CHAPTER XVIII

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*THE CHASE, AND ITS SEQUEL*

"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, Proclaim a hunting morn; Before the sun rises away we go,-- The sleep of the sluggard we scorn." OLD SONG.

"Now then, sleepies,--up you get!" cried Sandy in the early morning, as he performed his usual preliminary of whipping off the bed-clothes from the sleepy-headed Joe and Tom.

"Sun's laughing at you through the windows. Come, Master Hawkins!" cried he with a grin as he tumbled that grunting individual on to the floor, piling the bed-clothes on top of him, and then seating himself on the wriggling pile. "If soft measures won't avail I am prepared to adopt severe ones."

Tom, now thoroughly aroused, and as peppery as you like, shouted and yelled and writhed, getting his arm at last round his persecutor, the laughing Sandy, and by a violent effort pulling him on to the broad of his back, thus reversing their positions.

"You red-headed Scotchman, I'll teach you meddle with--" pommel--"me again"--pommel, pommel.

Here a cold douche arrested the uplifted arm of the irate Tom, and took his breath for a moment, as it descended upon the prone bodies, accompanied by sundry "ouchs" and shrill yells. As the boys scrambled to their feet they joined forces and rushed the dodging Joe, who, after a few ineffectual dives, was caught and jolly well punched.

The usual early morning diversion ended, the lads, rosy with health and brimming over with animal spirits--the essence of good nature for all their rough play--dressed with haste and made for the stockyard, to pick their steeds.

This occupied their time till the seven o'clock breakfast, after which they secured from the storeman the rations for the trapper.

"Now Sandy, my boy, ye'll no forget to tell George what I named at breakfast."

"M-yes, about the dingoes, father?"

"No, stupid. Didna I ask you to tell him that, dingoes or no dingoes, he is to come next week at the latest, to handle the colts?"

"Oh yes, dad, I won't forget. I expect he'll growl a bit, as he's mad on getting the dogs and the reward. He's quite cranky over it."

"He'll come richt enough if ye gie him my order."

The trapper's camp, as previously stated, was situated about eleven miles from the homestead. Four miles or so from home the track roughened, and became what is known as broken country, all hills and gullies, for the most part very rocky, and heavily wooded in places.

The boys' progress was but slow, owing to the nature of the ground, and it took them nearly three hours to reach the camp, which they found unoccupied. After cooeeing in vain for the absentee, they proceeded to light a fire in order to boil the billy, spreading the substantial lunch which Mrs. M'Intyre had furnished them.

"Bother old Nosey; wish he'd turn up!" exclaimed Sandy, when the boys had finished their repast. "We can't go till he comes. There'd be no end of a row if we went home without delivering the message."

"Oh, he'll be here before long," interjected Joe. "I vote we do a camp in the shade for an hour or two; it's hot enough to fry a steak."

This was good advice, and the boys made themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted under the shade of the trees. So the hours passed without any sign of the trapper.

"Well, I declare," exclaimed Tom for the twentieth time in the course of the last hour, "it's too bad of Nosey. I'm full up of waitin' here with nothing to do. Can't you leave a message somehow for the ole cuss?"

"How is it to be done, Hawkins?"

"Oh bother! write a note, of course."

"Well, you are a greeney, Tom. Where's the pen, ink, and paper to come from?"

"Why, hasn't ole Nosey----?"

"Old Nosey, be hanged! Of course he hasn't, any more than he's got a dress suit and a toilet mirror."

"I've got a pencil," said Joe, feeling in his pocket.

"No good in the world; where's the paper to come from; an' supposin' we had pens, ink, paper, blotting-pads, writing desks, and whatever else you like to name in the scribbling line, what good 'ud it all be?"

"Meaning----?"

"Meanin' this, you dunderheads--it's got to be read."

"Well?"

"Well!--of all the thick-heads, muddle-pates, soft-uns, hodges, and idiots that ever I came across----!"

"Here, draw it mild, young porridge-pot. There's two to one against you: mind that, you red herring!"

