Chapter IX: Part 9

The outlaws have now reached the comparatively even ground below, distant about five hundred yards from where the trooper stood gnashing his teeth in rage, and praying that they might break their necks before they reach the bottom. Fortune favoured them, however, and they might have made good their escape without further trouble. But, instead of galloping off to safe cover, they reined up their steeds, while Ben Bolt, standing in his stirrups, shouted at the top of his voice an insulting message for the Sub-Inspector, making at the same time an ironical bow.

While this little piece of comedy was being enacted, and just as the bushranger was in the act of bowing, the Sergeant had dismounted. Swiftly throwing his rifle to his shoulder and adjusting his sights in an eye wink, he made a hasty but true shot. The outlaw had not finished his bow ere he toppled from his steed and lay prone, shot through the heart.

Such was the news brought by the stockman, and accepted by the station folk.

"Weel, it was bound to come sooner or later. It's what happens to a' law-breakers--simply the choice of bullet or rope. It's no' for us to ca' the unfortunate and misguided mon names. If a's true, he suffered a grave injuistice at the hands o' the police when but a youth, which embittered his whole life an' gave a moral twist to his actions. We maun leave him to Ane above wha mak's nae mis-judgments."

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

*THE CAMP BY THE SEA*

"Bright skies of summer o'er the deep,
And soft salt air along the land,
The blue wave, lisping in its sleep,
Sinks gently on the yellow sand;
And grey-winged seagulls slowly sweep
O'er scattered bush and white-limbed tree,
Where the red cliffs like bastions stand
To front the salvos of the sea,
Now lulled by its own melody."
GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.

"And now, boys, what about the camping-out project? I see no reason why you shouldn't carry out your little plan, now all danger's removed; indeed, I should love you to have the jaunt. Who were going?"

The boys could hardly believe the good news, it was so sudden.

"Us three, and Denny, if father could spare him, mother," was Sandy's remark.

"Oh, ye can tak' the laddie. He's due for a holiday, onyway. So's Harry, for that matter. I can do wi'oot 'em for a spell."

Harry was nothing loth, and entered into the scheme with considerable enthusiasm. As an old bushman he was able to give good advice in the matter of camping-out requirements, and was later to render signal service by which a life was saved.

Behold the party, early the next morning, accoutred and ready for the road; making, as they held their steeds, quite an imposing cavalcade. Two stout roadsters were requisitioned for packing purposes; for the maternal solicitude of Mrs. Mac was both prolific and varied, judged by the articles of food and service which she forced upon the travellers.

The squatter's pawky humour found ample scope for indulgence. He expressed a hope that "the pairty would keep a guid look oot for traces o' the lost Leichhardt expeedetion; and look oot for alleegaitors when ye strike the Gulf o' Carpeentairia."

The girls, too, indulged in good-humoured banter, raising hearty laughs against the boys, in which the victims joined as lustily as any.

Said Maggie, striking a grandmotherly attitude, "There are three things I would warn you against, boys; damp socks, draughts, and earwigs. Don't leave out the flour when mixing the damper. Have you packed the tape measure, Sandy?"

"Tape measure! What in the name of Madge Wildfire do you mean?"

"Why," cried Jessie, breaking in, "to measure the giant jew fish that will snap Joe's line as he is in the very act of landing it."

"Whatcher givin' us, Jess?"

"It will also come in handy," continued the saucy girl, turning on Tom, "to record the girth, length, and throat capacity of the monster snake that you, Tom, are sure to see when roaming alone in the scrub."

"That's one for your nob, Tom!"

"Your turn next, Sandy," retorted that youth.

"Then there's the 'old-man' kangaroo that me brither Sandy will shoot at, missing by 'just an hair's-breadth,' of course, and which he will declare--when he returns to camp--to be as 'high as one of those extinct mammals that Simpson has in his natural history book'; at any rate as 'big as Bullocky Bill's off side poler.'"

"But, Miss Jessie, how wud th' bhoys put th' measure on th'----?"

"As for Dennis Kineavy," continued the sprite, "he will be sure to run into a group of mermaa-des, when diving in the deep blue sa-ay, who will be discussing the all-important question of waist measurement. As Denny's an expert in fairies and hobgoblins, he will be appointed judge and referee."

So, amid laughter and banter, and final good-byes, the gay party start for the Bay.

Neville was prevented from joining them through important business interests in Sydney. The "call" of the bush, however, was strong and insistent, and, as he bade farewell, he announced his determination of returning at no long date to settle as a landholder.

The road to the Bay passed within a short distance of the caves, and, despite the news of the tragic end of Ben Bolt, the lads, as they jogged past the neighbourhood, were unable to rid themselves of a feeling that the outlaw still lurked about his old haunt, and felt relieved when they had left this region behind them.

The journey to the Bay proved uneventful save in one particular. In mounting a very steep incline, the cinch strap, that formed the final fastening of the pack on one of the animals, broke, whereupon the pack-saddle, being loosely girthed, worked backwards. Some of the contents, also, fell to the ground, frightening the horse, who bolted along the road, parting with sundry utensils and eatables, which lined the track for some distance at irregular intervals. The frightened steed was at length secured, the wreckage gathered and replaced--this time more securely--and the journey resumed.

The Bay is reached without further mishap or adventure. After coasting it for some little space the party cast anchor, in seamen's parlance, on a miniature promontory which jutted for a furlong or so into the waters of the Bay, forming a grassy, treeless plateau throughout its area. The advantage of this site was apparent to the group of campers, inasmuch as the foreshores of the Bay were covered for the most part with a stunted scrub that extended to the beach. The advantage was twofold: it obviated the necessity of clearing a space for the tents, and it was comparatively free from bush vermin.

