Chapter XXIX: Act V (9)

When one thinks of England, with its three hundred souls to the square mile, one cannot but be thankful, in spite of the ignorant, insolent diatribes of the Ben Tillett agitator class, for the condition of the labouring classes in this favoured country. They are at a premium, and will be for years to come, while tens of thousands of acres of arable land are awaiting the hands which shall clear and plant them. Meanwhile, a small annual rent is obtained for the State by means of purely pastoral possession—a form of occupation destined to be surely, if slowly, superseded by agriculture, when demanded by the needs of a more developed epoch and a denser population.

This particular district has for many years been settled after a fashion which permits of moderate-sized holdings. For a lengthened period, therefore, have the exotic trees and shrubs, which even the humblest farms boast, grown and flourished. The tall, columnar poplars, the wavy, tremulous aspens, the umbrageous elms, are large of girth, stately of height, and broad of shade. They are to be seen around the farm-house, or near the mansion which peeps out amid wood and meadow. Here a row of stately elms borders the roadside, affording a grateful shade to the weary wayfarer. The season has been exceptionally humid, as when

Low thunders bring the mellow rain
Which makes thee broad and deep.

Yet the oak is not so common. Slow of growth, he does not seem to assimilate himself to all soils, although in a few localities he may be observed doing no discredit to his British comrades. The lime, the Oriental plane, the ash, the willow, and the sycamore proclaim the generous nature of the soil and climate which they have reached, so far across the foam. Besides these are the noble _Paulownia imperialis_, majestic with gigantic leaves and purple-scented flowers; the catalpa and even the magnolia, beauteous and fragrant—a botanic miracle. The olive grows rapidly, forgetting oft in eagerness to add branch to branch to mature the fruit, which will one day furnish a valuable export.

All these with others in this last season are spreading their green pennants to the summer breeze—grateful in shade to the traveller wearied and adust; beautiful to the eye of the lover of all plant-life; 'things of beauty and of joy for ever,' even to those whose sense of harmonious landscape-arrangement is rudimentary and undeveloped.

We halt for an instant on the verdant level, hard by the little creek whose waters, this gracious year, run yet with musical monotone, to watch the drivers of these high-piled waggons, who are even now unloosing their teams. There are five waggons, which, with wheels of the adamantine iron-bark eucalyptus, are warranted to carry the heaviest loads procurable; and heavy loads they are. Forty bales of wool in each, or thereabouts. Sixty or seventy horses in the five teams, all 'grade' Clydesdales or Suffolks, and averaging in value from £25 to £35 each. The 200 bales of wool are worth, say at £20 each, £4000; £1500 for the team horses; £300 for the waggons. A not inconsiderable total of values. Stay! In haste we have forgotten the sixty sets of harness and the tarpaulins,—£5000 or £6000 in all. A large property to be in the hands of five young fellows hardly known to the proprietor of the freight. It is fortunate that there are no robber barons at this time of day to demand tribute, or land pirates and buccaneers, _except those who collect the intercolonial protective duties_.

The hare which runs across the road in front of us is an introduced, imported animal, like the deer we saw a while back. He is becoming numerous, but, unlike his cousin and comrade, 'Brer Rabbit,' has not been disastrously destructive. The settlers eat him at present. 'Brer Rabbit' in some districts has commenced to reverse the process.

Among the manifold natural beauties of the season we must by no means omit the hedgerows; in beauteous blossom these, and though, perhaps, chiefly too wild and luxuriant, yet affording pleasing contrast to the bare utilitarianism of rail and wire fence, and the monotony of the barked, murdered woods. Various are they, ranging from the dark green of the hawthorn, lovely with sweet souvenir bloom of long-past English springs, to the pink flower-masses of the quince, the crimson showers of the rose-hedges, and the yellow hair of the _Acacia armata_; while high, towering, thorny, impervious, with brightest glittering greenery, grows the Osage orange—a transatlantic importation, which in some respects is the most effective green wall known, being a species of live barbed wire, with an agreeable appearance of leafage, yet exuding a bitter juice, which prevents its mutilation by live stock. All these, interspersed occasionally with the sweetbriar, the scent and wild-rose flower of which almost atone for its predatory habits, its illegal occupation of Crown Lands. In one instance an economical or patriotic farmer had permitted the fast-growing eucalyptus saplings to interlace his 'drop' fence—an effective and not wholly unpicturesque road border.

From time to time amid the larger enclosures we came across a half-forlorn, half-picturesque patch 'where once a garden smiled.' A roofless cottage, a score of elms and poplars, with straggling rose-bushes abloom among the thistles, mark the abandoned homestead. In the 'distressful country' these would be the signs of an eviction. Here, when Michael or Patrick unhouses himself, he does so with a comfortable cheque in his pocket and the wherewithal to 'take up' a larger holding, perhaps six hundred and forty acres, or even in the central district, two thousand five hundred, by the payment in cash to the Crown—of how much does the reader unlearned in the New South Wales land laws believe? Two shillings per acre! The remaining balance of eighteen shillings per acre to be paid in twenty years, with interest at five per cent, or _ninepence_ per acre annually! The neighbouring landholder has bought out honest Pat or Donald, or François or Wilhelm, as the case may be—several nationalities being here represented—giving him a handsome profit in cash for his labour and outlay. The fences are then pulled down, the roof falls in, the elms, the poplars, with a few peach-trees and roses, alone remain to tell the tale of the deserted homestead. As we pass one of these, a grand cloth-of-gold bush, six feet and more in height, hanging over a fence, tempts us with its fragrant clusters. We choose a lovely bud and an opening flower, with its curiously-blended shades of gold and faintest pink, and, much moralising, go our way.

