“Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom gaily doth she tread;
In her right a civic crown,
In her left a human head.”
 I
NSPECTOR PUTTIS, N.M.P., is pacing the verandah of Borbong head-station house. The hour is early, and although the active little man was one of the liveliest of last night’s party of bronzed and loud-voiced men, who held wild carousal till the “wee, sma’ hours,” he is up betimes, as usual, to enjoy a cup of tea in the cool morning air, and issue instructions for the day to the “boys” of his troop. The loose verandah boards creak under his diminutive Wellington boots, as with military strut he marches to and fro; and each time he reaches the end of his beat and right-about-faces to 356 move back again, a sable crow upon a native orange tree hard by, who is acting as sentry to some feathered thieves by the kitchen door, raises his hoarse voice in a warning caw.
 
The Inspector’s head is bent forward, and after a custom of his when thinking deeply, he carries his hands folded behind his back. This morning they rest upon an empty revolver case, suspended from the wide, white-leather belt which he always wears when upon active duty.
 
If the man before us would only cease frowning at the boards, and, arranging his thoughts, give us the benefit of the same in words, they would probably be after this fashion:—
 
“Yes, I don’t see how he can miss me this time. And the risk is not so very great, as we shall have rain enough to-night, or to-morrow at furthest, to drown any tracks. I will take his horses away; then either himself, or one, perhaps two, of the blacks, will have to go after them. The rest will be easy. If his body ever is found, and it’s not likely, they will think he was in the black camp and got shot there, and, as everybody round about here will have a finger in that affair, nobody will dare to make a fuss about it.”
 
A loud flapping of wings, as the crows at the back of the house fly off at the approach of footsteps, now arouses the Inspector from his meditations.
 
“Ah, Yegerie!” he says, as his black orderly presents himself, and stands “attention” after duly saluting his officer.
 
“Why didn’t you report yourself here to me directly you arrived?” Puttis adds, for, casting a rapid glance at the boy, the Inspector—having almost as sharp 357 an eye as the best tracker in his troop—has discovered some wood ashes upon the new arrival’s boots.
 
Yegerie, who has just returned from doing a piece of special duty, has waited to warm his cold, stiff fingers at the camp-fire before hobbling out his horse, and he trembles now before the master who seems to see and know everything. Inspector Puttis does not appear to expect his black trooper to answer the question put to him, but marches up the verandah and back again. Then he halts opposite Yegerie, and examines him as to how he has performed instructions given him.
 
“Everything right?”
 
“All lite, Marmie,” replies the boy, saluting again. “Mine bin come up werry slow. Mine bin come longer ribber. No leabe it any tracks” (Anglicé, All right. I have been delayed by following up river bed, in order to leave no tracks).
 
“What tracks you see?”
 
“I bin see tracks longer six yarraman. I bin catch it; see um mob” (I have seen the tracks of six horses. I have seen also the party). “I bin see one white beggar, one pickaninnie white beggar, three black beggar. One fellow Myall, him make it the walk all about longer mob” (One wild black walked alongside the party).
 
“Ah, that’s right! Who’s on guard at the camp?”
 
“Sambo and Dick, Marmie.”
 
“Run ring round camp. Report to me if you see a track directly. That’ll do. Dismiss.”
 
The boy salutes and disappears silently.
 
We pause here to explain that on the vast majority of up-country runs the native station-hands reside 358 in villages of huts, built by themselves in close proximity to the head and out stations. No other aborigines are allowed even to cross the run, far less to live on it. On the arrival of a “rounding-up” party or a police troop at a station, a guard is generally placed over the station black camp, to prevent any of its inhabitants giving the alarm to such runaway blacks, or Myalls, who may be camped—in contravention of the squatter’s decrees—in the vicinity. The police officer has just commanded Yegerie to walk round the camp and see if there are any signs of such a messenger having escaped the sentries and set out during the night.
 
Half an hour passes, and then the musical clatter of cups and plates is heard in the dining-room, as the breakfast things are laid—or, to speak more accurately, flung—upon the long table, in serried rows, by a laughing, chattering bevy of dark-skinned damsels belonging to Mr. Manager Browne’s harem.
 
There are few up-country bachelor squatters but solace themselves for the absence of white ladies by indulging their leisure moments in the society of a private, selected circle of native girls—popularly known as the “stud gins.” Many of these dark-eyed houris are remarkably handsome, and after a year or two at “Government House” they are relegated to the black camp for the use of the black and white station-hands.
 
But to return to Inspector Puttis. With his usual abstemiousness he drank but little last evening, and his nerves are in perfect order for the day’s, or rather night’s, work before him. He is, of the whole “rounding-up” party collected beneath the hospitable 359 roof of Borbong head-station house, the only one that feels much inclined for breakfast that morning.
 
So when Charlie, the clean, yellow-faced Chinese cook, informs him that the morning meal is “all lie” (Anglicé, all right, or ready), he turns immediately towards the glass-door of the dining-room. But just then the rattle of a buggy coming at a furious pace towards the station arrests his attention, and he waits to see who is so rash as to drive so fast over the rough ground.
 
“Giles, for a tenner!” he mutters half out loud; “no other fool would drive like that.”
 
The dust cloud occasioned by the arrival of the vehicle presently subsides, and, amidst a crashing of breakers suddenly applied and a volley of blasphemy, a pair of reeking horses are pulled back on to their haunches. Then a red-faced, burly form clambers slowly down from the trap, and after kicking an attendant “boy” gives him some directions, and waddles hurriedly towards the house.
 
“Well, Puttis, I’ve found you at last.”
 
“Morning, Giles. Want me particularly?” inquires the police officer.
 