To the southern part of the Bay, distant some six miles, was the Pilot Station; while towards the northern extremity, where a large creek debouched into the sea, was a camp of cedar-getters. Otherwise, in its shore vicinity, the Bay was uninhabited.

Two hours of daylight yet remained, and the members of the party made instant preparation for pitching camp. The necessary tent poles and pegs were speedily secured from the neighbouring scrub, and, under the direction of the experienced stockman, willing hands are busily engaged in the erection.

The bigger tent was set upon a ridge pole that rested in the forks of two upright saplings which had been firmly fixed in the ground. When the requisite number of pegs had been hammered into the ground, the tent was hauled taut by cords passed through eyelet holes at intervals along each side, and about thirty inches from the bottom. This under section of the tent assumed a perpendicular position, forming the walls, which were secured by the same method. This formed the pals' cover, while the smaller tent sufficed for the other two. A rough shed formed of four uprights, with a brushwood roof, held the provisions and saddles.

So expeditiously were all these arrangements made that ere the darkness fell they were completed, and Denny--who was promoted to the responsible position of cook--was building a fire for tea-making purposes. Meanwhile the horses were led to a small, freshwater lagoon in the vicinity, where they were belled and short-hobbled, and left to browse on the succulent grass. The last act of preparation was that of cutting a quantity of gum bushes for bedding. No sweeter or healthier bed can be contrived than a layer of fragrant eucalyptus leaves. The beds had scarcely been made ere the welcome summons to supper came, in the Irish boy's best brogue: "Jintilmen, will yees come to ta-ay?"

There is a charm peculiar to an evening meal taken in the open. The charm is heightened in the present instance by the contiguity of the sea. The youths dine to the musical accompaniment of the rolling waves, which strike the beach in deep, muffled thunder-tone, rising crescendo fashion as they race to a finish along the shelly incline. Then, landward, are the insistent noises of the things of the forest. Ever and anon the soft tinkle-tinkle of "The horse-bell's melody remote" is to be heard as the cropping animals move over the lush grass. The illimitable dome above is alive with sparkling lights. Thus an environment is created which gives a sacramental aspect to the feast. At least it forms a romantic picture which centres in the fire-lit faces of the happy, care-free youths.

Supper ended, they eagerly discuss their projects, the while they clean their guns and fix the fishing tackle.

On the morn, at earliest dawn, they will try likely spots for fish, and have a swim in the briny. And now the slow movements of the tongue, with frequent yawns, proclaim the nightly toll which nature is wont to exact.

Ere the pale dawn is flushed the pals, sleep banished, half-dressed, tongues wagging, trudge along the beach to the rocky point of the promontory, stopping here and there at likely places to dig in the sand for whelks, which make capital bait. The water is fairly deep where the nose of the promontory marks the terminal point, and soon lines are unwound, hooks are baited, and practised hands fling the lead-weighted hempen cords far into the Bay. Fair success rewards their efforts. Sandy's line hardly reached the bottom ere he experienced the delightful thrill of a fierce tug, followed by a smart, strong rush which betokened a good fish. After a few minutes' play he landed a fine specimen of black bream, scaling over two pounds.

Sandy and Tom had varying luck with black and white bream, and flat-head. Joe, however, was out of it. He did, indeed, have a gigantic bite soon after Sandy had captured his first fish. The line whizzed through his fingers with a rush that skinned them as he began to take a pull. When the line had reached its limit it snapped like a piece of pack-thread. The biter was either a young shark or a big jew fish. After this no fish troubled the boy. His mates struck their fish at frequent intervals, while his line remained motionless. After a time he wound up and left his companions. Retracing his steps some distance along the beach, he halted at a shelving rock that ran out into the water. It looked a likely spot, and he determined to try with a lighter line than the one he had been using. Baiting his hook with a soldier crab, he made a cast, and almost immediately had a bite, hauling in a black-back whiting. It was a good specimen, weighing at least a pound. He had good sport for about half an hour, catching in all about a dozen whiting and half a dozen soles.

The sport began to slacken about an hour after sunrise, and the pals, having captured sufficient for the day's requirement, set to work and cleaned their catches. This task finished, they have a plunge in the sparkling and cool waters of the Bay.

Meanwhile Harry attended to the horses, and did little jobs about the camp, whilst Denny devoted his attention to the preparation of the breakfast. The lads returned in due course with the spoils of the sea, and with appetites as keen as a razor. In a few minutes the pan is full of sizzling fish, which are presently transferred to a hot dish, and the pan is filled with a fresh lot.

"Goin' to try 'nuther panful, Denny?" said Tom, when the second lot had been demolished.

"Anuther pan! Howly Moses! div yees hear him! Och, thin, me bhoy, ye'd soon rise th' price ov fish. Not anuther scrap will Oi cook f'r yees. Oi've kep' th' rest f'r dinner? Sure, if we go on loike this 'twill be Fridah ivry da'; glory be!"

The morning was devoted to a go-as-you-please programme, in which there was much disporting in the water; even the juvenile pastime of building castles in the sand was not considered _infra dig_.

In the afternoon the whole party set out for Schnapper Point. It was on this spot that the fond expectations of the lads were centred. It was reputed to be the best fishing ground in the extensive Bay, and owed its name to the fact that school-schnapper frequented its vicinity. A schnapper trip--taken as a rule in a small steamer--is voted one of the finest outings by Australian sportsmen. This highly prized fish, be it said, is known variously, according to its age and changing habits. It often attains large dimensions, weighing up to thirty pounds.

