It was a morning in the middle of September. The Jacksons werebreakfasting. Mr. Jackson was reading letters. The rest, includingGladys Maud, whose finely chiselled features were graduallydisappearing behind a mask of bread-and-milk, had settled down toserious work. The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjory andPhyllis for the jam (referee and time-keeper, Mrs. Jackson) hadresulted, after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee, ina victory for Marjory, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour beingnine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o'clock, Mike'splace was still empty.

　　"I've had a letter from MacPherson," said Mr. Jackson.

　　MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to ina previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep.

　　"He seems very satisfied with Mike's friend Wyatt. At the moment ofwriting Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in theshoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems tomake things fairly lively wherever he is. I don't wonder he found apublic school too restricted a sphere for his energies.""Has he been fighting a duel?" asked Marjory, interested.

　　"Bushrangers," said Phyllis.

　　"There aren't any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres," said Ella.

　　"How do you know?" said Phyllis clinchingly.

　　"Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray," began Gladys Maud, conversationally,through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off.

　　"He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike's plate suppliesthem. I see it comes from Buenos Ayres.""I wish Mike would come and open it," said Marjory. "Shall I go andhurry him up?"The missing member of the family entered as she spoke.

　　"Buck up, Mike," she shouted. "There's a letter from Wyatt. He's beenwounded in a duel.""With a bushranger," added Phyllis.

　　"Bush-ray," explained Gladys Maud.

　　"Is there?" said Mike. "Sorry I'm late."He opened the letter and began to read.

　　"What does he say?" inquired Marjory. "Who was the duel with?""How many bushrangers were there?" asked Phyllis.

　　Mike read on.

　　"Good old Wyatt! He's shot a man.""Killed him?" asked Marjory excitedly.

　　"No. Only potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page ismostly about the Ripton match and so on. Here you are. 'I'm dictatingthis to a sportsman of the name of Danvers, a goo............