time of Sir Richard Bourke. But I scarcely think Mr. Rudolph Winterbottom holds any Government situation. His private fortune is fully sufficient for all demands of even good society. Ah! now I have it! His son Rudy—his third or fourth son—holds some appointment. That will be your man.”
“Very likely. An invalid—is he not? Something wrong with his lungs?”
“So I should imagine, now that you mention it. He was away on an excursion to the mountains when his father spoke of him to me.”
“Git to sleep, chaps, for Gossake,” murmured Cooper. “Guarantee there’ll be none o’ this liveliness in the mornin’, when you got to turn out.”
Thus sensibly admonished, we committed ourselves to what Macbeth calls ‘sore labour’s bath’—the only kind of bath we were likely to have for some time.
Among the thousand natural ills, there are two to which I never have been, and probably never shall be, subject—namely, gout and insomnia. My immunity from the former might be difficult to account for, but my exemption from the latter may, I think, be attributed to the operation of a mind at peace with all below. Nevertheless, it used to be my habit to wake punctually at 2 a.m., for the purpose of remembering whether I had to listen for bells or not, and determining how long I could afford to sleep. So, at that exact hour, I opened my eyes to see the calm, splendid stars above, whilst merciful darkness half-veiled the sordid accessories of daily life below. Yet I noticed that the hammock under the rear of Dixon’s wagon was empty. All the other fellows were sleeping, except Bum, who seemed to have disappeared altogether. The two were probably up to something. No business of mine. And I dropped to sleep again.
I had set myself to wake at full daylight. Just as I woke, I heard the distant patter of a galloping horse. Such a sound at such a time is ominous to duffing bullock drivers; so, as I sprang to my feet, you may be sure my companions were not much behind me. Along the track, a mile in advance of the wagons, we saw an approaching horseman. And as if this wasn’t enough, we heard the sound of an axe in the selection.
“Holy glory! there’s somebody livin’ in the hut, after all!” ejaculated Mosey.
The house stood on a very slight rise, where the clump of swamp box terminated, a quarter of a mile away; and, sure enough, we could see, through a gap in the undergrowth of old-man salt-bush, a man chopping wood at the edge of the clump. But he seemed quite unconscious of the multitude of bullocks that, scattered all over the paddock, were laying in a fresh supply of grass.
“It’s Moriarty,” sighed Thompson, gazing at the horseman. “He’s been sent to catch us. It’s all up.”
Then, like the sound of many waters, rose the mingled sentiments of the company, as each man dragged on his boots with a celerity beyond description.
“You keep him on a string, Collins, while we coller as many of the carrion as we”