None of the party had previously visited the Point. Their great concern was to find out if suitable bait could be procured in its neighbourhood. The principal bait was a small species of whiting. These, they discovered, were to be obtained without much trouble on shelly patches along the beach.

Early next morning the campers are astir, and busily engaged in necessary preparations. After a hearty breakfast, in which the corned round and the spiced beef are conspicuous features, behold the young sports jogging along the beach towards Schnapper Point. A stoppage is made at the whiting patch, where the fishermen are kept going for an hour with very fine lines. By this time they have secured about two hundred small fish as bait.

And now, having arrived at the fishing ground, leaving Harry and Denny to attend to the horses, the pals, all eager for the promised sport, unwind their heavy schnapper lines, and prepare for the catch.

It was agreed that the boys were to fish, while Harry, who voted fishing a bore, and was devoted to the gun, would scour the adjacent scrub for birds, and the forest beyond for kangaroo; Denny having promised the boys a "foine boilin'" of kangaroo-tail soup. To quote the actual words in which he preferred his request--"If Harry wud shute wan iv thim fellas as hops wid their ta-ales, and carries their childre in their pockets,[#] Oi, wud ma-ake sich a soup as niver was."

[#] The natural pouch of the marsupial for bearing its young.

The shooter, armed with a fowling-piece and a short rifle, after attending to the horses, disappeared in the scrub in search of game. Meanwhile the fishers, having cast their lines, assume an expectant attitude.

To their great disappointment there are no bites; not even the stimulating nibble. The patience of these amateurs is sorely tried. A whole hour passes without the slightest sensation of a bite. Lines are cast and recast. The fishermen move to and fro, to no useful purpose.

"Well, of all the rotten frauds of places for fishin', this takes the bun! Dash it! we'd better have stayed at the camp an' fished there. At least we'd----"

"Howld yer whisht, bhoys!" said Denny in an excited whisper. "Oi'm jist goin' to git a boite; th' line's thrimblin' sure. Faith 'tis a Dutchman smellin' the ray-shons, Oi'm thinkin'."

"It's not a schnapper, if that's what you mean by a Dutchman. No nibblin' about a schnapper, Denny. More likely a crab."

"By Saint Michael! Joe, div yes call that a crab? Be dad, thin, it's a big sa-ay whale, or maybe one iv thim mare-mades Miss Jassie warned me aginst. Be th' hokey, th' loine's cuttin' me fingers!"

The line, which for a minute or two had given faint twitches, and a few premonitory shakes, now suddenly whizzed through the Irish boy's fingers.

"Take a pull on her, an' steady her!" cried Sandy. "You'll lose fish an' line, too, if you're not mighty smart."

Denny thereupon made a "brake" of his fingers, which steadied the fish after it had run out about fifty yards or so of the line. He began to haul it as if it were attached to a sulky calf. The fish was a heavy one, and a fighter; but what Denny lacked in skill he made up in strength. Fortunately for the angler the line was stout and new, or it would surely have snapped in the struggle. By sheer strength the fish is drawn to land.

*CHAPTER XXIX*

*AT THE MERCY OF THE SEA-TIGER:
A NARROW SHAVE*

The pals watched the seaman-like efforts of Denny to land his "sa-ay whale," or "mare-made," with great curiosity.

"It's no schnapper, unless, maybe, a real boss 'un. More like a young shark," was the remark passed by Joe.

Their curiosity is soon satisfied; the fish is now in the shallows, and the next moment is drawn to the water's brink. Denny has landed a monster sting-ray.

It was the first of the kind the Irish boy had ever seen, and, as he pulled the struggling ray into the shallows and exposed its body, he was struck mute for a few seconds with astonishment, and not a little alarm, at its uncanny appearance. Dropping his line in the excitement, he half turned to the boys, and, pointing to the floundering fish, exclaimed, "Begorrah! 'tis th' div-vil himsilf. Saints presarve us, but if yen's not he'es ta-ale! Or, ma'be 'tis th' dhragon phwat Father Daly towld us about at Mass larsht Sun-day."

"He'll be a drag-off in a moment," cried Joe, making a clutch at the line, for the brute was wriggling into the deeper water. The next minute the ray was smacking the earth with his flappers, and whipping it with his tail.

"Phwat be th' crathure, anny ways, Sahndy?"

"It's a stingaree, Denny. Mind you don't touch its tail, or you will find out to your cost that it's the dragon, black angel, an' 'th' owld bhoy,' all mixed up like an Irish stew. Run for the tommy, an' we'll whip it off."

"And does it bite wid its ta-ale loike a schn-ake, bhoys?"

"No, you precious duffer! it's got a spike near the tip that it rams into you like a needle, an' then look out! Yellow Billy trod on one once when he was havin' a bogey down below Tareela, in the river--they make a hole in the mud an' lie there--an', by jings! he was ravin' mad in twenty minutes. The doctor had to shove a syringe into his arm, and squirt laudnaum, or somethin', to quiet him down. There!" flourishing the tomahawk, "that's off, clean as a whistle!"

"My word!" continued Sandy, a moment later, "we'll keep the tail for Harry. He promised Bill Evans, the jockey, to get one for him if he could. He's goin' to ride White's horse at the Armidale races, an' he's the laziest o' mokes he reckons. Bill says it'll be only by sheer floggin' that he'll fetch him along. Says if he only had a stingaree-tail whip[#] he could do the trick."

