“Trust old dad for that,” says Jim; “he knows Dick and you are on the grass again. He’ll meet us before we get to the place and have fresh horses. I’ll bet he’s got a chap or two that he can trust to smell out the traps if they are close handy the old spot. They’ll be mighty clever if they get on the blind side of father.”

“Well, we must chance it, I suppose,” I said; “but we were sold once, and I’ve not much fancy for going back again.”

“They’re all looking for you the other way this blessed minute, I’ll go bail,” says Jim. “Most of the coves that bolt from Berrima takes down the southern road to get across the border into Port Phillip as soon as they can work it. They always fancy they are safer there.”

“So they are in some ways; I wouldn’t mind if we were back there again,” I said. “There’s worse places than Melbourne; but once we get to the Hollow, and that’ll be some time to-day, we may take it easy and spell for a week or two. How they’ll wonder what the deuce has become of us.”

The night was long, arid that cold that Jim’s beard was froze as stiff as a board; but I sat on my horse, I declare to heaven, and never felt anything but pleasure and comfort to think I was loose again. You’ve seen a dog that’s been chained up. Well, when he’s let loose, don’t he go chevying and racing about over everything and into everything that’s next or anigh him? He’ll jump into water or over a fence, and turn aside for nothing. He’s mad with joy and the feeling of being off the chain; he can’t hardly keep from barking till he’s hoarse, and rushing through and over everything till he’s winded and done up. Then he lies down with his tongue out and considers it all over.

Well, a man’s just like that when he’s been on the chain. He mayn’t jump about so much, though I’ve seen foreign fellows do that when their collar was unbuckled; but he feels the very same things in his heart as that dog does, you take my word for it.