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Rh weary yarn. One of them, we concluded, was to buck like a demon on being first mounted, and the other was to grope backward for the person who went to catch him after delivery of loading.

In the meantime, four horsemen, with three pack-horses, went by; then two horse teams, loaded outward; then Stewart, of Kooltopa, paused to give a few words of sympathy as he drove past; then far ahead, we saw two wool teams, evidently from Boolka, converging slowly toward the main track; then more wool came in sight from the pine-ridge, five or six miles behind. By this time, it was after mid-day; and Cooper, having tied the last levers, looked round before descending from the load.

“Somebody on a grey horse comin’ along the track from the ram-paddick, an’ another (fellow) on a brown horse comin’ across the plain,” he remarked. “Wonder if one o’ them’s Martin—an’ he’s rose a horse at the station?”

“I was thinking about to-night,” replied Thompson. “I’d forgot Martin. Duffing soon comes under the what-you-may-call-him.”

“Statute of Limitations?” I suggested.

“Yes. Come and have a drink of tea, and a bit of Cooper’s pastry His cookery doesn’t fatten, but it fills up.”

“O you (adj.) liar,” gently protested the Cornstalk, as he seated himself on the ground beside the tucker-box. “Is this Martin?”—for the man on the grey horse was approaching at a canter.

“No,” I replied; “he’s a stranger to me.”

“But that’s Martin on the brown horse,” said Thompson, with rising vexation. “Keep him on a string, Tom, if you can. Don’t let him drive us into a lie about last night, for, after all, I’ll be hanged if I’m man enough to tell him the truth, nor won’t be for the next fortnight or three weeks.”

By this time, the man on the grey horse was passing us. In response to Thompson’s invitation, he stopped and dismounted.

“Jist help yourself, an’ your friends’ll like you the better, as the sayin’ is,” said Cooper, handing him a pannikin.

“Thanks. I’ll do so; I didn’t have any breakfast this morning,” replied the stranger, picking up a johnny-cake (which liberal shepherds give a grosser name), and eating it with relish, while the interior lamina of dough spued out from between the charred crusts under the pressure of his strong teeth. “Been having a little mishap?”

“Yes; nothing broke, though.”

“How long since my lads passed? I see their tracks on the road.”

“About three hours,” replied Thompson. “Did you meet an old man and a young fellow, with wool—grey horse behind one of the wagons? Good day, Mr. Martin. Have a drink of tea?”

“Yes, I met them,” replied the stranger. “Old Price’s teams, I think—Good day, Martin—six or seven miles from here; Dixon travelling behind, with another fellow driving his team—long-lost brother, apparently.”

“Where did you fellows have your bullocks last night?” demanded Martin, his eye resting on the sun-cracked stucco which covered three-fourths of Damper’s colossal personality.