the pine-ridge, f'm hend to hend. You're hon the Nalrookar track, mind, t' wot time you see a gate hin the fence as you're a-kerryin' hon yer right shoulder. Gate's sebm mile f'm 'ere. Nalrookar track goes through that gate; b't neb' you mind; you keep straight ahead pas' the gate, hon a pad you'll 'ar'ly see; han jist hat the fur hend o' the pine-ridge you'll strike hanuther gate; an' you mus' be very p'tic'lar shettin' 'er. Then take a hangle o' fo'ty-five, with the pine-ridge hon yer back; an' hin fo' mile you'll strike yer las' gate—'ere, hin the co'ner. Take this fence hon yer right shoulder, an' run 'er down. B't you'll spot Half's place, fur ahead, w'en you git to the gate, ef it ain't night."
"Thank you, Jack, I replied, and then imprudently continued—"It would suit some of these young pups to take a lesson from you."
"You hain't fur wrong," replied the good old chronicle, that had so long walked hand in hand with Time. "Las' year, hit war hall the cry, 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt o' Cunnigarn's mongreals!'—'Ole hon't' we gits a holt o' Thompson's mongreals!'—'We'll make hit 'ot f'r 'em!' Han wot war the hupshot? 'Stiddy!' ses Hi—'w'e 's y' proofs?' 'Proof be dam!' ses they— 'don't we know?' They know a 'ell of a lot! Has the sayin' his:—'Onct boys was boys, an' men was men; but now boys his men, an' men's"—(I did n't catch the rest of the sentence). "Han what were the hupshot? W'y, fact was Cunnigam an' Thompson 'ad bin workin' hon hour ram-paddick wun night; an' six Wogger steers got away, an' a stag amongst 'em; makin' f'r home; an' they left a whaler mindin' the wagons; an' the two o' them hover'auled the steers way down hin hour Sedan Paddick. Well, heverybody—Muster Magomery his self, no less—heverybody ses, 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt of 'em fellers' mongreals!—bin leavin' three o' hour gates hopen; an' the yowes an' weaners is boxed; an' puttin' a file through Nosey Half's 'osspaddick, an' workin' hon it with 'er steers!' 'Stiddy!' ses Hi—'w'e's y'r proofs?' Way it war, Collings; 'ere come a dose o' rain jis' harter, an' yer could n't track. Well, wot war the hupshot? W'y, Warrigal Half war hunloadin' hat Boottara; an' a yaller bullick 'e 'd got, Pilot by name"
"Yes," I gently interposed. "Well, I'll have to be"
"'Is Pilot starts by night f'm Boottara ration-paddick, an' does 'is thirty mile to hour 'oss-paddick; an' the hull menagerie tailin' harter. 'Shove 'em in 'e yaad, Toby,' ses Muster Magomery. Presinkly, up comes Half, an 'is 'oss hall of a lather. 'Take yer dem mongreals,' ses Muster Magomery; 'an' don' hoversleep y'self agin.' Think Half war goin' ter flog 'is hanimals thirty mile back? Not 'im"
"It would hardly be right," I agreed. "Well, I must be jogging"
"Not 'im," pursued Jack. "'E turns horf o' the main track t' other side the ram-paddick; through the Patagoniar; leaves hall gates hopen; fetches Nosey's place harter dark; houts file, an' hin with 'is mob, an' gives 'm a g—tful. Course, 'e clears befo' mo'nin'; an' through hour Sedan Paddick, an' back to Boottara that road. 'Ow do Hi know hall this?—ses you?"
"Ah!" said I wisely. "Well, I must be"
"No; you're in for it," chuckled Moriarty.