In the good old days, when there was no salvation outside of vast pastoral holdings, when small freeholds were considered not only inexpedient but immoral, this was held to be a waterless region, unfit for the habitation of man, away from the river frontage. Now near every farm appears a dam or other successful method of conserving water. The homesteads, too, are well built, and substantial for the most part, standing in neatly-kept gardens and fruitful orchards. Milch kine graze in the fields or stroll about the grassy roadways, sleek-skinned, well-bred, and profitable-looking.

No indications save those of comfortable living and easy-going rural prosperity present themselves. Buggies or tax-carts with active horses, driven mostly by farmers' wives or daughters, trot briskly along the high-road to the town, going to or returning from their marketing. Occasionally a girl on horseback canters by, sometimes escorted, often without cavalier or attendant. The road-maintenance man jogs by in his covered cart, filling up ruts with metal here and there, or clearing a drain where the storm-water runs too impetuously. In all this savage land which I have described in detail, there are no lions or tigers, no bushrangers, no Indians. In fact, but for a few varieties of vegetation, one might fancy oneself back again in rural England.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES

In the spring of 1867 I had occasion to travel from my station, Bundidgaree, near Narandera, on the Murrumbidgee River, to the historic town of Wagga Wagga, the residence of Mr. Arthur Orton, whose claim to the Tichborne title and estates was then agitating Britain and her Colonies. An elderly nurse returning to her home was to accompany me in an American buggy. The roads were good; the weather fine; the horse high in condition, exceptional as to pace and courage. Yet was the situation doubtful, even complicated. The road was risky, the head-station lonely and unprotected. A gang of bushrangers, under a leader popularly known as 'Blue-cap,' was at the time I mention within twenty or thirty miles of Narandera. There was a strong probability that I should encounter them, or that they would visit the station during my absence. Either hap was disagreeable, not to say dangerous. I left home with mingled feelings. But circumstances were obdurate. I had to go. The outlaws, five in number, were 'back-block natives,' all young men with the exception of a middle-aged personage known as 'The Doctor.' He was credited with having 'done time,' that is, served a sentence of imprisonment, which apparently had not led to reformation, as he was looked upon as the most dangerous member of the band. Not as yet committed to acts of bloodshed, they had exchanged shots with Mr. Waller of Kooba—a station below Narandera—who had surprised them while encamped upon his Run. He was a determined man and a well-known sportsman. The story was that he nearly shot 'Blue-cap,' that gentleman having slipped behind a stock-yard post, which received the breast-high bullet. The honours of war remained with the squatter, however, whose party forced the robbers to retreat across the river, leaving (like the Boers) horses, saddles, and swags behind. It was not known when I started whether they had gone up or down the river. Meanwhile, the pair of police troopers who _protected_ the district of Narandera, a region about a hundred miles square, were 'in pursuit.'

The question of carrying arms had to be dealt with. I thought at first of a double-barrelled gun and revolver. But the idea of an effective defence against five well-mounted, well-armed men, the while embarrassed with a frightened woman and two spirited horses, did not seem feasible. I finally decided to trust to the probability of not meeting the evil-doers at all, and to go unarmed rather than to carry arms which I could not use effectively. The journey to Wagga, about fifty-five miles, was accomplished safely. Making an early start next day, about three-fourths of the return trip was over when I came opposite to Berrembed, the homestead of my neighbour Mr. Lupton. I was walking the horses over a curious formation of small mounds, provincially known as 'dead men's graves,' when I became aware of three horsemen coming along the road towards me.

My first thought was, 'Here they are-bushrangers!' my second, 'It cannot be the gang—these are too young; and I don't see the "Doctor."' The foremost rider, enveloped in a poncho, decided the question by throwing it back and presenting a revolver, at the same time calling out in what he meant to be a tone of intimidation, 'Bail up. Stop and get out. If yer move to get a pistol I'll blow yer brains out.' By the time he had come to the end of this unlawful demand, he had ridden close up, and held the revolver, into the barrel of which I could see, and also that it was on full cock, unpleasantly close to my head. He was a bush-bred cub, hardly of age, who had but little practice, evidently, in the highwayman line, for his hand trembled and his face was pale under the sun-bronzed skin.

Thus I felt (like Mickey Free's father) somewhat perturbed, as, if I tried to bolt, he might shoot me on purpose, and if I stayed where I was, he might shoot me by accident. Meanwhile, I secured the reins to the lamp iron, and got down in a leisurely manner. 'I have no arms,' I said, as I stood by the off-side horse—the celebrated Steamer; 'there's no hurry. I can't well run away.'

'Give up yer money,' he said gruffly.

'I haven't any.'

'That be hanged! A man like you don't travel without money.'

'I generally have some, but I paid a bill at Martin's (naming an inn a few miles nearer Wagga) and it cleaned me out.'

'Hand out them watches, then!'

