in his hut there,
but he was restless and dissatisfied.  Everybody looked at him so
curiously.  Even the women and children stood still as he passed by
them, and began whispering to one another, and he guessed well enough
why they were looking at him and what they were saying--"That's
Nosey the murderer; he killed Baldy and hid him away somewhere; his
wife said he ought to be hanged, and she has run away and left him."

When the hungry hawk comes circling over the grove of crookedy gum in
which two magpies are feeding their callow young, the bush is soon
filled with cries of alarm.  The plump quail hides himself in the
depths of a thick tussock; the bronze-winged pigeon dives into the
shelter of the nearest scrub, while all the noisiest scolds of the
air gather round the intruder.  Every magpie, minah, and wattle-bird
within a mile joins in the clamour.  They dart at the hawk as he
flies from tree to tree.  When he alights on a limb they give him no
peace; they flap their wings in his face, and call him the worst of
names.  Even the Derwent Jackass, the hypocrite with the shining
black coat and piercing whistle, joins in the public outcry, and his
character is worse than that of the hawk himself, for he has been
caught in the act of kidnapping and devouring the unfledged young of
his nearest neighbour.  The distracted hawk has at length to retreat
dinnerless to the swampy margin of the river where the tallest
tea-trees wave their feathery tops in the wind.

In like manner the human hawk was driven from the township.  He
descended in the scale of crime, stole a horse, and departed by night.

Bill, the butcher, said next day:  "Nosey has gone for good this
time.  He will ride that horse to death and then steal another."

At this time I rode through the Rises and called at the two huts; I
found them occupied by two shepherds not unlike the former tenants,
who knew little and cared less what had become of their predecessors.
Time empties thrones and huts impartially, and the king feels no
pride in his monument of marble, nor the shepherd any shame beneath
the shapeless cairn which hides his bones.

At this time the old races both of men and animals were dying out
around Lake Nyalong, and others were taking their places.  The last
black child ever seen in the township was brought by its mother to
the hut of a white woman.  It was naked and very dirty, and she laid
it down on the clay floor.  The white woman's heart was moved with
pity at the sight of the miserable little bairn.  She took it up,
washed it with warm water and soap, wrapped it in flannel, and gave
it back to the mother.  But the lubra was loath to receive it.  She
said, "Black picaninny all die.  No good; white picaninny live."

The kangaroo, wombat, and dingo were fast dying out, as well a the
blackfellow.  We could all see well enough how the change was brought
about.  Millions of years ago, new species may have been evolved out
of the old species, but nothing of the kind happens now.  The white
men of Australia were not evolved out of the black men.  There are no
family ties, and never will be, between the kangaroo, the wombat and
wallaby, and their successors, the cattle, the sheep, and the goats.
We can kill species, but we can't create any.

The rabbit, destined to bring Nosey to the gallows, was a favoured
animal on Austin's station at the Barwon.  It was a privilege to
shoot him--in small quantities--he was so precious.  But he soon
became, as the grammar says, a noun of multitude.  He swarmed on the
plains, hopped over the hills, burrowed among the rocks in the Rises,
and nursed his multitudinous progeny in every hollow log of the
forest.  Neither mountain, lake, or river ever barred his passage.
He ate up all the grass and starved the pedigree cattle, the
well-born dukes and duchesses, and on tens of thousands of fertile
acres left no food to keep the nibbling sheep alive.  Every hole and
crevice of the rocks was full of him.  An uninvited guest, he dropped
down the funnel-shaped entrance to the den of the wombat, and made
himself at home with the wild cat and snake.  He clothed the hills
with a creeping robe of fur, and turned the Garden of the West into a
wilderness.  Science may find a theory to account for the beginning
of all things, but among all her triumphs she has been unable to put
an end to the rabbit.  War has been made upon them by fire, dynamite,
phosphorus, and all deadly poisons; by dogs, cats, weasels, foxes,
and ferrets, but he still marches over the land triumphantly.

For fifteen years Nosey roamed from station to station under various
names, between Queensland and the Murray, but wherever he went, the
memory of his crime never left him.  He had been taught in his
boyhood that murder was one of the four sins crying to heaven for
vengeance, and he knew that sooner or later the cry would be heard.
Sometimes he longed to unburden his mind to a priest, but he seldom
saw or heard of one.  The men with whom he worked and wandered were
all like himself--lost souls who had taken the wrong turn in the
beginning of their days, the failures of all trades and professions;
thieves, drunkards, and gamblers; criminals who had fled from
justice; men of pleasure and, therefore, of misery; youths of good
family exported from England, Ireland, and Scotland to mend their
morals, to study wool, and become rich squatters.  All these men get
colonial experience, but it does not make them saintly or rich.  Here
and there, all over the endless plains, they at last lie down and
die, the dingoes hold inquests over them, and, literally, they go to
the dogs, because they took the wrong turn in life and would not come
back.

In 1868 Nosey and his two mates were approaching a station on the
Lachlan.  Since sunrise they had travelled ten miles without
breakfast, and were both hungry and weary.  They put down their swags
in the shade of a small grove of timber within sight of the station
buildings.  Bob Castles said:

"I was shearing in them sheds in '52 when old Shenty owned the run.
He was a rum old miser, he was, would skin two devils for one hide;
believe he has gone to hell; hope so, at any rate.  He couldn't read
nor write much, but he could make money better'n any man I ever heard
of.  Bought two runs on the Murray, and paid 180,000 pounds for 'em
in one cheque.  He kept a lame schoolmaster to write his cheques and
teach his children, gave him 40 pounds a year, the same as a
shepherd.  Lived mostly on mutton all the year round; never killed no
beef for the station, but now and then an old bullock past work,
salted him down in the round swamp for a change o' grub.  Never grew
no cabbage or wegetables, only a paddock of potatoes.  Didn't want no
visitors, 'cos he was afraid they'd want to select some of his run.
Wanted everything to look as poor and miserable as possible.  He put
on a clean shirt once a week, on Sabbath to keep it holy, and by way
of being religious.  Kept no fine furniture in the house, only a big
hardwood table, some stools, and candle boxes.  After supper old
Mother Shenty scraped the potato skins off the table into her apron
--she always boiled the potatoes in their jackets--and then Shenty
lay down on it and smoked his pipe till bedtime, thinking of the best
way to keep down expenses.  A parson came along one day lifting a
subscription for a church, or school, or something.  He didn't get
anything out of old Shenty, only a pannikin of tea and some damper
and mutton.  The old cove said:  'Church nor school never gave me
nothing, nor do me no good, and I could buy up a heap o' parsons and
schoolmasters if I wanted to, and they were worth buying.  Us
squatters is the harrystockrisy out here.  The lords at home sends
out their good-for-nothing sons to us, to get rich and be out of the
way, and much good they does.  Why don't you parsons make money by
your eddication if it's any good, instead of goin' round beggin'?
You are all after the filthy lucre, wantin' to live on other folks.'
I was holdin' the parson's horse, and when he got into the saddle, he
turns to old Shenty, and says:  'From rottenness you sprung, and to
rottenness you'll go.  Your money will drag you down to hell; you'll
want to throw it away, but it will burn into your soul for all
eternity.'

"I am mortal hungry," continued Bob, "and they don't give no rations
until about sundown, and we'll have to wait six hours.  It's hard
lines.  I see there's an orchard there now, and most likely a
wegtable garden--and cabbages.  I'd like some boiled beef and
cabbage.  It wouldn't be no harm to try and get somethin' to eat,
anyhow.  What do you say, Ned?  You was a swell cove once, and knows
how to talk to the quality.  Go and try 'em."

Ned went and talked to the "quality" so well that he brought back
rations for three.

Towards the end of the year Nosey arrived at Piney Station, about
forty miles from the Murray, and obtained employment.  Baldy's bones
had been lying under the rocks for nearly fifteen years.  It was
absurd to suppose they could ever be discovered now, or if they were,
that any evidence could be got out of them.  Nosey felt sure that all
danger for himself was passed, but still the murder was frequently in
his mind.  The squatter was often lonely, and his new man was
garrulous, and one day Nosey, while at work, began to relate many
particulars of life in the old country, in Van Diemen's Land, and in
the other colonies, and he could not refrain from mentioning the
greatest of his exploits.

"I once done a man in Victoria," he said, "when I was shepherding; he
found me out taking his fat sheep, and was going to inform on me, so
I done him with an axe, and put him away so as nobody could ever find
him."

The squatter thought that Nosey's story was mostly blowing,
especially that part of it referring to the murder.  No man who had
really done such a deed, would be so foolish as to confess it to a
stranger.

Another man was engaged to work at the station.  As soon as he saw
Nosey he exclaimed, "Hello, Nosey, is that you?"

"My name is not Nosey."

"All right; a name is nothing.  We are old chums, anyway."

That night the two men had a long talk about old times.  They had
both served their time in the island, and were, moreover, "townies,"
natives of the same town at home.  Nosey began the conversation by
saying to his old friend, "I've been a bad boy since I saw you last
--I done a man in Victoria"; and then he gave the full particulars
of his crime, as already related.  But the old chum could not believe
the narrative, any more than did the squatter.

"Well, Nosey," he said, "you can tell that tale to the marines."

In the meantime the runs around Lake Nyalong had been surveyed by the
government and sold.  In the Rises the land was being subdivided and
fenced with stone walls, and there was a chance that Baldy's grave
might be discovered if one of the surveyed lines ran near it, for the
stonewallers picked up the rocks as near as possible to the wall they
were building, and usually to about the distance of one chain on each
side of it.

A man who had a contract for the erection of one of these walls took
with him his stepson to assist in the work.  In the month of August,
1869, they were on their way to their work accompanied by a dog which
chased a rabbit into a pile of rocks.  The  boy began to remove the
rocks in order to find the rabbit, and in doing so uncovered part of
a human skeleton.  He beckoned to his stepfather, who was rather
deaf, to come and look at what he had found.  The man came, took up
the skull, and examined it.

"I'll be bound this skull once belonged to Baldy," he said.  "There
is a hole here behind; and, yes, one jaw has been broken.  That's
Nosey's work for sure' I wonder where he is now."

No work was done at the wall that day, but information was given to
the police.