[#] The sting-ray tail is sometimes used for this purpose. It is a cruel instrument of flagellation in the hands of an unfeeling rider.

"This is not schnapper fishin'," interjected Joe. "My word! the stingaree'll make stunnin' bait. Put a bit on your hook, Denny, it may entice 'em."

Sandy cut off a slice from the flapper and baited Denny's hook with it. The line had hardly reached the bottom ere it was seized by a fish--a monster. The fish did not rush, he bored; the resistance was of a sullen nature. Joe came to Denny's help, and between them they drew the fish to land. It proved to be a huge rock cod, or groper, as it is more commonly called, scaling close upon a hundredweight.

"A jolly groper, by dad! We're in luck all right," exclaimed Tom. "We'll have groper steak for supper to-night; besides, we can pickle one half of this cove and dry the other."

Their luck had changed in more respects than one. The ray and the groper seemed to be avants courier for the school-schnapper, which now began to bite freely.

For the next two hours the boys were kept well employed, landing near upon forty fish, varying from three to twelve pounds in weight. The tide now began to ebb, and after that there were no more bites. It was just as well, for by this time they had caught as many fish as they could cure. Counting the groper, they had nigh upon three hundredweight. The weight of these when scaled and cleaned would be reduced by at least one-fourth, leaving about two hundred and fifty pounds of choice fish.

"What's bes' thing to do now, Joe?"

"W-e-l-l--er--I dunno. Oh, I say, how'd a jolly swim go down?"

"Spiffin'! A swim, a feed, an' then start cleanin' the fish an' gettin' 'em ready for smokin' an' saltin'. 'Bout noon I reckon it is."

"Come on, Denny," cried Joe, as they walked down to a sloping beach a little back from the Point; "come an' have a dip in the briny."

"Bedad, thin, that same will Oi not. 'Twu'd be threadin' on wan iv these stinkin'-rays Oi'd be. Oi can seem to feel th' brute's dirty pisen fangs already in me leg. No, no, thanks be, Oi'm not takin' th' wather tra-atement at prisint. Oi'll go an' start the foire so as to be ready f'r yees; that is, if th' sharks div not ma-ake mince-ma-ate of yees."

Was it a premonition which caused a cold, tingling thrill to run along Joe's nervous system, from tip to toe; to be followed by the creeps, which made goose-flesh of his smooth skin? Disagreeable as the sensation is to the lad for the time, it lasts but for a moment, and in less than no time, so to speak, he is revelling in the glories of the crisp, emerald-tinted wavelets of the Bay.

It should be stated that Schnapper Point did not extend into the Bay at right angles to the beach. It inclined northward, and at the spot where the boys were bathing was not more than two hundred yards from the beach.

"Say, chaps," shouted Joe, who was some distance out, "I'm going to swim over to the main beach."

So saying, he swam slowly towards the other side, enjoying to its fullest extent the luxury of the exercise. He had covered about a third of the distance when he heard a great commotion behind him.

Denny, who had been attending to the fire, had his attention attracted by a moving object in the sea. Gazing intently thereon for a moment, he left his occupation and ran swiftly towards the boys.

"Look, bhoys! look at that gra-ate fish sa-alin' in forninst the Point. Troth, it's a monsther groper, Oi'm thinkin'! Glory! but he'es a gra-ate big bullock-groper!"

So saying, Denny came towards the boys with a puzzled air, as though his description of the object to which he was pointing did not exactly determine its species.

"Whereaway, Denny?" exclaimed Sandy, who was paddling in the surf, standing up and gazing in the direction indicated. "A bullock-groper. That's a new creature surely. Never heard----Hello! why, it's a---- Hi, hi! Joe! Joe!" shouted the lad in a wildly excited state. "Joe, there's a big shark roundin' the Point an' coming this way. Come back, quick! quick!"

Joe, who was almost on a level with the water, was unable to locate the enemy as quickly as the others. It was not until he began to tread water that his eye caught the moving object. In a flash he realised his danger, for it was a large tiger-shark, the man-eater of the sea. Not even the man-eater of the jungle, roused through the blood-lust to a killing frenzy, could be more merciless to his victim than this cold-blooded, pitiless, silent tiger of the seas.

Terrible as was the shock, his courage survived. He conned the situation, and formed his judgment in a moment. The shark was eighty yards or so above him, swimming parallel with Schnapper Point beach, and within thirty yards or so of it. As far as he could judge the fish was ignorant of his presence, but were he to return to his companions he could not expect to escape its vigilant eyes; would be crossing its bow, so to speak; and, were it in an attacking mood, would not have the ghost of a show.

His only hope of escape lay in keeping along his course, getting to the farther shore in the smallest number of minutes possible. All this cogitation did not cover twenty seconds, and the boy resumed his swim with the utmost vigour.

Had not something happened to divert the shark from its course nothing alarming would have occurred, for Joe was rapidly widening the distance, and every stroke was improving his chances. The boys on shore, with the hope of frightening the monster away altogether, began to make a great clatter; pelting the shark at the same time. No more fatal policy could have been adopted. The only result of their tactics was to divert the shark from its course, and to drive it out in the direction of their comrade.