He saw by the appearance of my waistcoat that I had more than one. I had brought back a watch belonging to a relative from Wagga, where it had been sent for repair. They were both gold watches of some value.

As he sat on his horse, I being on foot, he kept his bridle-reins and the levelled revolver in one hand, and reached down to me for the spoil. As he did so, I looked him in the eye, thinking that a strong, active man might have pulled him off his horse, grabbed the revolver, and shot one if not both of his comrades. I had no intention of trying the double event myself, but I know a man or two who would have chanced it with such a youthful depredator.

What I said was, 'You don't often get two gold watches from one man.'

'No. I know we don't. Turn out that portmanteau.'

'There's only a suit of clothes and my hair brushes. You don't want them.'

At this stage of the intercourse, old Steamer, an impatient though singularly good-tempered animal, moved on, as of one proclaiming, 'This foolery has lasted long enough.' I walked to his head and soothed him, upon which one of the subordinates said civilly, 'I'll hold your horse, Mr. Boldrewood.'

I looked at him with surprise, and saw for the first time that he was Mr. Lupton's stock-rider, and the other 'road agent' the son of that gentleman. The mystery was explained. They were _pressed men_. We were within sight of the home station. The rest of the gang were helping themselves to the proprietor's best horses in the stock-yard when they saw me coming along the road. So they had detailed this youth for my capture, and ordered the two others to go with him to 'make a show' in case of the traveller resisting.

However, the interview was nearly at an end. The first robber dismissed me with a brief 'You may go now.' I drove off slowly, not desiring to show haste, in case the capricious devil which abides in this particular breed might prompt him to call me back. He did so indeed, but it was only to say, 'Show us yer pipe. You might have a good 'un.' I exhibited an old briar-root, at which he waved his hand disdainfully, and going off at a gallop, made for the homestead with his attendants on either side, like the wicked Landgrave in Burger's ballad.

I drove in leisurely fashion until they were out of sight, when I let my horses out at their usual 'travelling' pace of twelve miles an hour, or a trifle over, and was not long before I 'reached my cattle-gate.'

While the 'momentous question' was in the stage of discussion I had been anxious and troubled—so to speak, afraid. Not for my personal safety. I did not think any bushranger in the district would slay me in cold blood. We were popular in our neighbourhood, for though I was the Chairman of the Narandera Bench when the Police Magistrate of Wagga, Mr. Baylis, was absent, and as such officially a terror to evil-doers, my wife had endeared herself to our humbler neighbours by acts of charity and womanly sympathy in cases of sickness or other sore need. But what I _was_ afraid of, tremulously indeed, was lest the outlaws should 'commandeer' one or both of my horses. Eumeralla, a fine upstanding grey, bred at Squattlesea Mere, good in saddle and harness, and carried a lady, was most valuable, while Steamer, who died after twenty years of priceless service, was simply invaluable. I was only saved from this disastrous loss by the fact that Mr. Lupton's stock-yard (he was absent from home—perhaps fortunately) was full of good station hacks, and as his stud was of high reputation in the district, his loss on that occasion proved my salvation. What had happened at Berrembed was simply this. The bushrangers, with Mr. 'Blue-cap' in command, arrived in the early afternoon unexpectedly. There were few men about the place. The overseer and Mr. Lupton were away. Mrs. Lupton, the governess and the children, with the eldest son, a boy of sixteen, and the stock-rider, were at home. The master of the house had firmly expressed his intention to defend his home, and to that end had sent to Melbourne for a magazine-rifle, capable (it was said) of discharging sixteen cartridges in quick-firing time. The gang, hearing of this preparation, had sworn to pay him out for it at an early visit. In his absence they behaved well, assuring the lady of the house that 'she need not be apprehensive; they only wanted horses and the new repeating-rifle,' which last they demanded at once. She was not frightened—a native-born Australian, come of a Border family, she was not timorous, and had presence of mind enough to deny knowledge of the rifle. The leader was better informed. 'That won't do, Mrs. Lupton. Master Johnnie shot a bullock with it last Saturday. Better give it up. These chaps might turn rusty. They're quiet enough now.' The lady yielded to _force majeure_. The governess was sent to bring the rifle from the shower-bath, where it had been placed, and the bushrangers rode off. One of the men, after roaming through the house, appeared with the baby in his arms, which he had taken from the nurse, alleging that 'it reminded him of his happy home.' This was intended as a joke, and no harm came to the infant, who did not seem to object to a change of nurses. No pillage took place other than that of the rifle and a remount all round. Besides losing their horses and saddles at Kooba, and being reduced to an infantry force, having to cross the river ignominiously upon a sheep-wash temporary bridge, they had another mischance. They called at Brookong Station on Mr. Cuthbert Fetherstonhaugh. Here they treated themselves to grog, in which they vainly tried to make Mr. Fetherstonhaugh join them, and finally went off across country. Near the Urangeline Creek they were startled by the galloping of a body of horsemen in pursuit (as they thought), and racing desperately away, rode into the Urangeline, then in half flood. The others got out, but the 'Doctor,' parting company with his horse, was unfortunately drowned, thus cheating the hangman, and not improbably preventing the commission of bloodshed, into which his evil influence might have led his less-hardened comrades. They were next heard of near Narandera, as to which my wife had a sensational visit from a person in the confidence of the police.