Mounted constable Kerry came over to the Rises.  The skeleton was
found to be nearly entire; one jaw-bone was broken, and there was a
hole in the back of the skull.  The feet were still encased in a pair
of boots laced high above the ankles.  There were portions of a
blue-striped shirt, and of a black silk necktie with reddish stripes.
There was also the brim of an oiled sou'wester' hat, a pipe, and a
knife.  The chin was very prominent, and the first molar teeth on the
lower jaw were missing.  The remains were carefully taken up and
conveyed to Nyalong; they were identified as those of Baldy; an
inquest was held, and a verdict of wilful murder was returned against
Nosey and his wife.

After the inquest mounted constable Kerry packed up the skeleton in a
parcel with every small article found with it, placed it in a sack,
put it under his bed, slept over it every night, and patiently waited
for some tidings of the murderer.  In those days news travelled
slowly, and the constable guarded his ghastly treasure for eighteen
months.

Nemesis was all the time on her way to Piney station, but her steps
were slow, and she did not arrive until the seventeenth anniversary
of the disapppearance of Baldy.

On that day she came under the guise of constable, who produced a
warrant, and said:

"Cornelius Naso, alias Nosey, alias Pye, I arrest you under this
warrant, charging you with having murdered a shepherd, named Thomas
Balbus, alias Baldy, at Nyalong, in the colony of Victoria, on the
28th day of February, 1854.  You need not say anything unless you
like, but if you do say anything I shall take it down in writing, and
it will be used as evidence against you at your trial."

Nosey had nothing to say, except, "I deny the charge"; he had said
too much already.

He was handcuffed and taken to the police station at Albury.  In one
of his pockets a letter was found purporting to be written by Julia,
and disclosing her place of residence.

Soon afterwards Nosey and his wife met in captivity after their long
separation, but their meeting was not a happy one; they had no word
of welcome for each other.

The preliminary examination was held in the court house at Nyalong,
and there was a large gathering of spectators when the proceedings
commenced.  On a form below the witness box there was something
covered with a white sheet.  Men craned their necks and looked at it
over one another's shoulders.  The two prisoners eyed it intently.
It was guarded by constable Kerry, who allowed no one to approach it,
but with an authoritative wave of the hand kept back all impertinent
intruders.  That day was the proudest in all his professional career.
He had prepared his evidence and his exhibits with the utmost care.
At the proper moment he carefully removed the white sheet, and the
skeleton was exposed to view, with everything replaced in the
position in which it had been found under the rocks in the Rises.
Nosey's face grew livid as he eyed the evidence of his handiwork;
Julia threw up both hands, and exclaimed:

"Oh! there's poor Baldy that you murdered!"

Nosey felt that this uncalled-for statement would damage his chance
of escape, so, turning to the bench, he said:

"Don't mind what the woman says, your lordship; she is not in her
right senses, and always was weak-minded."

The constable being sworn, related how, on information received, he
had gone to the Stoney Rises, and had uncovered a skeleton which was
lying on a broad flat stone.  The bones of the legs from the knees
downward were covered with stones.  The boots were attached to the
feet, and were pointing in such a direction as to show that the body
must have rested on the right side.  Large stones, but such as one
man could lift, had been placed over the feet and the legs.  The
other bones were together, but had been disturbed.  With them he
found the brim of an oiled sou'-westr' hat, a clay tobacco pipe, a
rusty clasp-knife with a hole bored through the handle, fragments of
a blue shirt; also pieces of a striped silk neckerchief, marked D. S.
over 3; the marks had been sewn in with a needle.  There was a hole
in the back of the skull, and the left jaw was broken.

Just at this time a funeral procession, with a few attendants, passed
the court-house on its way to the cemetery.  Julia's father was going
to his grave.  He had come over the sea lately to spend the rest of
his days in peace and comfort in the home of his daughter, and he
found her in gaol under the charge of murder.  There was nothing more
to live for, so he went out and died.

The two prisoners were committed, but they remained in gaol for more
than seven months longer, on account of the difficulty of securing
the attendance of witnesses from New South Wales.

But when the evidence was given it was overwhelming.  Every man who
had known Baldy seemed to have been kept alive on purpose to give
evidence against the murderer.  Every scrap of clothing which the
wild cats had left was identified, together with the knife, the pipe,
the hat brim, and the boots; and the prisoner's own confession was
repeated.  Julia also took the side of the prosecution.  When asked
if she had any questions to put, she said, "My husband killed the
man, and forced me to help him to put the body on his horse."

The jury retired to consider their verdict, and spent two hours over
it.  In the meantime the two prisoners sat in the dock as far apart
as possible.  They had never spoken to each other during the trial,
and Nosey now said in a low voice:

"You had no call, Julia, to turn on me the way you did.  What good
could it do you?  Sure you might at least have said nothing against
me."

The pent-up bitterness of seventeen years burst forth.  The constable
standing near tried to stop the torrent, but he might as well have
tried to turn back a south-east gale with a feather.

"I was to say nothing, indeed, was I?  And what call had I to say
nothing?  Is that what you ask?  Was I to stand here all day and say
never a word for myself until they were ready to hang me?  Tell me
now, did I murder poor Baldy or did you?  Was it not you who struck
him down with the axe without saying as much as 'by your leave,'
either to me or to him?  Did you say a word to me until you finished
your bloody work?  And then you threatened to cut me down, too, with
the axe, if I didn't hold my tongue, and help you to lift the man on
to your horse. It is this day you should have remembered before you
began that night's work.  Sorrow's the day I ever met you at all,
with the miserable life you led me; and you know I was always the
good wife to you until you gave yourself entirely to the devil with
your wicked ways.  Wasn't I always on the watch for you every evening
looking for you, and the chop on the fire, and the hot tea, and
everything comfortable?  And is it to hang me now you want to pay me
back for the trouble I took for you and all the misery I suffered
these long years?  And the death of my poor father, who found me in
gaol, is at your door too, for he would have been alive and well this
day but for the deed you done, which broke his poor old heart; the
Lord have mercy on him.  And who is to blame but your own self for
being in this place at all?  You not only done the man to death, but
you must go about the bush bragging of it to strangers, and twisting
the halter for your own neck like a born idiot; and that's what you
are, in spite of your roguery and cunning."

And so on for two hours of hell until the jury came back.  They
acquitted Julia and found her husband guilty.  She left the court
without once looking back, and he faced the jury alone.

Judge Pohlman had never before sent a man to the gallows.  He made
the usual little moral speech, and bewailed his own misfortune in
having to perform so disagreeable a duty.  Then he put on the black
cap and passed sentence.  At the concluding words, "May the Lord have
mercy on your soul," the condemned man responded with a fervent
"Amen," adding, "And that's the last of poor Nosey."  He seemed
greatly relieved when the ceremony was over, but it was not quite the
last, there was another to follow.

For ten days he remained in his cell, and no one visited him except
the priest.  His examination of conscience was not difficult, for he
had often rehearsed it, and much of it had been done for him in
public.

He made his last journey between two priests, joining fervently in
their prayers for the dying.  His step was firm, and he showed
neither fear nor bravado.  The hangman quickly drew down the cap, but
he seemed more flurried than his victim.  The sheriff, without
speaking, motioned him to place the knot in the correct position
under the ear.  Then the bolt was drawn and the story of "The Two
Shepherds" was finished.

The man whom Philip met at Bendigo had farms in the country thinly
timbered.  North, south, east, and west the land was held under
squatting licenses; with the exception of the home paddocks it was
unfenced, and the stock was looked after by boundary riders and
shepherds.  To the south, between Nyalong and the sea--a distance
of fifty or sixty miles--the country was not occupied by either the
white or the black men.  It consisted of ranges of hills heavily
timbered, furrowed by deep valleys, through which flowed innumerable
streams, winding their way to the river of the plains.  Sometimes the
solitary bushman or prospector, looking across a deep valley, saw,
nestled amongst the opposite hills, a beautiful meadow of grass.  But
when he had crossed the intervening creek and scrubby valley, and
continued his journey to the up-land, he found that the deceitful
meadow was only a barren plain, covered, not with grass, but with the
useless grass-tree.  There is a little saccharine matter in the roots
of the grass-tree, and a hopeful man from Corio once built a
sugar-mill near the stream, and took possession of the plain as a
sugar plantation.  There was much labour, but very little sugar.

In the dense forest, cattle had run wild, and were sometimes seen
feeding in the thinly-timbered grass land outside; but whenever a
horseman approached they dashed headlong into the scrub where no
horseman could follow them.  Wild boars and their progeny also rooted
among the tall tussocks in the marshes by the banks of the river,
where it emerged from the ranges into the plains.

Blackfish and eels were plentiful in the river, but they were of a
perverse disposition, and would not bite in the day-time.  The bend
nearest to Nyalong was twelve miles distant, and Philip once spent a
night there with Gleeson and McCarthy.  A fire was kindled and some
fish were caught, but Philip took none home.  Gleeson and McCarthy
reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's
fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise, and eaten for breakfast.
Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor
exciting, except to the temper.  Sometimes an eel took the bait, and
then twisted himself round the limb of a tree at the bottom of the
river.  He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the
hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips.

After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree
to woo sweet sleep.  But there were mosquitos in millions, bandicoots
hopping close to the fire, and monkey-bears, night hawks, owls,
'possums and dingoes, holding a corroboree hideous enough to break
the sleep of the dead.

After breakfast the horses were saddled for home.  Philip carried his
revolver in his belt, and Gleeson had a shot-gun.  A kangaroo was
seen feeding about a hundred yards distant, and Gleeson dismounted
and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed.  A few minutes
afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other
horsemen suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and
faced the fishermen.  One was Burridge, a station manager, the other
two were his stockmen.  The six men looked at one another for a few
moments without speaking.  Both Gleeson and McCarthy had the
Tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long.

"Well," asked Gleeson, "is anything the matter?"

"I dinna ken yet," said Burridge.  "Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?"

"Yes, I fired at a kangaroo."

"A kangaroo, eh?  Are you sure it was a kangaroo?"

"Yes, it was a kangaroo.  What of that?  Oh, I see, you think we are
after shooting your cattle.  Is that it?  Speak out like a man."

"Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I'd like to find out who
does it."

