“Wait till I hobble out Bilbah; he’s as hungry as I am, and thirsty too, my word.”

“Take some out of the barrel; we shan’t want it to-morrow,” said Jim. Hungry as Warrigal was—and when he began to eat I thought he never would stop—he went and looked after his horse first, and got him a couple of buckets of water out of the cask they used to send us out every week. There was no surface water near the hut. Then he hobbled him out of a bit of old sheep-yard, and came in.

The more I know of men the more I see what curious lumps of good and bad they’re made up of. People that won’t stick at anything in some ways will be that soft and good-feeling in others—ten times more so than your regular good people. Anyone that thinks all mankind’s divided into good, bad, and middlin’, and that they can draft ‘em like a lot of cattle—some to one yard, some to another—don’t know much. There’s a mob in most towns though, I think, that wants boilin’ down bad. Some day they’ll do it, maybe; they’ll have to when all the good country’s stocked up. After Warrigal had his supper he went out again to see his horse, and then coiled him self up before the fire and wouldn’t hardly say another word.

“How far was it to where Starlight was?”

“Long way. Took me all day to come.”

“Had he been there long?”

“Yes; had a camp there.”

“Anybody else with him?”

“Three more men from this side.”

“Did the old man say we were to come at once?”

“Yes, or leave it alone—which you liked.”

Then lie shut his eyes, and his mouth too, and was soon as fast asleep as if he never intended to wake under a week.

“What shall we do, Jim?” I said; “go or not?”

“If you leave it to me,” says Jim, “I say, don’t go. It’s only some other cross cattle or horse racket. We’re bound to be nobbled some day. Why not cut it now, and stick to the square thing? We couldn’t do better than we’re doing now. It’s rather slow, but we’ll have a good cheque by Christmas.”

“I’m half a mind to tell Warrigal to go back and say we’re not on,” I said. “Lots of other chaps would join without making any bones about it.”

“Hoo—hoo—hoo—hoo,” sounded once more the night-bird from the black tree outside.

“D-- the bird! I believe he’s the devil in the shape of a mopoke! And yet I don’t like Starlight to think we’re afraid. He and the old man might be in a fix and want help. Suppose we toss up?”

“All right,” says Jim, speaking rather slowly.