On the morning of my departure she was told by the maidservant that a man outside wished to speak to her. He would not come in, or dismount from his horse. Rather surprised, but being, like our neighbour Mrs. Lupton, Australian born, and not afraid of men or horses or anything in a general way, she walked up to the horseman, who sat in his saddle in the middle of the courtyard, formed by a dining-room and kitchen on one side and store on the other. He was not anxious to be overheard, as he leaned forward and in an agitated voice said that he had been sent by the Senior Constable of Police at Narandera to inform her that the bushrangers had recrossed the river, and might be expected to visit the station on that or the following day. If there were arms in the house she was advised to conceal them for fear of irritating the bushrangers; that the police could not come themselves, as they were following up the tracks in another direction.

This was not cheering news. But action was taken promptly. The armoury consisted of a two-grooved rifle, carrying a bullet of such size that, unlike the 'Mauser,' there was no fear of its penetrating a vital organ without causing instant death. I used to make good practice from an upper chamber at any mark within a hundred and twenty or thirty yards' distance. There was also an effective double-barrel, with a couple of revolvers. A young relative of the family lived with us and helped with the management. We could have made a decent defence probably after warning given. But in nineteen out of twenty cases no warning is given, or, as in this case, too late to be of service.

It so happened that a wool-bale had been suspended in an outer room, into which broken fleece, pieces picked up on the Run, was placed from time to time. Under the wool, therefore, the guns were hidden for the present.

When I returned from Wagga after my adventure I was naturally anxious to hear if the bushrangers had called in my absence. My first words to the châtelaine were, 'Have you seen the bushrangers?'

Answer—'No. Have you?'

'Well—ahem—I—have!'

Then the story was told in full.

This band, compared with the career and exploits of other gentlemen of the road, hardly rose above the amateur level. They were taken by a sergeant of police and his troopers on the Lachlan. He came unexpectedly one morning, and marching towards them with a determined air, called upon them in the Queen's name to surrender. 'Blue-cap' levelled his rifle. 'What!' roared the sergeant in a voice of thunder. He had known of him when he was a stock-rider, indifferently honest. 'You d—d scoundrel! Would you shoot _me_?'

Whether the idea of the awful crime in the provincial mind, implied in resisting much less attempting the life of such a magnate, overbore the remains of his courage (they were pretty sick of the outlaw business), or that he shrank from deliberate murder, cannot be told; at any rate, they were disarmed, handcuffed, and conducted to the nearest lock-up—magazine-rifle and all. Brought in due course before a bench of magistrates, they were committed to take their trial at the next ensuing Court of Assize, to be holden at Wagga Wagga.

I had occasion to visit the 'Place of Crows' (aboriginal name of Wagga Wagga) some weeks after. The Assizes were coming on, and armed with the police magistrate's order, I interviewed the captives.

When the cell door was opened, and my friend of the poncho and revolver stood revealed, 'quanto mutatus ab illo Hectore!'—'the plume, the helm, the charger gone'—we looked on each other with very different expressions.

'Well, young man,' said I with careless raillery.

He grinned, as who should say 'Met afore.'

'Better have stuck to the mail-driving,' I continued.

'It's too late to think of that now,' he made answer; 'but I wish I'd broken my leg the day I started this bloomin' racket. It was all through the "Doctor" as they called him. He led us chaps into it, simple, with those yarns of his. Anyway, he's dead and gone now. Serve him dashed well right—and me too for being a fool! I was earning good money, and had no call to turn out. And this is what it's done for me. What d'yer think we're goin' to get? They won't hang us?'

'No,' said I; 'you'll get a dozen years' gaol. Luckily you didn't kill any one, so the chief can let you off light. If you behave yourselves you'll be all out again before the end of your sentence.'

'I'll behave all right—no fear!' he replied. 'I'm full up of this "cross" work.'

With the leader, 'Captain Blue-cap,' I had a more lengthened interview. Not a bad-looking young fellow, of the stock-rider type, it seemed inexplicable that he should have preferred the life of a hunted outlaw to that of the well-paid, well-fed, easy-going life of a stock-rider. A gentleman's life, so to speak: independent, with change and variety in fair proportion, three or four good horses always at command, and receiving an amount of consideration far above that of any other _employé_ under the rank of overseer; to whose orders, if the proprietor of the station was resident, he did not always hold himself bound to attend. And now—here he was, a fettered captive in the dungeon of the period, awaiting trial, certain of ten years' penal servitude, and not without fear of five years additional, before he walked out a free man again.

We had an amicable conversation, there being 'no animosity' on either side, apparently. It has always struck me as a favourable trait in human nature, that criminals in a general way rarely harbour revengeful feeling against magistrates and others, who are, officially, their natural enemies. Nothing is more common than to hear them say, of the police or higher officials, 'Oh, they're paid for it; it's all in the day's work. I don't blame 'em for doin' their duty.' But the amateur they _do_ hate with an exceeding bitter hatred, as having 'gone out of his way' to do them injury. For which interference with the natural order of affairs they are ready to exact, and have before now exacted, memorable revenge.