"Oh, indeed!  you'd like to know who does it, would you?  I can tell
you, anyway, who is the biggest cattle duffer round here, if you'd
like to know!"  Gleeson touched one flank of his horse with his heel,
and rode close up to Burridge with the gun in his right hand.  "His
name is Burridge, and that's yourself.  Everybody knows you, you old
Scotch hound.  You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on
them as your master has.  There is not a bigger cattle thief than old
Burridge within a hundred miles, and you'll be taken off the run in
irons yet.  Get out of my way, or I'll be tempted to send you to
blazes before your time."

Burridge did not go off the run in irons; he left it honourably for
another run which he took up, and stocked with cattle bearing no
brand but his own.  Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove
that Burridge ever broke the law.

One fishing excursion to the bend was enough for Philip, but a pig
hunt was organised, and he joined it.  The party consisted of
Gleeson, McCarthy, Bill the Butcher, Bob Atkins, and George Brown the
Liar, who brought a rope-net and a cart in which all the game caught
was to be carried home.  Five dogs accompanied the party, viz., Lion
and Tiger, crossbred bull and mastiffs, experienced pig fighters, Sam
as a reserve, and three mongrels as light skirmishers.

The first animal met with was a huge old boar, the hero of a hundred
fights, the great-grandfather of pigs.  He stood at bay among the
tussocks, the dogs barking furiously around him.  Bill the Butcher
said, "Keep back, you men, or he'll rip the guts out of your horses.
I know him well.  He has only one tusk, but it's a boomer.  Look out
sharp till the dogs tackle him, he might make a rush at some of us."

The boar was a frightful-looking beast, long, tall, and slab-sided,
in perfect condition for fight, all bone, muscle, and bristles, with
not an ounce of lard in his lean body.  He stood still and stiff as a
rock watching the dogs, his one white tusk, long and keen sticking
out above his upper lip.  The loss of the other tusk left him at a
disadvantage, as he could only strike effectively on one side.  Lion
and Tiger had fought him before, and he had earned their respect.
They were wary and cautious, and with good reason. Their best hold
was by the ears, and these had been chewed away in former wars, till
nothing was left of them but the ragged roots.  Bill the Butcher
dismounted, dropped his bridle, and cheered on the dogs at a prudent
distance, "Good dogs; seek him Lion; hold him Tiger."

The dogs went nearer and nearer, jumping away whenever the boar made
an attack.  At last they seized him by the roots of his ears, one on
each side, and held on.  Bob Atkins and Bill approached the
combatants, carrying some strong cord, of New Zealand flax.  A
running noose was secured round the hind legs of the boar; he was
then thrown on his side, and his forelegs were tied together.

Lion and Tiger stood near panting, with blood dripping from their
open jaws.  Philip could not imagine why Bill did not butcher the
beast at once; it seemed impossible that a leathery old savage like
that could ever be transformed into tender pork.  For the present he
was left prone on the field of battle, and the pig hunt proceeded.
There was soon much squealing of pigs, and barking of dogs among the
tussocks.  Gleenson's dog pinned a young boar, and after its legs
were tied Philip agreed to stand by and guard it, while Gleeson
fetched the cart.  But the boar soon slipped the cord from his legs,
and at once attacked his nearest enemy, rushing at Philip and trying
to rip open his boots.  Philip's first impulse was to take out his
revolver, and shoot; but he was always conscientious, and it occurred
to him that he would be committing a breach of trust, as he had
undertaken to guard the game alive until Gleeson came back with the
cart.  So he tried to fight the pig with his boots, kicking him on
the jaws right and left.  But the pig proved a stubborn fighter, and
kept coming up to the scratch again and again, until Philip felt he
had got into a serious difficulty.  He began to think as well as to
kick quickly.

"If I could only throw the animal to the ground I could hold him down."

The dogs had shown him that the proper mode of seizing a hog was by
the ears, so at the next round he seized both ears and held them.
There was a pause in the fight, and Philip took advantage of it to
address his enemy after the manner of the Greeks and Trojans.

"I have got you at last, my friend, and the curse of Cromwell on you,
I'd like to murder you without mercy; and if Gleeson don't come soon
he'll find here nothing but dead pig.  I must try to throw you
somehow."  After examining the pig narrowly he continued, "It will be
done by the hind legs."

He let go one ear and seized a hind leg instead, taking the enemy, as
it were, both in front and rear.  For some time there was much
kicking and squealing, until one scientific kick and a sudden twist
of the hind quarters brought the quarry to earth.

Philip knelt on the ribs of his foe, still holding one ear and one
hind leg.  Then he proceeded with his speech, gasping for breath:

"And this is what happens to a poor man in Australia!  Here have I
been fighting a wild beast of a pig for half an hour, just to keep
him alive, and all to oblige a cockatoo farmer, and small thanks to
me for that same.  May all the curses--the Lord preserve us and
give us patience; I am forgetting the twelve virtues entirely."

Gleeson came at last with the cart and George Brown the Liar; the
pig's legs were again tied together, he was lifted into the cart and
covered with the rope net.  Four other pigs were caught, and then the
hunters and dogs returned to the place in which the old boar had been
left.  But he had broken or slipped his bonds, and had gone away.  He
was tracked to the river, which was narrow but deep, so he had saved
his bacon for another day.

At the division of the game Philip declined to take any share.  He said:

"Thanks, I have had pig enough for the present."

So there were exactly five pigs for the other five men.

Having been satiated with the pleasures of fishing and pig-hunting,
Philip was next invited to try the pursuit of the kangaroo.  The
first meet of men and hounds took place at Gleeson's farm.  McCarthy
brought his dogs, and Philip brought Sam, his revolver, and a club.
Barton was too proud to join in the sport; he despised inferior game.
It might amuse new chums, but it was below the notice of the old
trooper, whose business had been for many years to hunt and shoot
bushrangers and black-fellows, not to mention his regular duty as
flagellator.

Gleeson that morning was cutting up his pumpkin plants with an axe.

"Good morning, Mr. Gleeson," said Philip.  "Is anything the matter?
Is it a snake you are killing?"

Gleeson began to laugh, a little ashamed of himself, and said, "Look
at these cursed pumpkins.  I think they are bewitched.  Every morning
I come to see if the fruit is growing, but this is what they do.  As
soon as they get as big as a small potato, they begin to wither and
turn yellow, and not a bit more will they grow.  So I'm cutting the
blessed things to pieces."

Philip saw that about half the runners had been already destroyed.
He said, "Don't chop any more, Gleeson, and I'll show you how to make
pumpkins grow."

He picked up a feather in the fowl-yard, and went inside the garden.

"Now look at these flowers closely; they are not all alike.  This
flower will never turn into a pumpkin, but this one will if it gets a
little of the dust from the first flower.  The bees or other insects
usually take the dust from one flower to the other, but I suppose
there are no bees about here just now?"

Philip then dusted every flower that was open and said:  "Now, my
friend, put away the axe, and you will have fruit here yet."  And the
pumpkins grew and ripened.

The two men then went towards the house, and Philip observed the
fragments of a clock scattered about the ground in front of the
verandah.

"What happened to the clock?" said Philip.

"Why," replied Gleeson, "the thing wasn't going right at all, so I
took it to pieces just to examine it, and to oil the wheels, and when
I tried to put it together again, the fingers were all awry, and the
pins wouldn't fit in their places, and the pendulum swung crooked,
and the whole thing bothered me so that I just laid it on the floor
of the verandah, and gave it one big kick that sent it to
smithereens.  But don't mind me or the clock at all, master; just
come inside, and we'll have a bit o' dinner before we start."

Gleeson was the kindest man in the world; all he wanted was a little
patience.

The kangaroo gave better sport than either the fish or the pig, and
Philip enjoyed it.  His mare proved swift, but sometimes shied at the
start, when the kangaroos were in full view.  She seemed to think
that there was a kangaroo behind every tree, so she jumped aside from
the trunks.  That was to kill Philip at last, but he had not the
least idea what was to happen, and was as happy as hermits usually
are, and they have their troubles and accidents just like other
people.

The kangaroos when disturbed made for the thick timber, and the
half-grown ones, called "Flying Joeys," always escaped; they were so
swift, and they could jump to such a distance that I won't mention
it, as some ignorant people might call me a liar.  Those killed were
mostly does with young, or old men.  Any horse of good speed could
round up a heavy old man, and then he made for the nearest gum tree,
and stood at bay with his back to it.  It was dangerous for man or
dog to attack him in front, for with his long hind claws he could cut
like a knife.

Philip's family began to desert him.  Bruin, as already stated,
sneaked away and was killed by Hugh Boyle.  Joey opened his
cage-door, and flew up a gum tree.  When Philip came home from the
school, and saw the empty cage, he called aloud, "Joey, Joey, sweet
pretty Joey," and whistled.  The bird descended as far as the
lightwood, but would not be coaxed to come any nearer.  He actually
mocked his master, and said, "Ha, ha, ha! who are you?  Who are you?
There is na luck aboot the hoose," which soon proved true, for the
next bird Pussy brought into the house was Joey himself.

Pup led a miserable life, and died early.  The coroner suspected that
he had been murdered by Maggie, but there was no absolute proof.

Maggie had really no conscience.  She began to gad about the bush.
In her girlish days she wore short frocks, as it were, having had her
wings clipped, but the next spring she went into society, was a
debutante, wore a dress of black and white satin which shone in the
sun, and she grew so vain and flighty, and strutted about so, that it
was really ridiculous to watch her.  She began also to stay out late
in the evening, which was very improper, and before going to bed
Philip would go under the lightwood with a lighted candle, and look
for her amongst the leaves,  saying, "Maggie, are you there?"  She
was generally fast asleep, and all she could do was to blink her
eyes, and say, "Peet, peet," and fall asleep again.  But one night
she never answered at all.  She was absent all next day, and many a
day after that.  October came, when all the scrub, the lightwood, and
wattle were in full bloom, and the air everywhere was full of
sweetness.  Philip was digging his first boiling of new potatoes,
when all at once Maggie swooped down into the garden, and began
strutting about, and picking up the worms and grubs from the soil
newly turned up.

"Oh, you impudent hussy!" he said.  "Where have you been all this
time?"  He stooped, and tried to stroke her head as usual with his
forefinger, but Maggie stuck her bill in the ground, turned a
complete somersault, and caught the finger with both claws, which
were very sharp.  She held on for a short time, then dropped nimbly
to her feet, and said, "There, now, that will teach you to behave
yourself."