"I'll _mind_ more than that, if I am the son of a Scot, which is no great disgrace, after all," replied Sandy jeeringly. "But look here and listen, chiels. I'll tell you a story--

"Once upon a time, when pigs were called swine an' monkeys chewed tobacco, there lived a bully English captain, the commander of a man o' war. This frigate, sailing up the channel on her return from foreign parts, sighted a French ship, not more'n about twice her size. Instead of closing with the Frenchy slap bang, an' givin' her what-for, she turned tail an' showed her a clean pair of heels. This outrageous proceeding on the part of a British sea-dog demanded instant investigation, and so the jolly captain was promptly court-martialled. After the case had been put by the prosecuting officer, and not denied by the prisoner, he was asked by the president of the court why he did not engage the enemy. The captain, in reply, said that he had ten reasons. 'Name them,' says the boss officer. 'The first is: I had no powder; it was all used up.' 'Enuf sed,' sings out the judge. 'We don't want the other nine. You're discharged, my man, without a stain on your character.'"

"Oh, that's all right for a yarn," cried Joe; "but I want to know what it's got to do with your father's message to Nosey?"

"Just as much as it's got to do with the grass of a duck in a forty-acre paddock," jeered Sandy.

"It's a story with a moral, boys; and as Captain Kettle--no, I mean Cuttle, says in that book of Dickens, the moral of the story lies in the application."

"Apply it, my wise man."

"Here then: old Nosey has ten reasons for not gettin' a written message."

"Name the first!"

"He can't read."

"Now then, Joe," said Tom, turning to that worthy, "what's the verdict of the court?"

"I s'pose we'll have to discharge the prisoner without a character," replied Joe with a wink.

"Blow these bally flies!" cried Tom, after an interval. "They're here in millions. Faugh!--splutter--there's one down my jolly throat. Say, Joe, what are you goin' to do?"

"Boil the billy," replied that youth laconically. "May as well do something, an' kill time."

So the hours sped until the sun was well on its descending curve in the late afternoon. Their patience was now thoroughly exhausted in waiting for the trapper. They canvassed the reasons for his non-appearance, until they were mortally sick of discussing the subject.

"Tell you what, boys, message or no message, Nosey or no Nosey," cried Sandy at last, "we must make tracks for home. We are not to blame for old George's absence. They'll be wondering what's become of us. It'll take us all our time to get there before dark as it is. At the worst, we'll have to come out to-morrow."

It took but a few minutes after this to secure the horses, saddle them, call the dog which had accompanied them to heel, and set out on the return journey.

After jogging briskly for a couple of miles or so the cattle dog, a strong wiry hound and a noted warrior among his species, began to sniff about, uttering a series of low, short barks.

"Hello, Brindle, what's up? Got 'possum scent? Bandicoot, I 'spect. Fetch him, boy!"

Just at this moment Brindle made a dash forward, what time a big dog-dingo started out from under an old log a hundred yards or so ahead. The route taken by the chase lay up a long gully. This gully was, more correctly speaking, a depression, lacking abrupt and precipitous sides, and was comparatively free from rocks.

The boys hesitated a moment, but the temptation was too strong. Joe, clapping his spurs to his steed's sides, started off with a clatter, the others following pell-mell. The gully was long and winding, and to this, for some reason, the dingo stuck. The hunters now began to gain a little on the beast, and were in full sight, the cattle dog just holding his distance. At length the gully petered out at the base of a ridge, over which the quarry sped, the dog and boys in full chase. The other side of the ridge was more precipitous, and covered with bracken and stunted bushes. Down this the pursuit thundered, Joe in the lead and well to the cattle dog's heels: the dingo leading by not more than seventy yards. So absorbed was the boy in the hunt that he remained in ignorance of a calamity that was even now happening to one of his mates.