However that may be, we chatted away, without the introduction of moral axioms on my side or anarchical references on his. It was a lovely, early summer day, without a solitary cloud in the bright blue sky, and he _may_, as he watched the sunlight fleck the elm-tree within sight of the barred window of his cell, have had a spasm of regret. For this is what he said, gloomily: 'They call it a short life and a merry one. I didn't see nothen jolly about it.'

'Many a man's found that out, but you're a young man. If you give no trouble in gaol you'll not have to serve all your time. Face it, and look forward to coming out again.'

'God knows!' he said. 'I might be dead before then; but it's the only thing to do, I suppose.'

'Did you ever get hit,' I said, 'in a scrimmage with the police?'

'That near done for me,' he explained, pulling back his singlet and showing a large, ragged cicatrice over the region of the heart. 'I wish to God it had. But it wasn't the police.'

'How then?'

'Goin' up to a hut at night; the feller waited for me. Them marks are slugs.'

'Wonder it didn't kill you,' I said. 'Must have been a good handful of them.'

'Well, I crawled off, and some chaps I knowed nursed me till I got round. But it was a near thing. "Born to be hanged," they say, "save you a lot." But it won't run to _that_, d'ye think, sir, when we haven't killed any one?'

'Not quite,' I said, 'though you fired at Mr. Waller and his men with intent, as the Act says, to do serious bodily harm. You'll get a term of imprisonment of course.'

'A long "stretch," I expect,' he said. 'Well; it's no use cryin'. Good-bye, sir, and thanks very much.'

Then we parted. He went on his way and I saw him no more; circumstances prevented that. I never met him or his companions again. They were sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment, and as all this happened thirty odd years ago, they must be out years and years since. Let us hope that they reformed. It is on the cards, also, that they may have 'struck it rich' on a Queensland or West Australian goldfield.

After this capture and disposal of our highwaymen, the land had rest for a season. One of the consequences of the outbreak might have had an ending calculated to surprise the European wool-buyer. Just before the bale of broken fleece referred to was filled up and put into the press, Mrs. Boldrewood recollected that she had never seen the box of ammunition since the day they were huddled into the wool-bale. It was hastily examined and the explosives hauled out, just as the press was being put down; great was the laughter in the shed, as the men thought of the faces of the wool-brokers in a London saleroom when the 'mixed pieces' were turned out for inspection.

I never got my watch back, though my cousin recovered his. The police heard that the bushrangers had, holding out a hatful of watches, invited the stock-rider to choose one, for his noble conduct and 'moral support' in my affair. He chose my young friend's, which he afterwards returned to him. But mine I saw never again, having to content me with a silver one of small value for the next decade.

A TRANSFORMATION SCENE

'Look alive, boys,' said Hugh Tressider; 'we must slog on for the next hour or two. Pitch dark, and going to be a wet night; but if we don't lose the road we shall pull Barallan before bedtime. There we're sure of a yard and a welcome. A night's sleep won't do us any harm.'

'A night's sleep? Dashed if I've had any for a week,' growled the head stock-rider. 'I'm fit to drop off my bloomin' moke this minute; and he's just the size to kick me for falling. Them blessed B.R. cattle's like a mob of kangaroos for breaking and rushin' if so much as a 'possum squeals or a stick breaks. But I know Mr. Bayard's is a regular stunning place to stop at. Gentle or simple, it's all one to him. He's a gentleman as _is_ a gentleman; and every workin' man in the district 'll say the same.'

'All right, Joe; then stir up those lads and the blackfellow a bit; don't let the tail cattle struggle, whatever you do. I'll go on with the lead; my old horse will keep the track.'

'What a thundering wild night it's going to be,' said the drover to himself as he threaded his way through the thick-growing timber, skirting the half-seen wildish herd, which, but a week from the pastures where they had been bred, were still troublesome and prone to break back at the smallest opportunity. The rain, which had held off during the gusty, stormy day, now came down in driving sleety showers, ice-cold, and wetting to the skin the dogged, silent horsemen, who, by the nature of things, were incompletely clothed for resisting so serious a downfall. The cattle, beginning to low with discomfort and uneasiness, were with difficulty restrained from facing towards the opposite point of the compass, away from the blinding storm, which now drove full in their teeth. To those unacquainted with the skill, acquired by long experience in this particular occupation, it would have seemed little short of a miracle that four men and a black boy, who had also the special care of a pack-horse, could guide six hundred head of unwilling, half-wild cattle through a thickly-timbered country on so dark a night, with rain and storm to complicate matters withal.

But it _was_ possible. It was done well and effectively. The leader's horse, an Arab-looking grey, visible from time to time, denoted each turn and direction of the road. The quick eyes of the stock-riders were seldom at fault, and detecting each straggling animal, they were instant to urge a wheel before separation from the main body took place. The gregarious habit of cattle was in their favour, as also their indisposition to straggle overmuch in the darkness. When they were doubtful, the piercing organ of the man of the woods was called into play. His decision was prompt and unerring.

It was, 'Me see 'um two fellows cow and that one red bullock yan along a gully, likit picaninny way. You hold 'em, this one pack-horse, me fetch 'um.' And back they came accordingly. One hour, then another, had slowly passed. The rain had ceased, but the heavens were ebon black and murky. Still rode the man, who had first spoken, at the head of the great drove, which, lowing from time to time, kept plodding monotonously forward, at other times silent and all but soundless as a procession of ghostly beeves, escorted by a company of spectre horsemen.