Almost as soon as the brute's course was changed it sighted the swimmer. This it indicated by giving two or three strong strokes with its powerful tail, and gliding at a rapid rate in the wake of the lad. Joe was made acquainted with this change of course by the frantic cries of his mates. Throwing his head over his shoulder for a moment, he saw the shark heading directly for him. He knew in that moment that unless the miraculous happened his hours were numbered, and in a few seconds--or minutes at most--his body would be mangled by this pitiless sea-tiger. Yet, although this terrible result appeared an absolute certainty to the fleeing youth, he did not lose his head, but swam with a strong and steady stroke. There is such a thing as hoping against hope. He would not surrender life; it must be torn from him. Joe's home upbringing, with his father's daily chapter and prayer, sent his thoughts heavenwards in this his moment of extreme peril: "What time I am afraid I will put my trust in Thee."

Here was the situation. Joe was about sixty yards from the beach, while the relentless pursuer was within thirty yards of him. His mates were powerless to aid him, and were racing round to the spot where he intended to land as swiftly as their legs could carry them.

The shark glided within a few yards of the lad, and then swam round him, while conning him. This the boy felt to be simply the preliminary, yet every stroke was taking him nearer the shore. The water should be even now shoaling. Might he dare to sound it? But, alas! the enemy seems to understand this, and gives a cunning look as it half-raises its body from the water, and scrutinises its helpless victim preparatory to making its final swoop.

"God help me!" cries the youth, with a dry sob; his last moment has come. In that supreme moment--as in the case of drowning men--the whole past came before him. Home, parents, sisters, brothers, pals! There, almost within arm's-length, is his merciless foe; while there is still quite a stretch of water between him and the beach.

The great, cold-blooded, insatiable fish is poised for the final spring. A single second now, and----

Instead of falling upon its victim, the huge brute lashed the water into foam, and swam round and round in a circle. What had really happened Joe knew not. He no longer swam shorewards, but, half stupefied, watched the "flurries" of the frenzied fish as it lashed the water in rage or pain.

Then he heard a great splashing shorewards, and a voice shouting encouraging words. Turning in that direction, the boy beheld, with unutterable joy, Harry, rifle in hand, rushing through the water to him. In a few seconds the stockman is abreast Joe, the water being only up to his arm-pits. Pointing the rifle at the fish, which was circling in blind fashion, but a few yards off, the rifleman--for it was he, under God, who worked the miracle--drove a bullet through the shark's brain.

"My word! 'twas a touch-and-go, old feller!" exclaimed the man, as he put an arm round the boy--who had, in a sense, collapsed--and drew him to the shore. "There now, Joey, me brave boy. Y're all right, ain't ye? Y're not the chap ter faint, I know. Here's the others," as the rest dashed up, breathless; the Irish boy fairly crying with excitement.

They could do nothing for a while but look at Joe as he sat leaning against a mangrove--where Harry had placed him--making a brave but weak effort to smile. The reaction had set in, and the boy felt it was only by the most resolute exercise of his will that he kept from swooning.

Tom, who was blowing like the proverbial grampus, stuttered at last: "Let's m-make tr-racks h-home, b-boys. I-I'd rather be b-b-bailed up by a thousand 'r-rangers, than w-w-w-one of th-hose sea-devils. Oh! the sight of the m-monster as he r-rose to make a d-dive at p-poor Joe! Y-yes, let's c-clear."

"Clear, be hanged! What are you drivelling about, you jolly idiot?" It was just the tonic Joe needed. "We're not goin' to let a thing like this spoil our sport, not by a long shot. I'm all right. Was a bit knocked out for a few minutes, I will confess. Tell you what, boys; I'll never be nearer death till my last moment comes. That I am alive is due, first to God, an' then to ole Harry, here. 'Twas a great shot, that first one of yours. 'Nother second later an' 'twould have been too late. Ugh! don't believe I'll ever get the green glitter of the thing's eyes outer my mind. Tell you what, I'll jolly well punch the first cove that hints at goin' home. I vote we go back an' scale an' gut the jolly fish."

"Bedad, thin, it's a plucky wan y'are, Joe, me bhoy! Y're th' mahn f'r me money ivry toime. But, ye'll not do a sthroke iv wark till yees have a feed. Faith, Oi'll do a sthreak an' get th' billy boilin' f'r a pipin' hot cup o' tay. It's what we all want; Joe in particular." Suiting his action to the word, the cook strode off in quick time to prepare the lunch.

Meanwhile the dead shark had drifted into the shallows until it stranded on the beach. The party now made a closer examination of the brute. The first shot, fired from the bank as the creature raised itself, had caught it in the throat; the second passed through the eye to the brain.

"Why, it's a tiger-shark!" exclaimed Harry; "twelve foot if he's an inch. Thought 'twas a blue-nose at fust; they're bad enough, but this joker's the worst kind that swims the sea. My word, Joe, it'd been all U P if this chap'd once got 'is teeth intil yer."

"Budgeree, budgeree, you bin shootem shark? Him murry bad p-feller. Catchem plendy black p-feller; eaten. This p-feller live longa Point plendy years."

The group, which had been intently gazing at the carcass, turned round in a startled manner on bearing these guttural sounds. Immediately behind them was a cluster of aboriginals, five in number, who had stolen silently upon the scene.

"Hello, Cock-eye! that you?" cried Harry, as he surveyed the blacks. "Where you bin sittin' down, eh?"

"Cedar Crik. We bin come longa here get fis' for choppers."

"Oh, the timber-getters, hey! Well, you seem ter know this ole boss. You bin see 'im afore?"

"Plendy times. Bin often try catch 'im. He kill-ee mine sister. He too much lika dingo; no take bait."

"Well, you can git even with this joker, Cock-eye. He eat your people; now you chaps gobble 'im up."

The blacks are inordinately fond of shark's flesh, and--cannibal as this sea-tiger is--no question of sentiment may stand between these primitive men and a gorge.