"Why, Maggie," said Philip, "what on earth is the matter with you?"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you.  I suppose you
didn't hear the news, you are such an old stick-in-the-mud.  It was
in the papers, though--no cards--and all the best society ladies
knew it of course."

"Why, Maggie, you don't mean to say you have got a mate?"

"Of course I have, you horrid man, you are so vulgar.  We were
married ages ago.  I didn't invite you of course, because I knew you
would make yourself disagreeable--forbid the banns, or something,
and scare away all the ladies and gentlemen, for you are a most awful
fright, with your red hair and freckles, so I thought it best to say
nothing about the engagement until the ceremony was over.  It was
performed by the Rev. Sinister Cornix, and it was a very select
affair, I assure you, and the dresses were so lovely.  There were six
bridesmaids--the Misses Mudlark.  The Mudlarks, you know, have a
good pedigree, they are come of the younger branch of our family.  We
were united in the bonds under a cherry tree.  Oh! it was a lovely
time, it was indeed, I assure you."

"And where are you living now, Maggie?"

"Oh, I am not going to tell you; you are too inquisitive.  But our
mansion is on the top of a gum tree.  It is among the leaves at the
end of a slender branch.  If Hugh Boyle tries to kidnap my babies,
the branch will snap, and he will fall and break his neck, the
wretch.  Oh, I assure you we thought of everything beforehand; for I
know you keep a lot of boys bad enough to steal anything."

"And what sort of a mate--husband, I mean--have you got?"

"Oh, he is a perfect gentleman, and so attentive to me.  Latterly he
has been a little crusty, I must admit; but you must not say a word
against him.  If you do, I'll peck your eyes out.  A family, you
know, is so troublesome, and it takes all your time to feed them.
There are two of them, the duckiest little fluffy darlings you ever
saw.  They were very hungry this morning, so when I saw you digging I
knew you wouldn't begrudge them a breakfast, and I just flew down
here for it.  But bless my soul, the little darlings will be
screaming their hearts out with hunger while I am talking to you, and
himself will be swearing like a Derviner.  So, by-by."

Philip found Maggie's mansion easily enough; for, in spite of all her
chatter, she had no depth of mind.  The tallest gum-tree was on
Barlow's farm which adjoined the forty-acre on the east.  Barlow had
been a stockman for several years on Calvert's run, and had saved
money.  He invested his money in the Bank of Love, and the bank
broke.  It happened in this way.

A new shepherd from the other side was living with his wife and
daughter near the Rises, and one day when Barlow was riding over the
run, he heard some strange sounds, and stopped his horse to listen.
There was nobody in sight in any direction, and Barlow said,
"There's something the matter at the new shepherd's hut," and he rode
swiftly towards it. As he approached the hut, he heard the screams of
women and the voice of a blackfellow, who was hammering on the door
with his waddy.  He was a tame blackfellow who had been educated at
the Missionary Station.  He could write English, say prayers, sing
hymns, read the Bible, and was therefore named Parson Bedford by the
Derviners, after the Tasmanian Missionary.  He could box and wrestle
so well that few white men could throw him.  He could also drink rum;
so whenever he got any white money he knew how to spend it.  He was
the best thief and the worst bully of all the blacks about Nyalong,
because he had been so well educated.  I knew him well, and attended
his funeral, walking in the procession with the doctor and twenty
blackfellows. He had a white man's funeral, but there was no live
parson present, so king Coco Quine made an oration, waving his hands
over the coffin, "All same as whitefellow parson," then we all threw
clods on the lid.

So much noise was made by the women screaming and the Parson
hammering, that the stockman was able to launch one crack of his
stock-whip on the Parson's back before his arrival was observed.  The
Parson sprang up into the air like a shot deer, and then took to his
heels.  He did not run towards the open plains, but made a straight
line for the nearest part of the Rises.  As he ran, Frank followed at
an easy canter, and over and over again he landed his lash with a
crack like a pistol on the behind of the black, who sprang among the
rough rocks which the horse could not cross, and where the lash could
not reach him.

[ILLUSTRATION 3.]

Then there was a parley.  The Parson was smarting and furious.  He
had learned the colonial art of blowing along with the language.  He
threw down his waddy and said:

"You stockman, Frank, come off that horse, drop your whip, and I'll
fight you fair, same as whitefellow.  I am as good a man as you any
day."

"Do you take me for a blooming fool, Parson?  No fear.  If ever I see
you at that hut again, or anywhere on the run, I'll cut the shirt off
your back.  I shall tell Mr. Calvert what you have been after, and
you'll soon find yourself in chokey with a rope round your neck."

The Parson left Nyalong, and when he returned he was dying of rum and
rheumatism.

Frank rode back to the hut.  The mother and daughter had stood at the
door watching him flog the Parson.  He was in their eyes a hero; he
had scourged their savage enemy, and had driven him to the rocks.
They were weeping beauties--at least the daughter was a beauty in
Frank's eyes--but now they wiped away their tears, smoothed their
hair, and thanked their gallant knight over and over again.  Two at a
time they repeated their story, how they saw the blackfellow coming,
how they bolted the door, and how he battered it with his club,
threatening to kill them if they did not open it.

Frank had never before been so much praised and flattered, at least
not since his mother weaned him; but he pretended not to care.  He
said:

"Tut, tut, it's not worth mentioning.  Say no more about it.  I would
of course have done as much for anybody."

Of course he could not leave the ladies again to the mercy of the
Parson, so he waited until the shepherd returned with his flock.

Then Frank rode away with a new sensation, a something as near akin
to love as a rough stockman could be expected to feel.

Neddy, the shepherd, asked Mr. Calvert for the loan of arms, and he
taught his wife and daughter the use of old Tower muskets.  He said,
"If ever that Parson comes to the hut again, put a couple of bullets
through him."

After that Frank called at the hut nearly every day, enquiring if the
Parson had been seen anywhere abroad.

"No," said Cecily, "we haven't seen him any more;" and she smiled so
sweetly, and lowered her eyes, and spoke low, with a bewitching
Tasmanian accent.

Frank was in the mud, and sinking daily deeper and deeper.  At last
he resolved to turn farmer and leave the run, so he rented the land
adjoining Philip's garden and the forty-acre.  There was on it a
four-roomed, weather-board house and outbuildings, quite a bush
palace.  Farming was then profitable.  Frank ploughed a large paddock
and sowed it with wheat and oats.  Then while the grain was ripening
he resolved to ask Cecily a very important question.  One Sunday he
rode to the hut with a spare horse and side saddle.  Both horses were
well groomed, the side saddle was new, the bits, buckles, and
stirrup-irons were like burnished silver.  Cecily could ride well
even without a saddle, but had never owned one.  She yielded to
temptation, but with becoming coyness and modesty.  Frank put one
hand on his knee, holding the bridle with the other; then Cicely
raised one of her little feet, was lifted lightly on to the saddle,
and the happy pair cantered gaily over the plain to their future home.

Frank showed his bride-elect the land and the crops, the cows and the
horses, the garden and the house.  Cecily looked at everything, but
said next to nothing.  "She is shy," Frank thought, "and I must treat
her gently."  But the opportunity must not be thrown away, and on
their way over the plains Frank told his tale of love.  I don't know
precisely what he said or how he said it, not having been present,
but he did not hook his fish that day, and he took home with him the
bait, the horse, and the empty side-saddle.  But he persevered with
his suit, and before the wheat was ripe, Cecily consented to be his
bride.

He was so overjoyed with his success that instead of waiting for the
happy day when he had to say "With this ring I thee wed, with all my
worldly goods I thee endow," he gave Cecily the worldly goods
beforehand--the horse, with the beautiful new side saddle and
bridle--and nearly all his cash, reserving only sufficient to
purchase the magic ring and a few other necessaries.

The evening before the happy day the pair were seen walking together
before sundown on a vacant lot in the township, discussing, it was
supposed, the arrangements for the morrow.

It was the time of the harvest, and Philip had been engaged to
measure the work of the reapers on a number of farms.  I am aware
that he asked and received 1 pound for each paddock, irrespective of
area.  On the bridal morn he walked over Frank's farm with his chain
and began the measurement, the reapers, most of them broken down
diggers, following him and watching him.  Old Jimmy Gillon took one
end of the chain; he said he had been a chainman when the railway
mania first broke out in Scotland, so he knew all about land
surveying.  Frank was absent, but he returned while Philip was
calculating the wages payable to each reaper, and he said:  "Here's
the money, master; pay the men what's coming to 'em and send 'em
away."

Frank looked very sulky, and Philip was puzzled.  He knew the
blissful ceremony was to take place that day, but there was no sign
of it, nor of any bliss whatever; no wedding garments, no parson, no
bride.

The bare matter of fact was, the bride had eloped during the night.

"For young Lochinvar had come out of the West,
And an underbred, fine-spoken fellow was he."

He was a bullock-driver of superior manners and attractive
personality, and was the only man in Australia who waxed and curled
his moustaches.  Cecily had for some time been listening to
Lochinvar, who was known to have been endeavouring to "cut out"
Frank.  She was staying in the township with her mother preparing for
matrimony, and her horse was in the stable at Howell's Hotel.

When Frank rode away to his farm on that fateful evening, Lochinvar
was watching him.  He saw Cecily going home to her mother for the
last night, and while he was looking after her wistfully, and the
pangs of despairing love were in his heart, Bill the Butcher came up
and said:

"Well, Lock, what are you going to do?"

"Why, what can I do?  She is going to marry Frank in the morning."

"I don't believe it:  not if you are half the man you ought to be."

"But how can I help it?"

"Help it?  Just go and take her.  Saddle your horse and her own, take
'em up to the cottage, and ask her just to come outside for a minute.
And if you don't persuade her in five minutes to ride away with you
to Ballarat, I'll eat my head off.  I know she don't want to marry
Frank; all she wants is an excuse not to, and it will be excuse
enough when she has married you."

These two worthy men went to the Hotel and talked the matter over
with Howell.  The jolly landlord slapped his knee and laughed.  He
said:  "You are right, Bill.  She'll go, I'll bet a fiver, and here
it is, Lock; you take it to help you along."