Wet and weary, chilled to the bone, too dispirited to speak—indeed conversation would have been difficult under the circumstances of compulsory separation—the jaded stock-riders moved on; the rain-drops showering from the leaves as they brushed from time to time under the low-growing shrubs and sapling eucalyptus, the horses' feet sinking deeply in the clay and decomposed gravel of the forest; or splashing shoulder-deep through the mountain streams that crossed their track; their watchful outlook strained and concentrated to the fullest, each man at his allotted station. It was a phase of Australian backwoods life not always credited to the much-enduring bushman.

'By George! this is a hard life,' soliloquised the weary pioneer, for such he had been in more than one colony, as he sat, stiff, sore, and aching in every limb, upon his game but over-tired horse. 'Hold up, old man, you haven't had the saddle off your back nor I my clothes for the last six-and-thirty hours; but another half-hour will see you in a good paddock and me in Barallan parlour, with the cattle safe inside of post and rails, if we haven't taken a wrong track. Only for Bandah we should have followed the old Bundoorah road, a mile back, and found ourselves in the middle of a howling scrub, with a strong chance of losing these confounded B.R. cattle, the worst herd to drive in the district, and no more likelihood of bed or supper than if we were afloat on a raft.'

And here the travel-worn bushman, sodden and soaked, splashed and sleepy as he was, laughed aloud at the absurdity of the conceit.

Managing to light his pipe again by sheltering the match with his shut hand against the night-wind, in a manner peculiar to backwoods Australians, he was silent for a while. Then recommenced: 'Yes, a hard life, this of mine; work and anxiety by day and by night, wet and dry, hot or cold, burnt up and scorched in the summer, half drowned and starved with cold in the winter, and all for what? Just for a decent living, with little enough chance of putting by anything for a rainy day—I mean for a dry season,' he added, with another laugh. 'Well, though it is a hard life, I wouldn't exchange it for everyday work in a merchant's office, in a bank, or a Government department. These may be very well for some people, but they wouldn't suit Hugh Tressider at all. Give me the open air for it! And then, hard as the occasional rubs are, you have the benefit of contrast, and enjoy it all the more, as I shall a good supper and a good bed, which I'm morally certain to drop in for to-night. What a trump that Arnold Bayard is! If all squatters were like him, travelling would be a luxury and a privilege. Besides, I have the comfort of thinking—and it does keep me from being a peg too low at times—that all my hard work has not been for my own advantage, and that I have benefited others. Bless all their hearts! How I wish I could do more for them. Was that a dog's bark? Yes, by Jove! and there's the Barallan paddock fence on the left; it makes a wing to the stock-yard. Right you are, old man' (to his horse); 'we can't go wrong now; we'll go back, and help a bit with the tail.'

Making back to the next horseman, Tressider shook up the leg-weary but still game and willing hackney, and finding his way to the rear, informed all hands of the change in their immediate prospects, with the certainty of a speedy entrance into a haven of rest and refection. The intelligence had a distinctly stimulating effect. The pace of the drove was perceptibly quickened. Men, dogs, and horses seemed to have acquired new life and spirit. In less than half an hour the cattle were safely bestowed in a capacious stock-yard, the gates carefully secured, and the whole party dismounted before the outbuildings of Barallan Station.

Though it had been dark for four hours by the watches of the night, it was not more than half-past ten by the clock. Lights were still visible in the principal building, and a glowing fire in the men's kitchen showed that the cook was all alive, or had very lately retired.

A tall man with an abundant beard now advanced, and looked earnestly in the face of Tressider as he advanced to meet him. 'Oh, it's you, old man!' he said, in a voice every intonation of which bespoke kindly, unequivocal welcome. 'I expected you yesterday. What a drenching you must have had this miserable day. Mrs. Bayard has gone to bed, but there's nothing to prevent you and me from being comfortable for another hour. Of course the cattle are in the yard?'

'Yes.'

'Well, look here, you fellows, put your horses through that wicket-gate. Capital feed inside, and not too big a paddock. Joe hasn't turned in yet. He'll soon have supper ready for you. And, hold on, when you've turned out your horses, come up to the back door of the house. A glass of grog all round won't hurt any of you this cold night.'

'Thank you, Mr. Bayard,' was the reply from the oldest stock-rider.

In fifteen minutes at the outside Hugh Tressider was enabled to realise the justice of his proposition, that from the great contrasts of existence the essence of pleasure is extracted. His waterproof valise had furnished a complete change of dry garments, arrayed in which he was seated before a blazing fire, subsequent to the absorption of a glass of hot grog. A substantial meal was imminent, and as he watched the neat-handed Phyllis deftly covering that hospitable board, he was confirmed in the opinion that life had but few avenues of higher enjoyment open to him.

Arnold Bayard, the owner of the station, a wealthy and much-respected magnate in the land, had a particular fancy for this young fellow, whom he watched enjoying himself after his day, or indeed days, of toil and travail, with paternal benevolence.