"I say, Harry, cut that dorsal fin off for me, there's a good man, before these niggers tackle it. I'd like to keep that."

After a considerable amount of hacking, the stockman managed to separate the fin, and, leaving the blacks in undisturbed possession of the carcass, they returned to the Point, to feed, and to finish their work.

*CHAPTER XXX*

*IN AND ABOUT THE CAMP*

"O mellow air! O sunny light!
O Hope and Youth that pass away!
Inscribe in letters of delight
Upon each heart one golden day--
To be there set
When we forget
There is a joy in living yet!"
G. E. EVANS.

The fish cleaning occupied the best part of the afternoon; and when the party reached camp, about sunset, they were dog-tired; inclined for little else than supper and sleep.

"But you haven't told us how it came to pass that you were just on the spot to prevent the shark scoffing Joe," exclaimed Tom to Harry. "We didn't expect you back for hours."

"Niver had such a thing 'appen afore, I give yer my word. Lost me way in the dashed scrub; carn't understand it nohow. As a rule yer carn't lose me in a scrub; can feel me way be day or night. Instinct, they calls it. Ole Dumaresque says ter me one day, when we'd bin ridin' fer hours through heavy pine country after some strayed heifers, gettin' caught in the dark long afore we makes the homestead: 'How do you manage to tack an' criss-cross this beastly country without track or compass; not even a star to guide you? It fair beats me, my man. Why, I'd 'a' bin lost a dozen times over but fer you. You always seem ter be goin' wrong, yet always come out right.'

"'Carn't explain it, sir,' ses I. 'I jist do it.

"'It's all instinct,' ses 'e. 'It's like wot the dingoes an' blacks 'ave.'

"Instinct or no instinct, I got bushed all right ter day. There's something erbout it I carn't understand. 'Twasn't that I was careless, an' takin' no notice. I 'ad worked through the scrub a distance of four mile or so when, all of a suddent, I ses ter meself, ses I, 'Where the dickens am I?' Well, as soon as I put the question to meself I knows I was bushed, an' fer the fust time in me life I begins ter feel quite creepy like. I didn't know which way ter go. At larst I starts out in a direction that seemed the likeliest, but, somehow, I cud make no headway. Something seemed ter clog me feet, an' I was allers gettin' mixed up with vines an' brushwood.

"'Dash it all,' ses I, 'this won't do. Don't believe I'm goin' the right way, after all. Believe this ere way's leadin' me back to the Bay, an' I wants ter git through this blarmy scrub ter the forest, fer 'oppers' tails. I'll righterbout face, danged if I won't!' So round I turns, an' as soon as I started I got on fust clarss. Didn't git mixed up an' stumble as afore, but gits through the brushwood as slick as a bandicoot. 'Mus' be nearly through the belt,' ses I, after goin' fer an' hour or so. 'Mus' git the rifle ready, fer I might sight a kangy any moment now.' So I unslings the rifle from me back an' puts the gun in its place, an' stops a minit ter load 'er--the rifle I mean. I'd jist finished when I heers voices shoutin', an' then a great yellin', as if somethin' orful was 'appenin'. So orf I rushes through the scrub, an' comes out on the beach. I was knocked inter a heap, I gives yer me word; fer there before me was the sea, an' I thought I was on t'other side of the scrub altogether. Then, in a flash, I sees wot was really 'appenin'. Jist afore me very eyes was Joe. He was strugglin' in the water not more'n a hundred yards away, an' that 'er brute seemed as if it was jist a-fallin' on 'im. Why, I fired the rifle a'most without pintin' it. Somethin' seemed ter say, 'If yer waits ter aim yell be too late.' Be gosh! I'm thinkin' 'twas the Almighty Hisself directed that shot."

"If ye'd not losht your enstink, as ye calls it, ye'd be moiles an' moiles awa-ay at th' toime th' shark was goin' to gobble Joe up, wuddent ye?"

"In course I wud."

"Well, don't ye think th' good God had a hand in losin' ye in th' scrub?"

"It's wot yer father'd call an answer ter prayer," replied the stockman, turning to Joe as he spoke.

By this time the camp-fire--around which the group had been sitting--was burning low, and the party was quite ready for bed after the exciting and tirng adventures of the day.

The campers were astir at an early hour next morning, to make the final preparations for curing the fish. After filling both barrels, there was a quantity available for smoking. To carry out this object a sapling frame, about four feet square and seven feet high, was constructed, and enclosed with bushes, leaving an opening at the top and bottom. The fish were hung by stout cords, and a fire kindled on the earth inside the curing shed. Some green wood was used with the dry, to produce a fair, volume of smoke; and so the curing went on apace.

Leaving Denny in charge of the camp, the others spent the afternoon shooting over a chain of lagoons that lay back from the beach a couple of miles or so. The ducks were plentiful, and they returned to the camp well laden. They passed the two following days shooting and fishing, both fins and feathers being exceedingly plentiful. By this time they judged the fish to be cured, and packed it in a maize bag.

"Tell you what, boys! S'pose we ride over to the Pilot Station to-day? It'll be a change, won't it?"

The others received Joe's suggestion with ready approval, and before long were racing along the beach towards the Pilot Station. This was situated at the mouth of the river, and consisted of the residences of the pilot and the boat's crew.

