“But even if they’d grabbed Starlight,” says the old man,“you’d no call to be afeard. Not much chance of him peaching, if it had been a hanging matter.”

“You don’t mean to say there ain’t warrants against us and the rest of the lot?” I said.

“There’s never a warrant out against anyone but Starlight,” said the old man. “I’ve had the papers read to me regular, and I rode over to Bargo and saw the reward of £200 (a chap alongside of me read it) as is offered for a man generally known as Starlight, supposed to have left the country; but not a word about you two and me, or the boy, or them other coves.”

“So we might as well have stayed where we were, Jim.” Jim gave a kind of a groan. “Still, when you look at it, isn’t it queer,” I went on, “that they should only spot Starlight and leave us out? It looks as if they was keepin’ dark for fear of frightening us out of the country, but watching all the same.”

“It’s this way I worked it,” says father, rubbing his tobacco in his hands the old way, and bringing out his pipe: “they couldn’t be off marking down Starlight along of his carryin’ on so. Of course he drawed notice to himself all roads. But the rest of us only come in with the mob, and soon as they was sold stashed the camp and cleared out different ways. Them three fellers is in Queensland long ago, and nobody was to know them from any other road hands. I was back with the old mare and Bilbah in mighty short time. I rode ‘em night and day, turn about, and they can both travel. You kept pretty quiet, as luck had it, and was off to Melbourne quick. I don’t really believe they dropped to any of us, bar Starlight; and if they don’t nab him we might get shut of it altogether. I’ve known worse things as never turned up in this world, and never will now.” Here the old man showed his teeth as if he were going to laugh, but thought better of it.

“Anyhow, we’d made it up to come home at Christmas,” says Jim; “but it’s all one. It would have saved us a deal of trouble in our minds all the same if we’d known there was no warrants out after us two. I wonder if they’ll nail Starlight.”

“They can’t be well off it,” says father. “He’s gone off his head, and stopped in some swell town in New Zealand—Canterbury, I think it’s called—livin’ tiptop among a lot of young English swells, instead of makin’ off for the Islands, as he laid out to do.”

“How do you know he’s there?” I said.