'A deuced hard-working, honourable, well-principled young fellow,' he was wont to say. 'Every one ought to do him a good turn. I wish all the young ones were like him. His father, Captain Tressider, an old Waterloo veteran, bought that farm of theirs, on the Upper Hunter, instead of a station in the old days, and ruined himself trying to grow oranges and olives, and all that rot, instead of sheep and cattle. When he died, Hugh was left with his mother and the little brothers and sisters to look after. Quite a boy himself, too. He buckled to it then, and it has been all against collar with him ever since. Working like a nigger, and living like one, too, sometimes, but he has managed to keep them going, and pay for their education, though he came off rather short himself. Never mind that; I say he is as true a gentleman as ever stepped, and some day he must come out right. The Tressiders are high enough in point of birth. There's a title, too, in the family, I'm told, if the next heir at home were cleared off, but of course Hugh's too practical a fellow ever to bother his head about that.'

Thus far, Mr. Bayard. But this was only to strangers. Most of the people in the district knew so much, and honoured Hugh Tressider accordingly. Nobody could be poorer; no one could work harder. But curious as it may seem to those people who persist in manufacturing a stage Australia for themselves,—which is as like the country as the English milord of the Porte St. Martin, with his _boule-dogue_, his top-coat, and the ever-present 'god-dam,' to the real aristocrat,—there are few places where gentle birth and the manners which chiefly accompany that accidental circumstance are more truly honoured. So it will not be considered as anything very wonderful by Australians that Hugh Tressider, though only a drover by occupation, who received a certain sum per head for the conveying of large lots of cattle from one part of the colonies to another, known to be the son of a retired military officer, to be proverbially just, true, and self-respecting in all his dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a thousand pounds to his every ten.

Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste. The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a breakfast of beefsteak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.

'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard. There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it, thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut Flat.'

Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,' which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.

Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen, and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering whether they had met in a former state of existence.

'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a handsome, hospitable matron, as became the châtelaine of Barallan and the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'

'Like the avenger of blood in _Anne of Geierstein_, mother,' put in Melanie, with her hand on her parent's arm. 'There is something so weird about cattle-men. They always seem to be doing their work at unearthly hours, or beside watch-fires, like the people in the German legends.'

'And don't they have to light fires when they travel with sheep?' asked Jack, aged fourteen. 'Girls don't know anything about stock, do they, father?'

'They know as much as some boys who forget to fasten gates, and let the weaners "box" after a day's hard drafting,' returned Mr. Bayard with mildly reproachful emphasis. Here Mr. Jack subsided, while a certain tremulous movement of the lip showed the effect of the reminder.

'Never mind, poor old man! he'll remember next time. I'm sure he was as sorry as any one,' said the tender mother, giving a squeeze to the boy's hand. 'And now, breakfast is quite ready. You had better sit here, Mr. Tressider, and you can tell me how they all were at Rimandah, and who won the tennis match.'

'By the way,' said the Master, seating himself in a contemplative way before a noble round of beef, 'there is an English newspaper and a letter for you in the smoking-room; came yesterday. We were so busy yarning over the fire last night that I forgot to tell you.'

'They'll keep till after breakfast,' said Hugh calmly. 'There isn't a soul out of Australia that I care two straws about. I suppose some one has sent me a _Times_ with nothing in it that can possibly concern me. Thanks; I will take some chicken-pie. I can fall back upon corned beef on the road, though one never seems to tire of it.'

'How are they all on the Allyn?' said Mr. Bayard. 'Have you heard from home lately?'

'Oh, doing quite splendidly,' said the young man, his face lighting up with an expression of tenderness which transfigured the weather-beaten features and imparted a pathetic lustre to his dark-grey eyes. 'Elinor was improving in her drawing—going to be quite an artist. Fairy was taking lessons in singing; she always had a wonderful voice. Bob was head of his class at school, and was safe for a scholarship if he kept up the pace. Mother was stronger than she had been for years. I shall get back there at Christmas time if I've luck on this journey, and we're going to be no end jolly. The Armordens are coming over from Braidwood, and we shall be as happy as kings—much happier, indeed, by late accounts.'

'I'm sure you deserve it,' said Mrs. Bayard half-unconsciously to herself. 'But what a terrible day you must have had of it yesterday. It never ceased raining here. It is perishing weather even now. However you can endure your life in such a season as this, astonishes me.'

'We get used to it, Mrs. Bayard, like the eels, you know. Somebody must do it, or who would buy the Barallan cattle, and get them to market?'

'Yes, I see; but I can't bear to think of nice people—of one's friends, you know—sitting in the saddle through these long, dismal, bitter nights, or watching by fires in the forest, like demons or ghosts.'

'That's the pleasantest part of it, I assure you. When the virtuous drover has eaten his supper, made up his fire, and lighted his pipe, he feels—well, nearly as comfortable as Mr. Bayard here when he has locked up the house and put out the lamp for the night. It doesn't always rain, either.'

'Here are your letters and paper, Mr. Tressider,' said Melanie, who had quietly arisen from the breakfast-table; 'I was afraid dad would forget them again. Hadn't you better open them? I would if I had letters from England.'

'You have my permission,' said the lady of the house. 'Some people are dreadfully cold-blooded about letters. Fancy a woman leaving her letters unread all this time!'

'Theirs are pleasanter than ours,' murmured the recipient. 'That is, generally speaking. Ha! This seems a different hand from the last correspondent. I thought I knew the old fellow's writing well.'

