heart! You would hear of the bushrangers at Dr. Sullivan’s last summer—that’s when it was. And the one that did it was the only one to get away!”
Tom’s clothes were sticking to him, freezing to him. “Drive on!” he whispered. “For God’s sake, sir, drive on!”
Daintree expressed sympathy with the man, and whipped up his horses.
“Not so fast!” cried Tom. “You offered me wages; advance me five pounds of what you got from the bank!”
His face was white with horror: his tone so piteous and so eager that Daintree pulled up, took five sovereigns from a bag, and dropped them one by one into the trembling hand. Tom sprang out and ran back to the disabled man.
“From my master!” he gasped, and thrust the money into his left hand—and darted back without daring to look in his face. The astonished trooper had not time to say a word.
“God bless you for that money!” faltered Tom, in terrible agitation as they drove on. “I gave it to him from you. I want no wages. Give them all to him!”
The other remained silent.
“You don’t ask why!”
“I think I know.”
“It was I who smashed his arm and spoilt his life!”
“I suspected it.”
“When?”
“On the road down, when you kept looking behind and thinking they were after you.”
“Ah, no!” cried Tom, almost beside himself with grief and shame, “that was for something else. See what a villain I have been! You should have left me