It should be said that at the mouth of every Australian river flowing into the Pacific is a sand-bar. These sand barriers frequently shift their position, owing to tidal and other ocean influences. This makes entrance and exit to be a somewhat dangerous proceeding, and many a craft has come to grief on these treacherous sands. To reduce this danger to a minimum a pilot station exists at each river entrance. The pilot is generally a sea-captain with a large experience of these treacherous bars. It is his duty, weather permitting, to take daily soundings so as to locate the exact position of the bank, and by means of signals to apprise incoming and outgoing vessels of the position and depth of water on the bar; also, when required, to pilot the vessel over the dangerous spot.

Captain Craig, the pilot, was an old salt, with nearly half a century's experience of the eastern rivers of Australia. He received the boys very kindly, and, after offering them refreshment, took them to the signal station and look-out. When he had explained the methods of signalling, he allowed them to look through a very fine telescope. He was justly proud of this instrument, it having been presented to him by a company of passengers for his gallantry and seamanship in extricating his vessel from a rocky shore in a hurricane.

The time had now arrived for taking the bar soundings. Much to the boys' delight Captain Craig invited them to accompany him in the life-boat, and a few minutes later the crew were pulling the party from the miniature cove to the bar.

The water here, owing to the bar formation, was generally in a turbulent condition. Although it was a calm day, they found the boat exceedingly lively as she moved to and fro over the bar while soundings were being taken. They experienced sundry disagreeable qualms, and a certain screwed-up feeling in the region of the "bread-basket." The clacking tongues of the youngsters grew suspiciously quiet, and Tom's ruddy cheeks paled to an exceedingly bilious complexion. Had you quizzed these boys upon their sickly looks, they would have protested with might and main against the insinuation of mal-de-mer. Nevertheless they were mighty glad when the pilot, after half an hour's sounding, having accomplished his purpose, turned the boat's nose in the direction of home. Once out of the troubled waters, the sick feeling passed away, and at the solicitation of the lads "for a pull," the pilot good-naturedly allowed them to row to the landing-place.

Before leaving, the pals recited the story of the shark adventure, ending in the death of the tiger shark. Captain Craig listened with great interest, and not a little excitement, to this narration.

"You have had the narrowest of escapes, Joe Blain, and have very much to be thankful for," exclaimed he. "That shark was a most notorious character. He has roamed the Bay for years and years, and has destroyed many human lives. Innumerable efforts for his capture have been put forth by the fishermen, and by my own men, but in vain. Often sighted and fished for, he has resisted the many lures set for him. Again and again, when enclosed in their nets, he has broken through, and has long been their despair. Now, however, thanks to a good Providence, and to the clever shot of your friend here, this dreadful man-eater has been removed." Advancing to the stockman, the pilot shook him warmly by the hand, and thanked him in the name of the community.

As the party rode home in the cool of the evening, they decided to break camp next morning, in order to carry out their original intention of paying a visit to the old diggings.

*CHAPTER XXXI*

*OFF TO THE GOLD DIGGINGS*

"The mountain air is cool and fresh,
Unclouded skies bend o'er us,
Broad placers, rich in hidden gold,
Lie temptingly before us."
SWIFT.

Tents were struck, and the campers' impedimenta securely fastened to the pack-saddles, in the grey dawn of the following morning--the party having breakfasted by starlight.

The gold diggings about to be visited was situated in the ranges, equi-distant from Bullaroi and the Bay. The route from the Bay lay along the homeward track as far as the caves. At this point the trail turned due north--winding among the rugged country to the site of the mining camp, which, in its palmy days, covered a flat that lay between some precipitous hills and a swiftly flowing mountain stream.

The diggings in question was deserted, save by a few fossikers, or gully-rakers, as they were generally called--men who earned a precarious living by following up the dry gullies, and picking out wash dirt from between the rocks; or else dry-blowing likely spots of the surface. The lure of gold--so common to all--fed the imagination of these men. They became nomads; lived in the most primitive ways; faced and endured untold hardships; and, if not cheerful, were always hopeful. They saw visions and dreamed dreams--of gold. The years passed, age pressed heavily, eyesight grew dim, and limbs palsied with weakness: but even when broken down and encompassed with infirmity, their very senility sustained its spirits upon visions of the rich find that was surely coming--to-morrow.

When the diggings "broke out," and the rush "set in," the flat was white with tents, the population running into four figures. It was an alluvial diggings; that is, the gold was washed from the earth, and not crushed from the quartz. In the flush days of Rocky Gully, rich "pockets" of gold were struck, and huge fortunes made. Life then, in the character of its splendours and pleasures, was barbaric. Lucky diggers, with the spending lust upon them, ordered champagne baths, lit their pipes with five-pound notes, shod their horses with plates of gold, squandered their suddenly acquired riches on camp wantons, and among the harpies of the gambling hells. There were many exceptions to this foolish course, 'tis true; but such is the mental intoxication consequent upon a lucky find, and the sudden acquisition of wealth, that the majority of lucky diggers succumb, and in a few weeks or months, shorn of their possessions, either blow out their brains in remorse, or challenge fortune once more upon the same or some other goldfield.

Rocky Gully was now a worked-out diggings, and its population had long ago drifted away to other fields. Naught remained to remind one of its glory now but a few tumbledown houses, and the wood skeletons of iron buildings, together with countless heaps of empty tins and other refuse. Naught, that is, save a dozen or so of fossikers, who were distributed over the field; each having his area, into which the others never intruded.

