driver at the far end of the last paddock—our Seven-mile. 'Deaf Dawson,' the men call him. He once knew Stingaree, he says; but he hardly ever comes into the home-station. You must go out to the Seven-mile if you want to interview him, and you've got to do that through his ear-trumpet! He'll tell you Stingaree never came so far south as this in his life; and I tell you he'd better not."
"You would give him a pretty bad time, eh. Miss Villiers?"
"My word!" said Irralie.
"I'm glad to hear it," replied the other devoutly, "for I carry that pistol solely on account of Stingaree! I wasn't to know he drew the line at a given degree of latitude."
"I don't say he does," returned the girl. "I only say he better had!"
Again they drove in silence into the night; then the moon got up. in their teeth, and licked the barrels of Irralie's fowling-piece.
"Why, you carry firearms yourself! I'd forgotten that, Miss Villiers."