This base conspiracy was successful, and that was the reason Frank
was so sulky on that harvest morning.

He was meditating vengeance.  Love and hate, matrimony and murder,
are sometimes not far asunder, but Frank was not by nature vengeful;
he had that "foolish hanging of the nether lip which shows a lack of
decision."

I would not advise any man to seek in a law court a sovereign remedy
for the wounds inflicted by the shafts of Cupid; but Frank tried it.
During his examination in chief his mien was gloomy and his answers
brief.

Then Mr. Aspinall rose and said:  "I appear for the defendant, your
Honour, but from press of other engagements I have been unable to
give that attention to the legal aspects of this case which its
importance demands, and I have to request that your Honour will be
good enough to adjourn the court for a quarter of an hour."

The court was adjourned for half an hour, and Mr. Aspinall and his
solicitor retired to a room for a legal consultation.  It began thus:

"I say, Lane, fetch me a nobbler of brandy; a stiffener, mind."

Lane fetched the stiffener in a soda-water bottle, and it cleared the
legal atmosphere.

When the court resumed business, Frank took his stand in the witness
box, and a voice said:  "Now, Mr. Barlow, look at me."

Frank had been called many names in his time, but never "Mr. Barlow"
before now.  He looked and saw the figure of a little man with a
large head, whose voice came through a full-grown nose like the blast
of a trumpet.

"You say you gave Cecily some money, a horse, saddle, and bridle?"

"I did."

"And you bought a wedding ring?"

"I've got it in my pocket."

"I see.  Your Honour will be glad to hear that the ring, at any rate,
is not lost.  It will be ready for another Cecily, won't it, Mr.
Barlow?"

Barlow, looking down on the floor of the court and shaking his head
slowly from side to side, said:

"No, it won't  No fear.  There 'ull be no more Cecilies for me."

There was laughter in the court, and when Frank raised his eyes, and
saw a broad grin on every face, he, too, burst into a fit of laughter.

I saw Mr. Aspinall and Dr. Macadam walking together arm-in-arm from
the court.  The long doctor and the little lawyer were a strange
pair.  Everybody knew that they were sliding down the easy slope to
their tragic end, but they seemed never to think of it.

Frank returned to Nyalong, happier than either.  He related the
particulars of the trial to his friends with the utmost cheerfulness.
Whether he recovered all the worldly goods with which he had endowed
Cecily is doubtful, but he faithfully kept his promise that "There
'ull be no more Cecilies for me."

There was a demon of mischief at work on Philip's hill at both sides
of the dividing fence.  Sam was poisoned by a villainous butcher;
Bruin had been killed by Hugh Boyle; Maggie had eloped with a wild
native to a gum-tree; Joey had been eaten by Pussy; Barlow had been
crossed in love, and then the crowning misfortune befell the hermit.

Mrs. Chisholm was a lady who gave early tokens of her vocation.  At
the age of seven she began to form benevolent plans for the colonies
of Great Britain.  She built ships of broad beans, filled them with
poor families of Couchwood, sent them to sea in a wash-basin, landed
them in a bed-quilt, and started them growing wheat.  Then she loaded
her fleet with a return cargo for the British pauper, one grain of
wheat in each ship, and navigated it safely to Old England.  She made
many prosperous voyages, but once a storm arose which sent all her
ships to the bottom of the sea.  She sent a Wesleyan minister and a
Catholic priest to Botany Bay in the same cabin, strictly enjoining
them not to quarrel during the voyage.  At the age of twenty she
married Captain Chisholm, and went with him to Madras.  There she
established a School of Industry for Girls, and her husband seconded
her in all her good works.

Mr. Chamier, the secretary, took a great interest in her school; Sir
Frederick Adams subscribed 20 pounds, and officers and gentlemen in
Madras contributed in five days 2,000 rupees.  The school became an
extensive orphanage.

Mrs. and Captain Chisholm came to Australia in 1838 for the benefit
of his health, and they landed at Sydney.  They saw Highland
immigrants who could not speak English, and they gave them tools and
wheelbarrows wherewith to cut and sell firewood.

Captain Chisholm returned to India in 1840, but the health of her
young family required Mrs. Chisholm to remain in Sydney.

Female immigrants arriving in Sydney were regularly hired on board
ship, and lured into a vicious course of life.  Mrs. Chisholm went on
board each ship, and made it her business to protect and advise them,
and begged the captain and agent to act with humanity.  Some place of
residence was required in which the new arrivals could be sheltered,
until respectable situations could be found for them, and in January,
1841, she applied to Lady Gipps for help.  A committee of ladies was
formed, and Mrs. Chisholm at length obtained a personal audience from
the Governor, Sir George Gipps.  He believed she was labouring under
an amiable delusion.  He wrote to a friend:

"I expected to have seen an old lady in a white cap and spectacles,
who would have talked to me about my soul.  I was amazed when my aide
introduced a handsome, stately young woman, who proceeded to reason
the question as if she thought her reason, and experience too, worth
as much as mine."

Sir George at last consented to allow her the use of a Government
building, a low wooden one.  Her room was seven feet by seven feet.
Rats ran about in it in all directions, and then alighted on her
shoulders.  But she outgeneraled the rats.  She gave them bread and
water the first  night, lit two candles, and sat up in bed reading
"Abercrombie."  There came never less than seven nor more than
thirteen rats eating at the same time.  The next night she gave them
another feast seasoned with arsenic.

The home for the immigrants given her by Sir George had four rooms,
and in it at one time she kept ninety girls who had no other shelter.
About six hundred females were then wandering about Sydney unprovided
for.  Some slept in the recesses of the rocks on the Government
domain.  She received from the ships in the harbour sixty-four girls,
and all the money they had was fourteen shillings and three
half-pence.

She took them to the country, travelling with a covered cart to sleep
in.  She left married families at different stations, and then sent
out decent lasses who should be married.

In those days the dead bodies of the poor were taken to the cemetery
in a common rubbish-cart.

By speeches and letters both public and private, and by interviews
with influential men, Mrs. Chisholm sought help for the emigrants
both in Sydney and England, where she opened an office in 1846.

In the year 1856 Major Chisholm took a house at Nyalong, near
Philip's school.  Two of the best scholars were John and David.  When
David lost his place in the class he burst into tears, and the Blakes
and the Boyles laughed.  The Major spoke to the boys and girls
whenever he met them.  He asked John to tell him how many
weatherboards he would have to buy to cover the walls of his house,
which contained six rooms and a lean-to, and was built of slabs.
John measured the walls and solved the problem promptly.  The Major
then sent his three young children to the school, and made the
acquaintance of the master.

Mrs.  Chisholm never went to Nyalong, but the Major must have given
her much information about it, for one day he read a portion of one
of her letters which completely destroyed Philip's peace of mind.  It
was to the effect that he was to open a school for boarders at
Nyalong, and, as a preliminary, marry a wife.  The Major said that if
Philip had no suitable young lady in view, Mrs. Chisholm, he was
sure, would undertake to produce one at a very short notice.  She had
the whole matter already planned, and was actually canvassing for
  pupils among the wealthiest families in the colony.  The Major
smiled benevolently, and said it was of no use for Philip to think of
resisting Mrs. Chisholm; when she had once made up her mind,
everybody had to give way, and the thing was settled.  Philip, too,
smiled faintly, and tried to look pleased, dissembling his outraged
feelings, but he went away in a state of indignation.  He actually
made an attack on the twelve virtues, which seemed all at once to
have conspired against  his happiness.  He said:  "If I had not kept
school so conscientiously, this thing would never have happened.  I
don't want boarders, and I don't want anybody to send me a wife to
Nyalong.  I am not, thank God, one of the royal family, and not even
Queen Victoria shall order me a wife."

In that way the lonely hermit put his foot down and began a
countermine, working as silently as possible.

During the Christmas holidays, after his neighbour Frank had been
jilted by Cecily, he rode away, and returned after a week's absence.
The Major informed him that Mrs. Chisholm had met with an accident
and would be unable to visit Nyalong for some time.  Philip was
secretly pleased to hear the news, outwardly he expressed sorrow and
sympathy, and nobody but himself suspected how mean and deceitful he
was.

At Easter he rode away again and returned in less than a week.  Next
day he called at McCarthy's farm and dined with the family.  He said
he had been married the previous morning before he had started for
Nyalong, and had left his wife at the Waterholes.  McCarthy began to
suspect that Philip was a little wrong in his head;  it was a kind of
action that contradicted all previous experience.  He could remember
various lovers running away together before marriage, but he could
not call to mind a single instance in which they ran away from one
another immediately after marriage.  But he said to himself, "It will
all be explained by-and-by," and he refrained from asking any
impertinent questions merely to gratify curiosity.

After dinner Gleeson, Philip, and McCarthy rode into the bush with
the hounds.  A large and heavy "old man" was sighted; and the dogs
stuck him up with his back to a tree.  While they were growling and
barking around the tree Gleeson dismounted, and, going behind the
tree, seized the "old man" by the tail.  The kangaroo kept springing
upwards and at the dogs, dragging Gleeson after  him, who was jerking
the tail this way and that to bring his game to the ground, for the
"old man" was so tall that the dogs could not reach his throat while
he stood upright.  Philip gave his horse to McCarthy and approached
the "old man" with his club.

"Shoot him with your revolver," said Gleeson.  "If I let go his tail,
he'll be ripping you with his toe."

"I might shoot you instead," said Philip; "better to club him.  Hold
on another moment."

Philip's first blow was dodged by the kangaroo, but the second fell
fairly on the skull; he fell down, and Ossian, a big and powerful
hound, seized him instantly by the throat and held on.  The three men
mounted their horses and rode away, but Philip's mare was, as usual,
shying at every tree.  As he came near one which had a large branch,
growing horizontally from the trunk, his mare spring aside, carried
him under the limb, which struck his head, and threw him to the
ground.  He never spoke again.

After the funeral, McCarthy rode over to the Rocky Waterholes to make
some enquiries.  He called at Mrs. Martin's residence, and he said:

"Mr. Philip told us he was married the day before the accident, but
it seemed so strange, we could not believe it; so I thought I would
just ride over and enquire about it, for, of course, if he had a
wife, she will be entitled to whatever little property he left behind
him."