“Want you? Yes, by Jupiter! Haven’t I driven all night from Bulla Bulla to try and catch you?”
 
“Indeed!” observes the smaller man, keenly observing the excited face of Mr. Giles, as he mops it with a red silk handkerchief. “Come in and have a nip.”
 
The squatter half turns, by force of custom, towards the door, then he stops, and says hurriedly, “No, I won’t. Here, come outside. I want to speak to you first.”
 
360
 
“You’ve had good news, Giles,” remarks the Inspector, his sun-dried cheeks wrinkling up into a grin, and exposing his large, canine teeth.
 
“How the devil do you know?”
 
“Never mind, old friend. What have you to tell me?”
 
The men stroll out by the kitchen garden, where Giles takes a seat upon a low, rustic gate, beneath a sweetly scented gum-tree. Looking nervously round about to be sure that they are alone, the owner of Murdaro turns to his companion, and in a low voice asks, “What have you done about Angland?”
 
“Nothing,” replies the Inspector; adding hurriedly, “Did you tell Miss Mundella you were coming to see me?”
 
“Thank the Lord, I’m in time!” exclaims Giles, quite ignoring the question put to him. “Now, listen ter me, Puttis, and don’t interrupt. Firstly, you mustn’t interfere with Angland. I’ll explain why directly. Secondly, I’m going to repudiate my agreement with Lileth.”
 
“Stay!” exclaims Puttis, half shutting his eyes and causing his parchment cheeks to warp once more into a sardonic smile. “In that case, must make fresh bargain.”
 
The low, wooden gate groans beneath Mr. Giles, as he shakes his podgy sides with a series of defiant laughs, which he raps out with a double, postman’s-knock-like abruptness.
 
“Ah!” thinks Inspector Puttis, looking at him, “he has the air of a man who holds good cards. Wonder what his game is?”
 
“I am going to repudiate my agreement,” repeats 361 Mr. Giles. “I am going to repudiate everything.” His voice grows more cheerful and confident as he proceeds to disclose his intentions. “And if you’re the sensible chap I take you ter be, you’ll just listen ter what I’ve got ter say.”
 
The police officer leans over the low gate, and, nodding his head as a sign that he agrees to keep silent, prepares to listen. “I’ve had a letter from Angland,” the squatter continues, “which has altered my opinions of him. He writes from Palmerville to say he’s just returned from where that—where Dyesart the explorer pegged out.” The sonorous clanking of a bullock-bell, the signal for breakfast, here interrupts the speaker. “There’s tucker ready, so I’ll cut short what I was going to say. Angland writes to say he finds as I’m indebted to him, as heir to Dyesart, for a large amount; but don’t intend pressing me, as was his uncle’s wish. And then, blow me if he don’t say that he wants to marry Glory! When I told the gal blessed if she didn’t seem to expect it. And lastly, what d’yer think of this? If he ain’t found my little Georgie!” The speaker’s sensual face looks almost handsome for an instant, as a momentary blaze of parental pride and love warms the sinful old heart. “Yes, he’s found my little Georgie as I lost six year ago!”
 
In the excitement caused by disclosing the news of the discovery of his long-lost son and heir, Mr. Giles springs from the gate, and after performing a short pas seul upon the ground,—much resembling the clumsy prancings of a pole-prodded street bear,—he turns to Puttis, and suddenly seizing his hand wrings it violently.
 
362
 
“How did he get hold of boy?” asks the Inspector, as the squatter resumes his seat upon the gate.
 
“Oh, I’ll tell you all about that another time.” Mr. Giles’s face has resumed its ponderously would-be cunning expression as he goes on: “Not only that, but it appears Dyesart had just discovered a whacking big mountain of gold, or something of the sort, up there, just before he kicked the bucket,—a sort of second Mount Morgan, and I’m to have a share in it.”
 
Inspector Puttis faces round at this, and beneath the stern, determined stare of the little man, Mr. Giles feels and looks very uncomfortable.
 
“Congratulate you on your luck. Lost son restored. Rich son-in-law. Debts forgiven. But,”—the police officer grins as he growls the next words,—“but you’ll not forget your friends? Awkward rather if Angland should happen to hear of your late contract with your niece, eh?”
 
“We won’t have a row about it!” exclaims Giles weakly, avoiding the Inspector’s gaze; “why should we? And look here,” he adds in a tone in which the bully gradually becomes discernible,—“look here, I’ve got copies of certain letters you’ve received from Lileth about Angland. Ah! that’s got you, has it? And I can prove you received them, that’s more. You can’t prove I had anything to do with ‘this arrangement,’ as Lileth calls it. I defy you to do it.”
 
“Don’t try it, old friend,” observes Puttis, pulling his moustache; “don’t try it. I’ve got the ‘joker’ to play yet. Don’t forget that.”
 
“You mean my nephew,” responds Giles. “I’ve squared him all right. And I can prove, moreover,363 that it was you got him a hiding-place at Ulysses. Can you beat that?”
 
“Yes!” hisses Puttis, whose inventive genius is only equalled by a valuable faculty he possesses for bringing all kinds of novel resources to his aid upon an emergency arising. “D’you remember the musical box Miss Mundella received from Brisbane a month ago?”
 
“What has that got ter do with all this?” asks Giles, looking in a puzzled way at the calm, firm face that is grinning coolly up at him.
 
“Well, old friend, musical box all sham. ’Twas a phonograph. All your talk taken down. Even your swear words.” The speaker pauses a moment, then adds, “Have another card to play. Do you want it?”
 
Mr. Giles remembers the fact of a so-called musical box ............