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Brookong station lay half-asleep— Dozed in the waning western glare. ‘Twas before the run had been stocked with sheep, And only cattle depastured there, As the Bluecap mob reined up at the door And loudly saluted Featherstonhaugh.

‘My saintly preacher!’ the leader cried: I stand no nonsense, as you’re aware. I’ve a word for you if you’ll step outside: Just drop that pistol and have a care: I’ll trouble you, too, for the key of the store: For we’re short of tucker, friend Featherstonhaugh.’

The muscular Christian showed no fear, Though he handed the key with but small delay: He never answered the ruffian’s jeer Except by a look which seemed to say: ‘Beware, my friend! and think twice before You raise the devil in Featherstonhaugh.’