"Yes, it's quite true," said Mrs. Martin.  "They were married sure
enough.  He called here at Christmas, and said he would like to see
Miss Edgeworth; but she was away on a visit to some friends.  I asked
him if he had any message to leave for her, but he said, 'Oh, no;
only I thought I should like to see how she is getting along.  That's
all, thank you.  I might call again at Easter.'  So he went away.  On
last Easter Monday he came again.  Of course I had told Miss
Edgeworth, about his calling at Christmas and enquiring about her,
and it made me rather suspicious when he came again.  As you may
suppose, I could not help taking notice; but for two days, nor, in
fact, for the whole week, was there the slightest sign of anything
like lovemaking between them.  No private conversation, no walking
out together, nothing but commonplace talk and solemn looks.  I said
to myself, 'If there is anything between them, they keep it mighty
close to be sure.'  On the Tuesday evening, however, he spoke to me.
He said:

"'I hope you won't mention it, Mrs. Martin, but I would like to have
a little advice from you, if you would be so kind as to give it.
Miss Edgeworth has been living with you for some time, and you must
be well acquainted with her.  I am thinking of making a proposal, but
our intercourse has been so slight, that I should be pleased first to
have your opinion on the matter.'

"'Mr. Philip,' I said, 'you really must not ask me to say anything
one way or the other, for or against.  I have my own sentiments, of
course; but nobody shall ever say that I either made a match or
marred one.'

"Nothing happened until the next day.  In the afternoon Miss
Edgeworth was alone in this room, when I heard Mr. Philip walking
down the passage, and stopping at the door, which was half open.  I
peeped out, and then put off my slippers, and stepped a little
nearer, until through the little opening between the door and the
door-post, I could both see and hear them.  He was sitting on the
table, dangling his boots to and fro just above the floor, and she
was sitting on a low rocking-chair about six feet distant.  He did
not beat about the bush, as the saying is; did not say, 'My dear,' or
'by your leave, Miss,' or 'excuse me,' or anything nice, as one would
expect from a gentleman on a delicate occasion of the kind, but he
said, quite abruptly:

"'How would you like to live at Nyalong, Miss Edgeworth?'

"She was looking on the floor, and her fingers were playing with a
bit of ribbon, and she was so nice and winsome, and well dressed, you
couldn't have helped giving her a kiss.  She never raised her eyes to
his face, but I think she just looked as high as his boots, which
were stained and dusty.  The silly man was waiting for her to say
something; but she hung down her head, and said nothing.  At last he
said:

"'I suppose you know what I mean, Miss Edgeworth?'

"'Yes,' she said, in a low voice.  'I know what you mean, thank you.'

"Then there was silence for I don't know how long; it was really
dreadful, and I couldn't think how it was going to end.  At last he
heaved a big sigh, and said:

"'Well, Miss Edgeworth, there is no need to hurry; take time to think
about it.  I am going to ride out, and perhaps you will be good
enough to let me know your mind when I come back.'

"Then he just shook her hand, and I hurried away from the door.  It
was rather mean of me to be listening to them, but I took as much
interest in Miss Edgeworth as if she were my own daughter.

"'There is no need to hurry,' he had said, but in my opinion there
was too much hurry, for they were married on the Saturday, and he
rode away the same morning having to open school again on Monday.

"Of course, Miss Edgeworth was a good deal put about when we heard
what had happened, through the papers, but I comforted her as much as
possible.  I said, 'as for myself, I had never liked the look of the
poor man with his red hair and freckles.  I am sure he had a bad
temper at bottom, for red-haired men are always hasty; and then he
had a high, thin nose, and men of that kind are always close and
stingy, and the stingiest man I ever knew was a Dublin man.  Then his
manners, you must remember, were anything but nice; he didn't wasteany
compliments on you before you married him, so you may just fancy what
kind of compliments you would have had to put up with afterwards.
And perhaps you have forgotten what you said yourself about him at
Bendigo.  You were sure he was a severe master, you could see
sternness on his brow.  And however you could have consented to go to
the altar with such a man I cannot understand to this day.  I am sure
it was a very bad match, and by-and-by you will thank your stars that
you are well out of it.'

"I must acknowledge that Miss Edgeworth did not take what I said to
comfort her very kindly, and she 'gave me fits,' as the saying is;
but bless your soul, she'll soon get over it, and will do better next
time."

Soon after the death of Philip, Major Chisholm and his family left
Nyalong, and I was appointed Clerk to the Justices at Colac.  I sat
under them for twelve years, and during that time I wrote a great
quantity of criminal literature.  When a convict of good conduct in
Pentridge was entitled to a ticket-of-leave, he usually chose the
Western district as the scene of his future labours, so that the
country was peopled with old Jack Bartons and young ones.  Some of
the young ones had been Philip's scholars--viz., the Boyles and the
Blakes.  They were friends of the Bartons, and Old John, the
ex-flogger, trained them in the art of cattle-lifting.  His teaching
was far more successful than that of Philip's, and when in course of
time Hugh Boyle appeared in the dock on a charge of horse-stealing, I
was pained but not surprised.  Barton, to whose farm the stolen horse
had been brought by Hugh, was summoned as witness for the Crown, but
he organised the evidence for the defence so well that the prisoner
was discharged.

On the next occasion both Hugh and his brother James were charged
with stealing a team of bullocks, but this time the assistance of
Barton was not available.  The evidence against the young men was
overwhelming, and we committed them for trial.  I could not help
pitying them for having gone astray so early in life.  They were both
tall and strong, intelligent and alert, good stockmen, and quite able
to earn an honest living in the bush.  They had been taught their
duty well by Philip, but bad example and bad company out of school
had led them astray.  The owner of the bullocks, an honest young boor
named Cowderoy, was sworn and gave his evidence clearly.  Hugh and
James knew him well.  They had no lawyer to defend them, and when the
Crown Prosecutor sat down, there seemed no loophole left for the
escape of the accused, and I mentally sentenced them to seven years
on the roads, the invariable penalty for their offence.

But now the advantages of a good moral education were brilliantly
exemplified.

"Have you any questions to put to this witness?" asked the Judge of
the prisoners.

"Yes, your Honour," said Hugh.  Then turning to Cowderoy, he said:
"Do you know the nature of an oath?"

The witness looked helplessly at Hugh, then at the Judge and Crown
Prosecutor; stood first on one leg, then on the other; leaned down
with his elbows on the edge of the witness-box apparently staggering
under the weight of his own ignorance.

"Why don't you answer the question?" asked the Judge sharply.  "Do
you know the nature of an oath?"

Silence.

Mr. Armstrong saw his case was in danger of collapse, so he said:  "I
beg to submit, your Honour, that this question comes too late and
should have been put to the witness before he was sworn.  He has
already taken the oath and given his evidence."

"The question is a perfectly fair one, Mr. Armstrong," said the
Judge:  and turning to the witness he repeated:  "Do you know the
nature of an oath?"

"No," said Cowderoy.

The prisoners were discharged, thanks to their good education.

A VALIANT POLICE-SERGEANT.

Sergeant Hyde came to my office and asked me to accompany him as far
as Murray Street.  He said there was a most extraordinary dispute
between a white woman and a black lubra about the ownership of a
girl, and he had some doubts whether it was a case within the
jurisdiction of a police-court, but thought we might issue a summons
for illegal detention of property.  He wanted me to advise him, and
give my opinion on the matter, and as by this time my vast experience
of Justices' law entitled me to give an opinion on any imaginable
subject, I very naturally complied with his request.  He was,
moreover, a man so remarkable that a request by him for advice was of
itself an honour.  In his youth he had been complimented on the
possession of a nose exactly resembling that of the great Duke of
Wellington, and ever since that time he had made the great man the
guiding star of his voyage over the ocean of life, the only saint in
his calendar; and he had, as far as human infirmity would permit,
modelled his conduct and demeanour in imitation of those of the
immortal hero.  He spoke briefly, and in a tone of decision.  The
expression of his face was fierce and defiant, his bearing erect, his
stride measured with soldierly regularity.  He was not a large man,
weighing probably about nine stone; but that only enhanced his
dignity, as it is a great historical fact that the most famous
generals have been nearly all small men.

When he came into my office, he always brought with him an odour of
peppermint, which experience had taught me to associate with the
proximity of brandy or whisky.  I have never heard or read that the
Iron Duke took pepperment lozenges in the morning, but still it might
have been his custom to do so.  The sergeant was a Londoner, and knew
more about the private habits of his Grace than I did.  If he had
been honoured with the command of a numerous army, he would, no
doubt, have led it onward, or sent it forward to victory.  His
forces, unfortunately, consisted of only one trooper, but the way in
which he ordered and manoeuvred that single horseman proved what
glory he would have won if he had been placed over many squadrons.
By a general order he made him parade outside the gate of the station
every morning at ten o'clock.  He then marched from the front door
with a majestic mien and inspected the horse, the rider, and
accoutrements.  He walked slowly round, examining with eagle eye the
saddle, the bridle, the bits, the girth, the sword, pistols, spurs,
and buckles.  If he could find no fault with anything, he gave in
brief the word of command, "Patrol the forest road," or any other
road on which an enemy might be likely to appear.  I never saw the
sergeant himself on horseback.  He might have been a gay cavalier in
the days of his fiery youth, but he was not one now.

As we passed the "Crook and Plaid Hotel," on our return to the
court-house, after investigating the dispute in Murray Street, I
observed a stranger standing near the door, who said:

"Hello, Hyde!  is that you?"

He was evidently addressing the sergeant, but the latter merely gave
him a slight glance, and went away with his noble nose in the air.

The stranger looked after him and laughed.  He said:

"That policeman was once a shepherd of mine up in Riverina, but I see
he don't know me now--has grown too big for his boots.  Cuts me
dead, don't he?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well I never!"

The stranger's name was Robinson; he had been selling some cattle to
a neighbouring squatter, and was now on his way home.  He explained
how he had, just before the discovery of gold, hired Hyde as a
shepherd, and had given him charge of a flock of sheep.

There were still a few native blacks about the run, but by this time
they were harmless enough:  never killed shepherds, or took mutton
without leave.  They were somewhat addicted to petty larceny, but felony
had been frightened out of their souls long ago.  They knew all the
station hands, and the station hands knew them.  They soon spotted a
new chum, and found out the soft side of him; and were generally able
to coax or frighten him to give them tobacco, some piece of clothing,
or white money.

