The Honor of the Road
SERGEANT CAMERON was undressing for bed when he first heard the voices through the weather-board walls; in less than a minute there was a knock at his door.
"Here's Mr. Hardcastle from Rosanna, sir. He says he must see you at once."
"The deuce he does! What about?"
"He says he'll only tell you; but he's ridden over in three hours, and he looks like the dead."
"Give him some whiskey, Tyler, and tell him I'll be down in two ticks."
So saying, the gray-bearded sergeant of the New South Wales Mounted Police tucked his night-gown into his cord breeches, slipped into his tunic, and hastened to the parlor which served as court-room on occasion, buttoning as he went. Mr. Hardcastle had a glass to his lips as the sergeant entered. He was a very fine man of forty, and his massive frame was crowned with a countenance as handsome as it was open and bold; but at a glance it was plain that he was both shaken and exhausted, and in no mood to hide either his fatigue or his
144
