Starlight pulled out a pocket-book, and, quite solemn and regular, made a note of it.

“It’s yours,” he said, “within a month. If I cannot conveniently call and present it in person, I’ll send it by a sure hand, as they used to say; and now, Jim, boot and saddle.”

The horses were out by this time; the groom was walking Rainbow up and down; he’d put a regular French-polish on his coat, and the old horse was arching his neck arid thawing his bit as if he thought he was going to start for the Bargo Town Plate. Jonathan himself was holding our two horses, but looking at him.

“My word!” he said, “that’s a real picture of a horse; he’s too good for a—well—these roads; he ought to be in Sydney carrying some swell about and never knowing what a day’s hardship feels like. Isn’t he a regular out-and-outer to look at? And they tell me his looks is about the worst of him. Well—here’s luck!” Starlight had called for drinks all round before, we started. “Here’s luck to roads and coaches, and them as lives by ‘em. They’ll miss the old coaching system some day—mark my word. I don’t hold with these railways they’re talkin’ about—all steam and hurry-scurry; it starves the country.”

“Quite right, Jonathan,” says Starlight, throwing his leg over Rainbow, and chucking the old groom a sovereign. “The times have never been half as good as in the old coaching days, before we ever smelt a funnel in New South Wales. But there’s a coach or two left yet, isn’t there? and sometimes they’re worth attending to.”