LITMIR.BIZ

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in the neighbourhood of Host Parley’s well-kept and commodious hotel, which commands the approach to our township from the north-east, that something was wrong with the body of police now approaching the town at a funeral pace.

      “The trooper who rode in front led Inspector Dayrell’s well-known charger, a matchless hackney, perfect in the manège in which all troop horses are trained. The inspector was badly wounded and nearly insensible, from the manner in which he bowed himself on the horse’s neck, while he swayed helplessly in the saddle. The second trooper also led a horse on which was a wounded man. Behind rode two men, one evidently so badly hurt, that he sat his horse with difficulty.

      “ ‘They’ve been cut up bad,’ said one of the bushmen. ‘Let’s ride up and meet ’em, Jack!’ Two men waiting for the mail mounted their horses, and met the little party; from which, after a word or two with the Sergeant, they came back full speed to the hotel, and thus imparted the melancholy news.

      “ ‘Police had a brush with Bradfield’s gang from Queensland, as they thought they were going to take. Some other chaps had joined them along with Dick Lawless, and double-banked ’em. Dayrell’s killed, and a trooper—they’re the two first; Doolan’s wounded bad. The Sergeant wants a room to put the dead men in till the Coroner’s inquest’s held; he’ll have ’em buried as soon as it’s over.’

      “Great excitement was naturally evoked by this statement.

      “In a few minutes the police arrived at the Hotel, where they were met by Mr. Clarkson, J.P., who obligingly undertook all necessary arrangements. The Inspector and the dead trooper were laid side by side in the best bedroom, the landlord resenting a suggestion to place the corpses in an outhouse—‘He’d have had the best room in the house if he was alive. He always paid like a prince, and I’m not going to treat him disrespectful now he’s been killed in the discharge of his duty. Them as don’t care about sleeping there after him and poor Mick Donnelly, may go somewheres else. They’ll be buried decent from my house, anyway.’

      “The Coroner impanelled a jury without unnecessary delay; and after the Sergeant and his men had necessary rest and refreshment, that official elicited evidence which enabled him to record a verdict of ‘Wilful murder against Edward James Bradfield and Richard Lawless in the cases of Inspector Francis Dayrell of the Victorian Mounted Police Force, and trooper Michael Joseph Donnelly, then and there lying dead.’ This formality concluded, preparations were made for the funeral to take place next morning in the graveyard appertaining to the township, which already held a number of occupants, large in proportion to the population.

      “Word had been sent to the neighbouring stations, so that by noon—the hour appointed—nearly as large a concourse as at the annual race meeting had assembled. There being no resident clergyman, the service was read over both men by the Coroner, who, by the way in which he performed the duty, showed that he was not new to this sad ceremony. We have repeatedly urged upon the Government the necessity of providing increased police protection for this important and scantily defended district. May we trust now that local wants will be more promptly attended to.

      “The last offices being paid to the dead the surviving troopers rode slowly away leading the spare horses, and bearing the arms and effects of their comrades with them.

      “Kate Lawless and her brother had disappeared. Whether they had made for the farthest out settled districts of Queensland, or had found a hiding place nearer home, was not known, though rumours to either effect gained circulation.”

      “And noo ye hae the haill history o’ Frank Dayrell, late Inspector o’ the Mounted Police Force o’ Victoria, no forgetting the death of Ned Lawless, who died by his hand.

      “And, as the sun’s low, and we’ve, I winna say wasted the afternoon—maybe expended wad be a mair wise-like expression—I’ll just say good e’en to you, gentlemen, and gae me ways hame. The nicht’s for frost, I’m thinkin’,” and so saying, the worthy Sergeant declining further refreshment marched off along the meadow.

      An early breakfast next morning, in fact, before the frost was off the ground, awaited Mr. Blount. In some inns it would have been a comfortless repast; a half-lighted fire struggling against a pile of damp wood, and producing more smoke than heat; a grumbling man cook, not too clean of aspect, who required to know “why the blank people wanted their grub cooked by candlelight,” and so on—“he’d see ’em blanked first, if there was any more of this bloomin’ rot.” Such reflections the guest has been favoured with, in the “good old days,” before the gold had settled down to a reasonable basis of supply and demand, and the labour question—as it did subsequently—had regulated itself. Waiting, too, for half an hour longer than was necessary for your hackney to eat his oats.

      Far otherwise was the bounteous, well-served repast which sent forth Blount in fit order and condition to do his journey creditably, or to perform any feats of endurance which the day’s work might exact.

      Sheila had been up and about long before daylight. She had consulted the favoured guest through his chamber door, as to which of the appetising list of viands he would prefer, and when the adventurous knight sallied forth in full war paint, he found a good fire and a tempting meal awaiting him.

      “I tell you what, Sheila,” he said, regarding that praiseworthy maiden with an approving smile, “this is all very fine and you ought to get a prize at the next Agricultural Show, for turning out such a breakfast, but how am I to face burnt steak and sodden damper at the diggers’ camp to-morrow morning?”

      The girl looked at him earnestly for a moment or two without speaking, and then with an air of half warning, half disapproval, said, “Well—if you ask me, sir, the cooking’s not the worst of it in those sort of places, and I can’t see for my part why a gentleman like you wants going there at all. They’re very queer people at the head of the river, and they do say that the less you have to do with them the better.”

      “But I suppose there are all sorts of queer characters in this new country of yours. I didn’t come from England to lead a feather-bed life. I’ve made up my mind to see the bush, the goldfields, and all the wild life I could come across, and I suppose Mr. Little-River-Jack is about the cleverest guide I could have.”

      “Well—ye—es! he’s clever enough, but there are yarns about him. I don’t like to tell all I’ve heard, because, of course, it mightn’t be true. Still, if I were you, sir, I’d keep a sharp look out, and if you spotted anything that didn’t look square, make some excuse and clear.”

      “But, my dear girl, what is there to watch? Do he and his friends steal cattle or rob miners of their gold? Any highway business? Why can’t you speak out? I see you’re anxious lest I should get into a scrape; on account of my innocence, isn’t that it? And very kind of you it is. I won’t forget it, I promise you.”

      “I can’t say any more,” said the girl, evidently confused. “But be a bit careful, for God’s sake, and don’t take all you’re told for gospel;” after which deliverance she left the room abruptly and did not appear when Mr. Blount and his guide, both mounted, were moving off. They were in high spirits, and the cob dancing with eagerness to get away. As they left the main road at an angle, Blount looked back to the hotel towards a window from which the girl was looking out. Her features wore a grave and anxious expression, and she shook her head with an air, as it seemed to him, of disapproval.

      This byplay was unobserved by his companion, who was apparently scrutinising with concentrated attention the track on which he had turned.

      Throwing off all misgivings, and exhilarated by the loveliness of the weather, which in that locality always succeeds a night of frost, he gave himself up to an unaffected admiration of the woodland scene. The sun now nearly an hour high had dispelled the mists, which lay upon the river meadows, and brought down in glittering drops the frost jewels sparkling on every bush and branch.

      The sky of brightest blue was absolutely cloudless, the air keen and bracing; wonderfully dry and stimulating. The grass waved amid their horses’ feet. The forest, entirely composed of evergreens, from the tallest eucalypt, a hundred

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