The Villain-Worshipper
tically died in my tracks, and came to life in a sunny clearing later in the day. The storm was over; two coves had found me and carried me to their camp; and as soon as I saw them I spotted one for Howie and the other for Stingaree!"
The narrative went no farther for a time. The thrilling youth fired question and leading question like a cross-examining counsel in a fever to conclude his case. The tea arrived, but the whim-driver had to help himself. His host neglected everything but the first chance he had ever had of hearing of Stingaree or any other bushranger at first-hand.
"And how long were you there?"
"About a week."
"What happened then?"
The whim-driver paused in doubt renewed.
"You will never guess."
"Tell me."
"They waited for the next dust-storm, and then cast me adrift in that."
Oswald stared; he would never have guessed, indeed. The unhealthy light faded from his sallow face. Even his morbid enthusiasm was a little damped.
"You must have done something to deserve it," he cried, at last.
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