When the new shepherd had been following his flock for a few days,
Mr. Robinson, while looking out from the verandah of his house over
the plains, observed a strange object approaching at some distance.
He said to himself, "That is not a horseman, nor an emu, nor a native
companion, nor a swagman, nor a kangaroo."  He could not make it out;
so he fetched his binocular, and then perceived that it was a human
being, stark naked.  His first impression was that some unfortunate
traveller had lost his way in the wide wilderness, or a station hand
had gone mad with drink, or that a sundowner had become insane with
hunger, thirst, and despair.

He took a blanket and went to meet the man, in order that he might
cover him decently before he arrived too near the house.  It was
Hyde, the new shepherd, who said he had been stripped by the blacks.

 From information afterwards elicited by Robinson it appeared that the
blacks had approached Hyde in silence while his back was turned to
them.  The sight of them gave a sudden shock to his system.  He was
totally unprepared for such an emergency.  If he had had time to
recall to memory some historical examples, he might have summoned up
his sinking courage, and have done a deed worthy of record.  There
was David, the youthful shepherd of Israel, who slew a lion and a
bear, and killed Goliath, the gigantic champion of the Philistines.
There were the Shepherd Kings, who ruled the land of Egypt.  there
was one-eyed Polyphemus, moving among his flocks on the mountain tops
of Sicily; a monster, dreadful, vast, and hideous; able to roast and
eat these three blackfellows at one meal.  And nearer our own time
was the youth whose immortal speech begins, "My name is Norval; on
the Grampian Hills my father fed his flocks."  Our shepherd had a
stick in his hand and a collie dog at his command.  Now was the time
for him to display "London Assurance" to some purpose; and now was
the time for the example of the ever-victorious Duke to work a
miracle of valour.  But the crisis had come on too quickly, and there
was no time to pump up bravery from the deep well of history.  The
unearthly ugliness of the savages, their thick lips, prominent cheek
bones, scowling and overhanging brows, broad snub noses, matted black
hair, and above all the keen, steady, and ferocious scrutiny of their
deep-set eyes, extinguished the last spark of courage in the heart of
Hyde.  He did not look fierce and defiant any more.  He felt inclined
to be very civil, so he smiled a sickly smile and tried to say
something, but his chin wobbled, and his tongue would not move.

The blacks came nearer, and one of them said, "Gib fig tobacker,
mate?"  Here was a gleam of hope, a chance of postponing his final
doom.  When a foe cannot be conquered, it is lawful to pay him to be
merciful; to give him an indemnity for his trouble in not kicking
you.  The shepherd instantly pulled out his tobacco, his pipe, his
tobacco-knife, and matches, and handed them over.  A second
blackfellow, seeing him so ready to give, took the loan of his tin
billy, with some tea and sugar in it, and some boiled mutton and
damper.  These children of the plains now saw that they had come upon
a mine of wealth, and they worked it down to the bed rock.  One after
another, and with the willing help of the owner, they took possession
of his hat, coat, shirt, boots, socks, trousers, and drawers, until
the Hyde was completely bare, as naked, and, it is to be hoped, as
innocent, as a new-born babe.  His vanity, which was the major part
of his personality, had vanished with his garments, and the remnant
left of body and soul was very insignificant.

Having now delivered up everything but his life, he had some hope
that his enemies might at least spare him that.  They were jabbering to
one another at a great rate, trying on, putting off, and exchanging
first one article and then another of the spoils they had won.  They
did not appear to think that the new chum was worth looking after any
longer.  So he began slinking away slowly towards his flock of sheep,
trying to look as if nothing in particular was the matter; but he
soon turned in the direction of the home station.  He tried to run,
and for a short time fear winged his feet; but the ground was hard
and rough, and his feet were tender; and though he believed that
death and three devils were behind him, he could go but slowly.  A
solitary eaglehawk sat on the top branch of a dead gum-tree, watching
him with evil eyes; a chorus of laughing jackasses cackled after him
in derision from a grove of young timber; a magpie, the joy of the
morning, and most mirthful of birds, whistled for him sweet notes of
hope and good cheer; then a number of carrion crows beheld him, and
approached with their long-drawn, ill-omened "croank, croank," the
most dismal note ever uttered by any living thing.  They murder sick
sheep, and pick out the eyes of stray lambs.  They made short
straggling flights, alighting on the ground in front of the miserable
man, inspecting his condition, and calculating how soon he would be
ready to be eaten.  They are impatient gluttons, and often begin
tearing their prey before it is dead.

Mr. Robinson clothed the naked, and then mounted his horse and went
for the blacks.  In a short time he returned with them to the
station, and made them disgorge the stolen property, all but the tea,
sugar, mutton, and damper, which were not returnable.  He gave them
some stirring advice with his stockwhip, and ordered them to start
for a warmer climate.  He then directed Hyde to return to his sheep,
and not let those blank blacks humbug him out of clothes any more.
But nothing would induce the shepherd to remain another day; he
forswore pastoral pursuits for the rest of his life.  His courage had
been tried and found wanting; he had been covered--or, rather,
uncovered--with disgrace; and his dignity--at least in Riverina
--was gone for ever.  In other scenes, and under happier auspices,
he might recover it, but on Robinson's station he would be subjected
to the derision of the station hands as long as he stayed.

How he lived for some time afterwards is unknown; but in 1853 he was
a policeman at Bendigo diggings.  At that time any man able to carry
a carbine was admitted into the force without question.  It was then
the refuge of the penniless, of broken-down vagabonds, and unlucky
diggers.  Lords and lags were equally welcomed without characters or
references from their former employers, the Masters' and Servants'
Act having become a dead letter.  Hyde entered the Government
service, and had the good sense to stay there.  His military bearing
and noble mien proclaimed him fit to be a leader of men, and soon
secured his promotion.  He was made a sergeant, and in a few years
was transferred to the Western District, far away, as he thought,
from the scene of his early adventure.

He lived for several years after meeting with and cutting his old
employer, Robinson, and died at last of dyspepsia and peppermints,
the disease and the remedy combined.

WHITE SLAVES.

Many men who had been prisoners of the Crown, or seamen, lived on the
islands in Bass' Straits, as well as on islands in the Pacific Ocean,
fishing, sealing, or hunting, and sometimes cultivating patches of
ground.  The freedom of this kind of life was pleasing to those who
had spent years under restraint in ships, in gaols, in chain-gangs,
or as slaves to settlers in the bush, for the lot of the assigned
servant was often worse than that of a slave, as he had to give his
labour for nothing but food and clothing, and was liable to be
flogged on any charge of disobedience, insolence, or insubordination
which his master might choose to bring against him.  Moreover, the
black slave might be sold for cash, for five hundred to a thousand
dollars, according to the quality of the article and the state of the
market, so that it was for the enlightened self-interest of the owner
to keep him in saleable condition.  But the white slave was
unsaleable, and his life of no account.  When he died another could
be obtained for nothing from the cargo of the next convict ship.

Some masters treated their men well according to their deserts; but
with regard to others, the exercise of despotic authority drew forth
all the evil passions of their souls, and made them callous to the
sufferings of their servants.

The daily fear of the lash produced in the prisoners a peculiar
expression of countenance, and a cowed and slinking gait, which I
have never seen in any other men, white or black.  And that gait and
expression, like that of a dog crouching at the heels of a cruel
master in fear of the whip, remained still after the prisoners had
served the time of their sentences, and had recovered their freedom.
They never smiled, and could never regain the feelings and bearing of
free men; they appeared to feel on their faces the brand of Cain, by
which they were known to all men, and the scars left on their backs
by the cruel lash could never be smoothed away.  Whenever they met,
even on a lonely bush track, a man who, by his appearance might be a
magistrate or a Government officer, they raised a hand to the
forehead in a humble salute by mere force of habit.  There were some,
it is true, whose spirits were never completely broken--who fought
against fate to the last, and became bushrangers or murderers; but
sooner or later they were shot, or they were arrested and hanged.
The gallows-tree on the virgin soil of Australia flourished and bore
fruit in abundance.

The trial of a convict charged with disobedience or insubordination
was of summary jurisdiction.  Joe Kermode, a teamster, chanced to be
present at one of these trials.  It was about ten o'clock in the
morning when he saw near a house on the roadside a little knot of men
at an open window.  He halted his team to see what was the matter,
and found that a police magistrate, sitting inside a room, was
holding a Court of Petty Sessions at the window.  It was an open
court, to which the public were admitted according to law; a very
open court, the roof of which was blue--the blue sky of a summer's
morning.  A witness was giving evidence against an assigned servant,
charged with some offence against his master.  His majesty, the
magistrate, yawned--this kind of thing was tiresome.  Presently a
lady came into the room, walked to the open window, clasped her hands
together, and laid them affectionately on the shoulder of the court.
After listening for a few moments to the evidence she became
impatient, and said, "Oh, William, give him three dozen and come to
breakfast."  So William gave the man three dozen and went to
breakfast--with a good conscience; having performed the ordinary
duty of the day extraordinarily well, he was on the high road to
perfection.

The sentence of the court was carried out by a scourger, sometimes
called flagellator, or flogger. The office of scourger was usually
held by a convict; it meant promotion in the Government service, and
although there was some danger connected with it, there was always a
sufficient number of candidates to fill vacancies.  In New South
Wales the number of officers in the cat-o'-nine tails department was
about thirty.  The danger attached to the office consisted in the
certainty of the scourger being murdered by the scourgee, if ever the
opportunity was given.

Joe Kermode had once been a hutkeeper on a station.  The hut was
erected about forty yards from the stockyard, to which the sheep were
brought every evening, to protect them from attack by dingoes or
blackfellows.  If the dingoes and blackfellows had been content with
one sheep at a time to allay the pangs of hunger, they could not have
been blamed very much; but after killing one they went on killing as
many more as they could, and thus wasted much mutton to gratify their
thirst for blood.

Joe and the shepherd were each provided with a musket and bayonet for
self-defence.

