“Within a month,” says Starlight, bowing. “And now a glass of wine and a biscuit, it’s time to be off.”

We had something as good, nearer the mark than that, and Moran sat down, too, and plied a good knife and fork. He’d come to, after his booze, and was ready for any fresh villainy as usual. He didn’t let on to be nasty, but he looked sulky enough, and I saw his eye fixed on Mr. Knightley and Starlight now and then as if he’d have given a good deal to have had them where they hadn’t so many at their backs.

Chapter XLVI

CHAPTER XLVI

We ate well and drank better still at the lunch, although we had such a regular tuck-out at breakfast time. Mr. Knightley wouldn’t hear of any of us shirking our liquor, and by the time we’d done all hands was pretty well on. Moran himself began to look pleasant, or as good a sample of it as I’d ever seen in him. Mr. Knightley could get round the devil himself, I believe. I never saw his equals at that business; and this particular time he was in great feather, seeing that he was likely to get out of an ugly business all right. He was as sure of the £500 in notes being there at the appointed hour as he was of the sun setting that particular evening.

“I think it’s a fair thing,” says Starlight at last, looking at his watch. Mr. Knightley wasn’t the first to speak, no fear. “Take us all our time to get to the Black Stump. We shall have to ride, too.” Moran and Wall got up and fetched their horses. Mr. Knightley’s was led up by one of his men. He was a big handsome roan, in top condition, and the man was riding a black horse with a tan muzzle that looked a trifle better, if anything. Mr. Knightley turned out in boots and breeches, with a gold fox’s head on his scarf, swell hunting fashion, as they do it at home, Starlight said.

When Starlight’s horse came up he was as lame as a tree, couldn’t put his foot to the ground; got a kick or a strain, or trod on a glass bottle or something. Anyhow he had only three legs that he could rise a move out of. Starlight looked rather glum. He wasn’t his second best or his third best either. All the same, a horse is a horse, and I never saw the man yet that a lame horse didn’t put out a bit.

“Confound it,” says he,“what a nuisance! It’s just the way with these infernal half-bred brutes; they always let me down at the wrong time.”