It was very dark in the scrub, and the new moon had set. The flying foxes squealed in the wild fig trees, and Tom Pagdin, sitting under the tamarind heard a night owl complaining mournfully.

The hollow hoot of the owl sent a shudder down Tom’s spine, because it was unlucky to hear an owl in the dark of the moon.

Away off on the flats the curlew called, wild pathos in his cry.

The scrub, close-matted and tied by many vines, was cool and pleasant in the daytime; but at night its overhanging canopy of vegetation shut out the stars, and one walked beneath in an eerie gloom that was wearing on the strongest nerves.

Tom waited and waited until it was almost eight o’clock.

He was restless and uneasy. Half the joy of his proposed expedition would be gone if Dave did not turn up. There is no fun in the pirating business without a mate; it becomes lonesome and monotonous.[18] Tom had just decided to take it out of Dave for breaking his promise, when he heard a noise somewhere off at the other side of the scrub.

He put his ear to the ground, bushman fashion, and listened.

It was Dave whistling loudly. Dave had no more idea of tune than a milch cow; he made up what he whistled as he went along.

It was weird, but he kept himself brave in that way, and overcame the temptation to drop the bundle he was carrying and cut back home as fast as his legs could carry him.

Tom sneaked through the scrub with the stealthiness of an Apachee, and hid behind a bean tree, which he knew his mate must pass. As the scrub drew denser and darker Dave gave over whistling and started talking to himself.

Once he caught his toe in a vine, stumbled, and swore.

Presently he came to the bean tree. Tom was holding his breath.

As Dave passed he jumped out and caught him round the neck.

The red-headed boy let out a continuation of blood-curdling yells, which woke wild echoes in the forest, and frightened the night owl from his perch on Dobie’s fence.

“Shut up,” cried Tom, trying to smother Dave’s outcry by putting his hand over his mouth. “Shut up, you speckled idiot; you’ll have them down on us.”

But Dave was so thoroughly frightened that for the[19] moment he did not recognise the aggressor. He concluded that a dastardly attempt had been made to smother him, and determined to die hard, anyhow. So he bit the hand.

“Let up!” yelled Tom. “It’s me, I tell yer!”

But Dave, sobbing with fright, held on like a bulldog.

“By gosh!” cried Tom, “I’ll stouch yer.”

He suited the action to the word by punching the other boy in the ribs.

In retaliation Dave kicked Tom’s shins viciously.

It was a rather lively rough-and-tumble for about a minute and a half; then Dave recovered sense enough to realise that he was not in the grip of an unknown assassin, and Tom, with a contused eye and badly-bitten hand, sat on the leaves and reproached him.

“What yer mean by bitin’ my ’and?” he demanded, angrily.

“Well, what did you mean by comin’ be’ind me and thumpin’ me in the dark?”

“I never; I only just held yer.”

“What did you hold me for, then?”

“Why, I wanted to frighten yer, that’s all.”

“What did you do it for, then?”

“I wanted to see how you’d act if we was caught by the police, or stuck up by a gang of bushrangers, or something.”

“Well, you didn’t get no good of it, anyhow. It wasn’t a fair thing to do, neither.”

“My word, you was frightened, Dave!”

“Me frightened! No blooming fear! You couldn’t frighten me like that.”

[20]

“Gerrout! Why, you yelled louder ’n ole Dobie’s bull!”

“Gerrout; I knowed it was you all the time.”

“Well, if yer did,” demanded Tom, indignantly, “What right did yer ’ave to bite me ’and? If yer knew, what did you ’it me in the eye for with yer shut fist?”

“Because you punched me. I don’t want to have nothing more to do with you, Tom Pagdin; I’m goin’ home.”

“No!” said Tom magnanimously. “Don’t go ’ome; we’ll cry quits; we was both in the wrong.”

“I wasn’t in the wrong,” persisted Dave. “You started it; I only hit when you did.”

“Of course, you was frightened,” said Tom. “That’s why you did it.”

“I was not frightened,” protested Dave, vigorously; “I was no more frightened—nor—nor—nor anything. You can’t frighten me as easy as that!”

“All right,” cried Tom, “don’t let us say any more about it. Shake hands, and we’ll make it up.”

“I won’t try to frighten you any more,” said Tom, generously, rubbing his shin where Dave had kicked him. “We better get down to the Tamarind. I left a lot of things there.”

It was growing darker and darker.

The two adventurers sneaked stealthily through the scrub in the direction of Dobie’s fence, following as nearly as they could a track which led across from Pagdin’s.