With the sleepless curiosity of youth, Melanie and Jack had kept their eyes fixed upon their friend's face. To their great and unaffected surprise they observed him to flush all over, bronzed cheek and forehead, and afterwards to turn deadly pale. The letter slipped from his nerveless hand, and his eyes assumed such a fixed and strange expression, that the young people were alarmed. Mr. and Mrs. Bayard, with averted heads, were discussing matters of family interest, and so had escaped the bit of melodrama.

Mr. Bayard was recalled by Melanie's eager tones—

'Oh, father! Mr. Tressider's taken ill. He's had some bad news in his letter.'

'Why, old fellow, what is it?' inquired Bayard, turning to him with a face of sincere concern. 'Anything gone wrong at home? I didn't know you heard from relatives in the old country.'

Hugh Tressider stood up and looked at his good friend with a staid and serious expression, not by any means habitual. 'All is well; better than well, my dear Mr. Bayard. I know it will rejoice your kind heart. But it _was_ rather sudden, and as unexpected as an order to become Governor-General. I'm Lord Trewartha, that's all; and there's Trewartha Castle, with not much of an income yet, but a fair sum in cash at my credit to support the dignity. More will fall in when another relative dies. It rather knocked me over at first. The thought of all I could do for the girls and Bob, and the poor Mother who has slaved her soul out all these years for us, was too much for me—my heart struck work for a minute or so. I nearly fainted. There's the letter.'

'And you're a lord?—Lord Trewartha—a real live lord!' said Melanie and Jack, each taking hold of a hand, and jumping up and down with wild excitement and the exuberant, unselfish joy of youth. 'Oh, what fun! Isn't it splendid? And will people have to say, "Yes, my lord," and "No, my lord," and "If your lordship please"? Of course you will send these crawling B.R. cattle to Jericho.' This last was Master Jack's suggestion.

'I shall carry out my engagements, even if I were made a marquis,' said Hugh, recovering his spirits, 'which I read somewhere is ever so much higher than a baron. And you are all to call me Hugh, without Mr. or anything. That is all the difference. Otherwise I shall leave you nothing in my will. And now I must go and have a smoke with your father, or I shall have a fit.'

It was all true. Is true. For the matter of that, something very like it happened only the other day under nearly similar circumstances. Hugh Tressider will never more need to undertake to drive cattle from Kiandra (let us say) to the Paroo, or from Mount Cornish to Adelaide, at per head. Elinor and Fairy will have _such_ private lessons and masters and general embellishment that they will do more than pass muster among their European kinsfolk. Bob will graduate at Oxford or Cambridge, and if ever he revisits Australia—as being a younger brother he probably will—it will be impossible to tell him, at first sight, from the imported Anglo-Saxon aristocrat.

And Hugh Tressider, what of him? As he smokes his pipe that evening by the camp-fire—one of the last of the series he is likely to warm himself by—what avenues of enjoyment, hitherto undreamed of, seem lengthening out into vast and endless grandeur, like the Sphinx-guarded paths of Egyptian cities, all ending in wondrous palaces, purple-draped and gold-illumined! The hard and homely present nearly faded out of sight; only by an effort could he recall himself to the rude primeval surroundings he was so soon to quit for ever. A peer of England! A man of fortune! The heir of an ancient name! Free to meet and mingle with the world's best and fairest, bravest and most exalted, on terms of freedom and equality. His foot slipped into a pool of ice-cold water amid the tussocks of frosted grass as he thought of all this, and with a light laugh at the incongruity of his situation and prospects, he resumed his walk around the recumbent drove.

At no distant date the Tressider family sailed for England, when doubtless most of the good things in keeping with their altered fortunes were duly dispensed to and appreciated by them.

IN BUSHRANGING DAYS

The practice of 'intromitting with the lieges travelling on their lawful business'—as Captain Dugald Dalgetty (sometime of Marischal College, Aberdeen) hath it—is an ancient and fascinating, if irregular mode of financial reconstruction. It has always commended itself as a combination of business and pleasure to those bolder spirits who chafe at the restriction of an over-timorous social system.

From the days of the mad Prince and Poins there were those 'for sport sake content to do the profession some grace.' Risks of death and dishonour were thus taken in countries boasting a high civilisation—a short shrift and a high gallows constituting the accepted termination of a period of riot and revelry; and though the strong hand of the law rarely failed to bring the bold outlaw to his doom, certain alleviations always served to cast a glamour around the pleasant and profitable, if perilous career of the highwayman.

Brigand or bandit, pirate or smuggler, bushranger or buccaneer, as might be, he rarely failed to enlist the feminine sympathy, which has flowed forth in all ages towards the doer of bold deeds—the scorner of gold save for revel and gift—the fearless withstander of the law.

The feats of these heroes of Alsatia have been sung and their valour vaunted in the ballads of all lands and ages; indeed they have formed no inconsiderable portion of the material. 'Yo Soy Contrabandista' never fails to evoke a storm of applause from every Spanish audience.

They have flourished alike under the rule of kings and the co-operative coercion of democracy. Monarchies fail to extirpate, republics to suppress them. They apparently owe their existence to some unexplained ordinance of Dame Nature, whose _enfans gatés_ they are. Her forest children they. Lords of the Waste, roamers through wood and wold, formulating thus a world-old protest against the dulness of respectability, the greed of industrialism, the selfishness of property.