How was it, then, that the Bullaroi party should have included a trip to the deserted mining camp in their programme of sport and adventure? There was nothing inviting in the region so far as game was concerned; nor was there the rough excitements of a live diggings. The truth is, it was the outcome of a suggestion of Harry. The stockman had a yarn he was very fond of relating, which included some tragic incidents associated with Rocky Gully. As a youth he lived there in its "boom" days, and towards the close of his stay there he was mates with Humpy Bob. Humpy Bob was an eccentric character, well known on a dozen goldfields, whose shrewdness as a gold finder was countervailed by his incredible folly in spending his riches. On one occasion, when he had struck a "pocket," from which he drew over a thousand ounces, he began a carouse which continued until the last penny was spent.

As illustrative of his folly during that spree, he purchased a general store for the sum of one thousand pounds. The same evening, in company with the drunken guests of a champagne party he had given, he proceeded to the store, deliberately fired it, and, with the other banqueters, stripped stark naked, danced a wild corrobberie while it burned.

Bob sober was the antithesis of Bob drunk. Abstemious, taciturn, industrious, solitary, with a genius for divining likely places, he followed the pursuit of gold: seldom failing to earn good wages; often winning handsome profits; occasionally making a pile.

Humpy's end came suddenly and tragically; and of this Harry was a witness.

The two men were driving a tunnel at a likely spot in the bank of a blind gully about three miles from the main camp. They worked in relays, and had driven in about a score of yards, when Harry suggested shoring it with saplings for safety. Humpy Bob, however, who was always running risks, made light of the suggestion. They had just struck a vein of promising stuff, which gave "prospects" of several grains to the dish. When it was Bob's turn to go on, Harry again suggested shoring up certain loose spots; especially one near where he had been picking, for there had been a small fall during his shift. This the other would not consent to, though his partner pleaded earnestly.

"There's a hundred to one chances against there being anything serious, mate, and I'm not goin' to waste any time in propping up the blessed tunnel. It's not worth it. We'll most likely clean it out to-morrer. So-long!"

So saying, the digger entered the drive, and was soon at his work. Harry, having nothing to do for a while, went to the tent and stretched himself on his bunk for a rest, intending to return in an hour or so to wheel out the mullock. Unfortunately he fell asleep, and hours passed by before he awoke. When he did, he jumped from his bunk and ran out to the drive, scolding himself for his negligence. The barrow was missing from its usual place, and, after a hasty search, the youth went to the tunnel's mouth and shouted to his mate. There was no response, nor were the usual pick sounds to be heard. The light was still burning at the end of the tunnel. Hastily traversing the drive in a half-stooping position, as indeed compelled by the size of the tunnel, the youth covered about half the distance when he stumbled over the barrow, severely barking his shins. Using hot language against the carelessness of his mate at leaving the barrow in such a place, and with a half fear at the unsatisfactory look of things, he scrambled up and went on towards the end of the tunnel. He had not taken more than two steps when he again stumbled; this time over a softer substance. It was his mate!

Humpy Bob was lying unconscious, half-covered with a mass of fallen earth and rocks. Groping his way across this pile of debris, the excited and frightened youth reached the end of the drive, seized the light and returned to his mate.

Tearing frantically at the soil and stones, he liberated old Humpy, and, as gently as possible, drew him to the tunnel mouth. Then dashing to the little stream below, he brought water in a billy, and made the customary attempts to restore his stricken mate to consciousness. His utmost attempts availed not. The vital spark had fled. Not all the resources of medicine or surgery could bring light into the half-closed eyes, or life into those rapidly stiffening limbs. Humpy Bob would never again unearth a nugget, rock a cradle, appraise the value of a prospect, or get on the "razzle-dazzle" and "paint the town red."

It would seem that after working for a while, and making a heap of mullock, the digger had come out of the tunnel for Harry. Not seeing him about, the old man seized the barrow with the object of wheeling out some of the earth. He had loaded it, and was in the act of wheeling it along, when a mass of earth fell full upon his back, fracturing the spine.

Harry was greatly affected by this sad occurrence; for Humpy Bob had many good points of character, and a strong attachment had grown up between them. As soon as his mate was buried, he left the goldfield, and got a job on one of the stations.

He had often thought of revisiting this scene, for he had a feeling that good gold would be found there. Of late the desire to test the ground again had grown strong, and, when the project of the jaunt to the seaside was launched, he suggested a trip to the old diggings. The boys gladly fell in with the idea, for it furnished them with an item that gave additional spice to the outing.

The journey to the diggings was necessarily slow. The pack-horses were heavily weighted by the extra burden of the fish, and the method of progress was that shuffling gait known as the "jog." Though monotonous and tiring to the rider, it is the easiest pace for the loaded animals, and one that can be kept up all day.

"Seems a pity that we should cart this blessed fish to the diggings, Sandy. Wouldn't it be better to 'cache' it somewhere near the junction? It's giving the horses unnecessary work, in my opinion. Let's see, it's twelve miles to the junction, an' fifteen from there to Rocky Gully. Supposin' we planted the stuff in the scrub at the junction; it'd save thirty miles of hauling, an' be no end of a gain all round."

"Good enough, Joe! What d'yer say, Harry? We could hide the barrels an' bag easy enough in the scrub."

"M-yes, perhaps so. Come ter think of it, I'm not so sure. Barrels'd be all right, but 'twon't be the dingoes' fault if they don't root out the dried fish. Tell you what, boys, plant 'em in the caves!"

"Good shot! The very thing the doctor ordered! The caves! yes. 'Twon't take us more'n a mile out of the way; an' 'twill be on the road to Bullaroi on the return trip. We can easily strike in on the west side of the cave ridge, and hide 'em in the stables. Nobody knows of that place but father an' the 'rangers; now poor ole Ben's shot----"