“Don’t make no more noise than you can help,”[21] admonished Tom. “There might be somebody about. They might ’ave ’eard that row we kicked up.”

The lads stumbled along in the darkness, and every time one of them trod on a dry stick or on the crisp leaves, they would both stop and breathe hard. There was a fearsome mystery about the whole thing which lent it an additional charm. It is probably the danger attached to crime which renders evil-doing most attractive to the criminal.

They came at last to the tamarind tree, and stopped. Tom sat on the butt of a big hollow bluegum, which had been blown down by some tornado, and wiped his forehead.

“It’s a hot night,” he said. “I think we’re going to have a storm.”

“Suppose we do, Tom?” asked Dave, anxiously.

“Well, suppose we do!” repeated Tom, with scorn in his voice.

“We’ll get wet,” replied Dave, diffidently. “Won’t we?”

“No,” said Tom, “not a wet! I got a tent.”

“A tent! Where did you get her, Tom?”

“Never you mind. Pirates ain’t supposed to answer questions like that. I got her, that’s good enough.”

“Where is she, Tom?”

“I got her planted not ten yards from here,” replied the elder conspirator, proudly.

Dave’s admiration for Tom was growing.

“Your a wonner,” he said.

“Bet your life,” replied Tom. “I wasn’t goin’ out in the bush without a tent. It’s one some coves that[22] was down fishin’ last summer left with the old man to take care of. Don’t you split!”

“No blime fear,” said Dave. “We’re mates.”

“Let us put these things in the boat first,” said Tom, “an’ we’ll come back and get the tent.”

“Where is the boat, Tom?” asked Dave. “I ain’t seen her yet.”

“Foller me!” cried Tom. “We got to be quick. The tide’s on the turn, an’ we’ll go down with it. Did you pinch a pair of pants for me?”

“Yes; and I hooked one of the old man’s shirts, too.”

“Good egg!” exclaimed Tom, gleefully. “I couldn’t have gone another night without a shirt. The mosquitoes ’as nearly ’et me raw. Gimme the shirt now.”

“It’s in the bag.”

“Is it near the top? Give us it, anyhow. They’ve sucked all the blood out of me back an’ legs. I’d a lit a fire to keep ’em off only I was afraid of somebody seein’ it.”

“My crumbs,” he added, presently, “this shirt comes all over me.”

“Tuck it down in your sugar-bag, fer now,” said Dave; “we’ll cut a bit off it in the mornin’. I got an ole pair of trousers fer you, too, but they’re in the bottom of the bag.”

“Your a all-right first mate, Dave,” said Tom. “You want a bit o’ trainin’ yet, an’ you want a bit more pursonal courage; but you’ll do. I reckon we’ll surprise ’em before we’re done.”

“My oath we will,” said Dave. “We’ll make ’istry.”

“Hist!” exclaimed Tom. “Didn’t you ’ear a noise?”

[23]

“No,” said Dave, crouching down behind the log, “did you?”

“Ssh!” whispered Tom. “I ’eard something along there be Dobie’s fence.”

“Might be a cow!”

“Cow’s don’t cough!”

“I’ve heard cows cough.”

“Well, they don’t whistle softly to theirselves. Leastwise, I never ’eard a cow do it. You might.”

“No, I never did. What did she whistle?”

“I don’t know the tune,” replied Tom, “but it was a whistle all right. Lie low, there’s some people comin’.”

“Don’t breathe!” said Dave, in Tom’s ear. “I can ’ear ’em. It’s somebody talking.”

“They’re comin’ this way,” muttered Tom. “Keep quiet, can’t yer! Yer rootin’ in them dry leaves like a wild pig.”

“I’m not; it’s you,” protested Dave.

“It ain’t me,” denied Tom, sotto voce; “it’s you. You’re makin’ enough row to wake the dead, blarst yer!”

“I ain’t!” said Dave, indignantly. “I ain’t.”

“Shut up!” hissed Tom in his pal’s ear. “They’re comin’ right this way.”

“Who is it, Tom?” asked Dave, in a faint whisper. The strain was heavy on him.

“’Ow the devil do I know?” replied Tom; “shut up!”

The boys laid behind the fallen tree as still as mice.

[24]

“Get down,” whispered Tom presently. “Get right down.”

He spread himself out on the flat of his stomach, with his chin to the ground.

Dave followed suit.

“They’ll think we’re two logs,” he explained to his comrade.

The sound of voices became more distinct. The footsteps of the approaching unknown fell audibly on the crisp leaves, and when one of them trod on a dry bangalow leaf it cracked sharply.

Tom and Dave could hear their hearts beat.