The hut was built of slabs, and was divided by a partition into two
rooms, and Joe always kept his musket ready loaded,  night and day,
just inside the doorway of the inner room.  Two or three blacks would
sometimes call, and ask for flour, sugar, tobacco, or a firestick.
If they attempted to come inside the hut, Joe ordered them off,
backing at the same time towards the inner door, and he always kept a
sharp look-out for any movement they made; for they were very
treacherous, and he knew they would take any chance they could get to
kill him, for the sake of stealing the flour, sugar, and tobacco.
Two of them once came inside the hut and refused to go out, until Joe
seized his musket, and tickled them in the rear with his bayonet,
under the "move on" clause in the Police Offences Statute.

Early one morning there was a noise as of some disturbance in the
stockyard, and Joe, on opening the door of his hut, saw several
blacks spearing the sheep.  He seized his musket and shouted, warning
them to go away.  One of them, who was sitting on the top rail with
his back towards the hut, seemed to think that he was out of range of
the musket, for he made most unseemly gestures, and yelled back at
Joe in a defiant and contemptuous manner.  Joe's gun was charged with
shot, and he fired and hit his mark, for the blackfellow dropped
suddenly from the top rail, and ran away, putting his hands behind
him, and trying to pick out the pellets.

One day a white stockman came galloping on  his horse up to the door
of the hut, his face, hands, shirt and trousers being smeared and
saturated with blood.  Joe took him inside the hut, and found that he
had two severe wounds on the left shoulder.  After the bleeding had
been stanched and the wounds bandaged, the stranger related that as
he was riding he met a blackfellow carrying a fire-stick.  He thought
it was a good opportunity of lighting his pipe, lucifer matches being
then unknown in the bush; so he dismounted, took out his knife, and
began cutting tobacco.  The blackfellow asked for a fig of tobacco,
and, after filling his pipe, the stockman gave him the remainder of
the fig he had been cutting, and held out his hand for the firestick.
The blackfellow seemed disappointed; very likely expecting to receive
a whole fig of tobacco--and, instead of handing him the firestick
he threw it on the ground.  At the first moment the stockman did not
suspect any treachery, as he had seen no weapon in possession of the
blackfellow.  He stooped to pick up the firestick; but just as he was
touching it, he saw the black man's feet moving nearer, and becoming
suddenly suspicious, he quickly moved his head to one side and stood
upright.  At the same instant he received a blow from a tomahawk on
his left shoulder.  This blow, intended for his head, was followed by
another, which inflicted a second wound; but the stockman succeeded
in grasping the wrist of his enemy.  Then began a wrestling match
between the two men, the stakes two lives, no umpire, no timekeeper,
no backers, and no bets.  The only spectator was the horse, whose
bridle was hanging on the ground.  But he seemed to take no interest
in the struggle, and continued  nibbling the grass until it was over.

The black man, who had now dropped his rug, was as agile and nimble
as a beast of prey, and exerted all his skill and strength to free
his hand.  But the white man felt that to loose his hold would be to
lose his life, and he held on to his grip of the blackfellow's wrist
with desperate resolution.  The tomahawk fell to the ground, but just
then neither of the men could spare a hand to pick it up.  At length,
by superior strength, the stockman brought his enemy to the ground.
He then grasped the thick, matted hair with one hand, and thus
holding the black's head close to the ground, he reached with the
other hand for the tomahawk, and with one fierce blow buried the
blade in the savage's brain.  Even then he did not feel quite sure of
his safety.  He had an idea that it was very difficult to kill
blackfellows outright, that theywere like American 'possums, and were
apt to come to life again after they had been killed, and ought to be
dead.  So to finish his work well, he hacked at the neck with the
tomahawk until he had severed the head completely from the body; then
taking the head by the hair, he threw it as far as he could to the
other side of the track.  By this time he began to feel faint from
loss of blood, so he mounted his horse and galloped to Joe Kermode's
hut.

When Joe had performed his duties of a good Samaritan to the stranger
he mounted his horse, and rode to the field of battle.  He found the
headless body of the black man, the head at the other side of the
track, the tomahawk, the piece of tobacco, the rug, and the
firestick.  Joe and the shepherd buried the body; the white man
survived.

THE GOVERNMENT STROKE.

"The Government Stroke" is a term often used in the colonies, and
indicates a lazy and inefficient manner of performing any kind of
labour.  It originated with the convicts.  When a man is forced to
work through fear of the lash, and receives no wages, it is quite
natural and reasonable that he should exert himself as little as
possible.  If you were to reason with him, and urge him to work
harder at, for instance, breaking road metal, in order that the
public might have good roads to travel on, and show him what a great
satisfaction it should be to know that his labours would confer a
lasting benefit on his fellow creatures; that, though it might appear
a little hard on him individually, he should raise his thoughts to a
higher level, and labour for the good of humanity in general, he
would very likely say, "Do you take me for a fool?"  But if you gave
him three dozen lashes for his laziness he will see, or at least
feel, that your argument has some force in it.  As a matter of fact
men work for some present or future benefit for themselves.  The
saint who sells all he has to give to the poor, does so with the hope
of obtaining a reward exceedingly great in the life to come.  And
even if there were no life to come, his present life is happier far
than that of the man who grabs at all the wealth he can get until he
drops into the grave.  The man who works "all for love and nothing
for reward" is a being incomprehensible to us ordinary mortals; he is
an angel, and if ever he was a candidate for a seat in Parliament he
was not elected.  Even love--"which rules the court, the camp, the
grove"--is given only with the hope of a return of love; for
hopeless love is nothing but hopeless misery.

I once hired an old convict as gardener at five shillings a day.  He
began to work in the morning with a great show of diligence while I
was looking on.  But on my return home in the evening it was
wonderful to find how little work he had contrived to get through
during the day; so I began to watch him.  His systematic way of doing
nothing would have been very amusing if it cost nothing.  He pressed
his spade into the ground with his boot as slowly as possible, lifted
the sod very gently, and turned it over.  Then he straightened his
back, looked at the ground to the right, then to the left, then in
front of him, and then cast his eyes along the garden fence.  Having
satisfied himself that nothing particular was happening anywhere
within view, he gazed awhile at the sod he had turned over, and then
shaved the top off with his spade.  Having straightened his back once
more, he began a survey of the superficial area of the next sod, and
at length proceeded to cut it in the same deliberate manner,
performing the same succeeding ceremonies.  If he saw me, or heard me
approaching, he became at once very alert and diligent until I spoke
to him, then he stopped work at once.  It was quite impossible for
him both to labour and to listen; nobody can do two things well at
the same time.  But his greatest relief was in talking;  he would
talk with anybody all day long if possible, and do nothing else; his
wages, of course, still running on.  There is very little talk worth
paying for.  I would rather give some of my best friends a fee to be
silent, than pay for anything they have to tell me.  My gardener was
a most unprofitable servant; the only good I got out of him was a
clear knowledge of what the Government stroke meant, and the
knowledge was not worth the expense.  He was in other respects
harmless and useless, and, although he had been transported for
stealing, I could never find that he stole anything from me.  The
disease of larceny seemed somehow to have been worked out of his
system; though he used to describe with great pleasure how his
misfortunes began by stealing wall-fruit when he was a boy; and
although it was to him like the fruit

"Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe."

it was so sweet that, while telling me about it sixty years
afterwards, he smiled and smacked his lips, renewing as it were the
delight of its delicious taste.

He always avoided, as much as possible, the danger of dying of hard
work, so he is living yet, and is eighty-six years old.  Whenever I
see him he gives me his blessing, and says he never worked for any
man he liked so well.  A great philosopher says, in order to be happy
it is necessary to be beloved, but in order to be beloved we must
know how to please, and we can only please by ministering to the
happiness of others.  I ministered to the old convict's happiness by
letting him work so lazily, and so I was beloved and happy.

He had formerly been an assigned servant to Mr. Gellibrand,
Attorney-General of Tasmania, before that gentleman went with Mr.
Hesse on that voyage to Australia Felix from which he never returned.
Some portions of a skeleton were found on the banks of a river, which
were supposed to belong to the lost explorer, and that river, and
Mount Gellibrand, on which he and Hesse parted company, were named
after him.

There was a blackfellow living for many years afterwards in the Colac
district who was said to have killed and eaten the lost white man;
the first settlers therefore call him Gellibrand, as they considered
he had made out a good claim to the name by devouring the flesh.
This blackfellow's face was made up of hollows and protuberances ugly
beyond all aboriginal ugliness.  I was present at an interview
between him and senior-constable Hooley, who nearly rivalled the
savage in lack of beauty.  Hooley had been a soldier in the Fifth
Fusiliers, and had been convicted of the crime of manslaughter,
having killed a coloured man near Port Louis, in the Mauritius.  He
was sentenced to penal servitude for the offence, and had passed two
years of his time in Tasmania.  This incident had produced in his
mind an interest in blackfellows generally, and on seeing Gellibrand
outside the Colac courthouse, he walked up to him, and looked him
steadily in the face, without saying a word or moving a muscle of his
countenance.  I never saw a more lovely pair.  The black fellow
returned the gaze unflinchingly, his deep-set eyes fixed fiercely on
those of the Irishman, his nostrils dilated, and his frowning
forehead wrinkled and hard, as if cast in iron.  The two men looked
like two wild beasts preparing for a deadly fight.  At length, Hooley
moved his face nearer to that of the savage, until their noses almost
met, and between his teeth he slowly ejaculated:  "You eat white man?
You eat me?  Eh?"  Then the deep frown on Gellibrand's face began
slowly to relax, his thick lips parted by degrees, and displayed,
ready for business, his sharp and shining teeth, white as snow and
hard as steel.  A smile, which might be likened to that of a humorous
tiger, spread over his spacious features, and so the interview ended
without a fight.  I was very much disappointed, as I hoped the two
man-slayers were going to eat each other for the public good, and I
was ready to back both of them without fear, favour, or affection.

There is no doubt that the blacks ate human flesh, not as an article
of regular diet, but occasionally, when the fortune of war, or
accident, favoured them with a supply.  When Mr. Hugh Murray set out
from Geelong to look for country to the westward, he took with him
several natives belonging to the Barrabool tribe.  When they arrived
near Lake Colac they found the banks of the Barongarook Creek covered
with scrub, and on approaching the spot where the bridge now spans
the watercourse, they saw a blackfellow with his lubra and a little
boy, running towards the scrub.  The Barrabool blacks gave chase, and