Either boy was temped to jump up and run for his life, but the thought of what the other might say restrained him. It is even thus with whole regiments in action.

It was plain that two men had come up to the log and were talking.

A smell of strong tobacco told that one of them was smoking a pipe.

And with the powerful odour of bush weed was blended the milder perfume of a cigarette.

Tom and Dave watched the flame of the cigarette like a glowworm not twenty yards away, and once, when the smoker drew in a long whiff, they saw the outline of a dark, bearded face.

Scraps of conversation came down to the two trembling youths cowering among the leaves. It had anything but a re-assuring effect on them.

One man, he of the cigarette, spoke with an accent.

“Tell to me,” he said, “vat you sink ze best time?”

[25]

“About eleven o’clock at night,” replied the other. “He goes to bed early.”

“Ah! zen vere shall ve meet—you an’ I, eh?”

“Look ’ere, Frenchy,” came the second voice, “I don’t see what you want me for at all.”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the first speaker in a louder tone, “zen you air friten now! You have vot you call concoct ze plan, you leave ze ozzer to open ze door! You air coward, ees eet not so?”

“No,” came the response, “it ain’t that; but I’m getting known round here, and you ain’t. If anything happened I might be recognised, an’ that would be bad for both of us.”

“So?”

“So I reckon it ’ud be better I didn’t go right down with you to-morrow night. I’ve put you up to everything. You know the lay of the land as well as I do meself. I’ve giv you the plan of the place, I’ve giv you the impression of the key. You don’t have to make no noise with the safe. All you got to do is to open it an’ shift the stuff. It’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. I’ll be waitin’ down under the bank with the boat. We’ll bring the stuff off together and plant it in a safe place. After the row is all over we can slip away quietly down the country with the spile. It’s a dead cert. It’s the deadest cert that ever was in this world.”

“Tres bien,” replied the black-headed man, “It shall be as you say. Remembaire zat I vill not be made fool of. Non! Eet ees so?”

“Who wants to make a fool of you?” demanded[26] the other man. “We’re halves in this job. We’re both takin’ our equal risk, an’ we stand in equal. That’s fair, ain’t it?”

“Oui; that ees so! About ze boat! Vat zen? Hav’ you made ze preparation?”

“That’s all as right as rain. You leave that to me. I struck a bit o’ luck to-day.”

“Ah! so?”

“I found a boat!”

The spark of the cigarette described a parabola in the darkness.

“Hist!”

“What’s the matter, Frenchy?”

“I think I hear someone. Ah! Vat! Ssh!”

There was a silence. It seemed about a hundred and twenty years to Tom and Dave.

Neither dared to speak, but Dave could feel Tom tremble, and it comforted him in his own quivering anguish.

After a time one of the men—he who spoke without an accent—laughed softly.

“There’s nobody about,” he said in a quiet voice, “nor likely to be; an’ if there was it’s too dark for them to see us, an’ if they did see us, that don’t prove nothing.”

“Ah!” said the Frenchman, drawing a long breath; “so; but ze boad, vere ees it?”

“I found her tied up among the reeds in a little branch off the creek here.”

“Tied up! Fastened, eh?”

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid. She’s a stray boat.[27] One of these farmer coves has found her. He’s just run her in there and hitched her to a log. By-an’-bye he thinks to himself he’ll take her out and paint her up quietly, an’ let on he bought her new down the river.”

“Vell, vat you think to do?”

“Borrow the boat for to-morrow night.”

“So, and——”

“Yes; we’ll come down here, get her, pull down quietly to the town. I’ll wait at the place I told you. When you come along with the stuff we’ll pull back an’ tie her up again to the log an’ nobody won’t ever be any the wiser. The cove that’s thinking to hook that boat for himself won’t say anything. It won’t be his game. See?”

“Oui! it is reasonable. Ef so, he ees accuse, an accomplice, eh?”

“Frenchy you got sense. You’ll do.”

The foreigner laughed—a saturnine laugh. “I haf,” he said, “ze advantage of moch experience.”

“Don’t doubt it,” replied the other. “You’re an older hand than me. Now, listen. We got to meet here to-morrow night at half-past seven. It’s a good three hours’ pull even with a falling tide.”

“I shall be here,” replied the foreigner, grimly. “Ah, most certainly shall I be here. Eet ees a bargain, zen, eh?”

“That’s settled,” said the other, “and, remember, no violence. I got no wish to see you ’ung, Frenchy.”

“Nor I you,” replied the Frenchman, politely. “Eet will surely break my heart zat my dear friend terminate[28] hees career—sacre bleu!—upon ze sgaffold. Non, non!”

“No, but no funny business,” pleaded the other man, earnestly. “I ain’t used to that sort o’ thing, if you are. Besides, the thing can be done without any trouble if you go quietly. It’s the safest job was ever put up in this world.”

“You can depend zat eet will be done, mon ami. Yes, eet will be done. Already I am tired of zis countree. I would get back to France—to Paris—vere zere ees vat you call ze scope for mine ability. Eet is not here zat should remain ze man of parts—non!”

“That’s right,” agreed the other; “I want to get down to Melbourne meself. Damn the country! Since I cleared out o’ Trial Bay last June I ain’t ad a decent spree or met a pal, as was a pal, exceptin’ that little cove down the river wot laid me on to this. An’ then ’e’s turned respectable, and won’t take no active part in it. Sez ’e’s only puttin’ me on to this fer the sake of old times.”

“Ah! but he has done us ze great service.”

“Yes, and that puts ’im in it—so ’e’s safe. I wouldn’t trust no converted bloke unless I ’ad a pull over ’im like that. Goin’ with those Salvation coves ’as sent ’im ratty. But that’s only temporary. ’E’ll work it off. ’E’ll come out all right again, will Joe. ’E’s too good a cove to be spiled with religion for long.”

“Zen ve meet here at zis place to-morrow?”

“Yes; to-morrow night at half-past seven.”

The two strangers went away quietly by the road they had come.

[29]

Tom and Dave might have been dead, they lay so still. At length—long after the last sound of receding footsteps had died out—Tom spoke in a hollow whisper:

“Do you know what they was takin’ about, Dave?”

“No,” replied Dave; “do you?”

“Some of it,” said Tom, “most of it, I think.”

“Do you think they’re gone?” asked the younger boy.

“Yes; they’re gone for now.”

“They won’t come back again?”

“Not to-night they won’t, but,” added Tom, vehemently, “they’ll be back to-morrow night sure, an’ they’ll want the loan of our boat!”

“The loan of it! But you ain’t goin’——”

“Dave Gibson,” cried Tom, sitting up, “you leave this business to me. I reckon we’ve struck a big thing. I reckon we’ve struck the biggest thing any two young coves in Australia ever struck in their lives.”

“What is it, Tom?” asked Dave, curiously.

“You’ll know later on,” replied Tom; “you’ll ’ave a hand in it. Are you fit?”

“My oath!” said Dave, bravely, forgetting his recent fears in the prospect of adventure. “I’m fit!”

“You’re an all-right mate,” said Tom. “You’ll do.”

“Who were they?” asked Dave, after a pause.

“I don’t know neither of ’em, but I reckon they must be coves workin’ about here somewhere. They’ve got a game on.”

“Them coves,” said Tom, “is going to do a robbery down the river. I reckon they’re goin’ to rob a bank somewhere not far from here.”

[30]

“Je-rusalem!” said Dave; “What was that cove that smoked the cigarette?”

“Some kind o’ German,” replied Tom, sagaciously. “He’s a bad egg whoever he is. Did you hear them plannin’ it all out?”

“Yes,” said Dave, “but I didn’t know what they meant, a lot of it.”

“I did,” remarked Tom. “I follered ’em every word. I say, Dave, we’ve got to take a hand in this game!”

“What!” exclaimed Dave, “in the robbing of the bank!”

“No, not in the robbin’ exactly, but we’ll be the detectives, an’, look here, we’ll get the reward!”

“What reward, Tom?”

“Why the reward for the recovery of the money.”

“But the money ain’t stole yet.”

“No, but it will be—to-morrow night.”

Dave thought awhile.

“Wouldn’t it be better,” he asked, “to go an’ tell somebody beforehand?”

“What!” exclaimed Tom, in unutterable scorn, “go an’ tell somebody now and spile the whole thing. You ain’t got no sense, Dave Gibson—no sense whatever. You’re a nice sort o’ detective an’ pirate, you are.”

“Well, I didn’t know,” protested Dave.

“No, an’ you’ve got everything to learn. But you leave this business to me. I’ll fix it.”

“What’ll we do, then?”

“Do? Why we’ll let ’em take the boat.”

“What for?”

“To row down the river and do the robbery with.”

[31]

“But that ain’t right, is it?”

“Why ain’t it right? They’ll bring the boat back, won’t they?”

“I suppose——”

“Of course! Didn’t they say so? Then we’ll see where they hide the money. Then we’ll take the swag an’ go down the river an’ hide it in a place of our own an’ wait for the reward. See?”

“I see, but where are we goin’ to camp till to-morrow night?”

“I’ve got a place,” said Tom.