Tom's horse, in bounding down the ridge, and when close to the bottom, put his foot in a wombat's[#] hole that was hidden by bracken. Over came horse and rider, Tom striking the ground on head and shoulder, while Sandy, who was about a length behind, narrowly averted collision with the fallen steed and boy. As quickly as possible he pulled up his galloping animal, shouting out as he did so to Joe, who was too far away and too much engrossed in the chase to hear the call.

[#] Wombat---a burrowing marsupial.

Returning to the collapsed pair, Sandy jumped off and lifted Tom's head, for the lad lay stiff. His appearance frightened the boy as he lay still and death-like. To his great joy, however, on feeling Tom's wrist, Sandy detected a feeble pulse-beat. Laying his stricken mate gently down in the bracken, he made a hasty examination of his head. It bore no trace of wound, save some gravel scratches and a nasty bruise under the left eye. The relieved boy hurried to the bottom of the ridge, where by good hap was a rill of water. Filling his hat he returned and laved the brow and wrists of his companion. After some twenty minutes or so Tom began to stir, and quickly regained consciousness. No bones were broken, but the boy was badly shaken, and all thoughts of further pursuit were out of the question. The horse, by a miracle, was without hurt.

"You're a lucky beggar, Tom," said Sandy, after a few minutes. "From the way you crashed down I made sure every blessed bone in your body was broken. How do you feel now, ole boss?"

"Oh, I'm all right," replied Tom feebly. "Shoulder's the worst. It's not dislocated, but it pains a lot. Phew! but it does hurt when I move it. I expect it felt the full force of the tumble. But--where's Joe?"

"Joe's ahead. Goodness only knows where he's got to by now. He hasn't a ghost's show of getting the dingo if he makes for the hills."

"I tell you what," continued the boy; "we'll get off home as soon as you feel fit. It's no use waiting for Joe. He can easily catch us. You'll have to go slow, old man, you know."

This was true, for Tom's shoulder was in an agony of ache, which the movement of the horse, after they had mounted, intensified to an almost unbearable degree.

It was long after dark ere the pair sighted the homestead lights. They had not been overtaken by Joe, much to their surprise. They were met at the slip-rails by Harry and Jacky, who had just been dispatched to look for them, as the family were getting uneasy at their prolonged absence. The men returned with the lads to the house. Beyond a severe word to Sandy for being tempted to pursue the impossible when on the homeward track, the squatter justified their act of returning from the camp; also in not waiting for Joe.

"I expect the rascal will turn up in a few minutes. His horse would soon be knocked up in that country, and he would therefore be unable to catch you after he abandoned the dingo. The cheek of you boys, to think you could run it down in that country!"

The minutes sped without sight or sound of the huntsman. Anxiety deepened in the women; the men, too, became uneasy.

"Some one ought to go after the lad," broke in the perturbed mother, at length. "The poor laddie must have met trouble. His horse has knocked up. Perhaps he has lost himself. Perhaps he----!"

"Perhaps nothing of the kind has happened, except that the horse may have knocked up. You women will always jump to the worst conclusions. Willy, you and I'll ride back a bit; come you too Sandy, if you're not too tired."

Mr. M'Intyre feared more than he showed. It would be easy enough after all, he reflected, for a boy who was ignorant of the lay of the country and who had no experience in bush travelling, to lose his way. He determined, therefore, to take his son with him, so that he might lead them to the spot where the accident occurred, if it were necessary. Accordingly the three set off on the track. Fortunately it was moonlight and clear, so that they were able to make good headway through the bush.

It is time, however, to return to Joe. That ardent hunter had followed the chase for some distance ere he missed his pals. What with the severity of the pace and the increasing roughness of the course, its twistings and turnings, all his attention was focussed on the quarry. If he did think at all of his companions, it was to picture them following close behind. But in the heat of the chase he had little thought for others. When it did dawn upon him that he had outdistanced his companions, as happened eventually, he attributed little importance to that. They, no doubt, had good reason for slackening their pace. His horse, as he well knew, had a dash of speed denied to theirs. Maybe their steeds had caved in. Anyhow, he was having a glorious time, and "the finish" was touched with roseate hues to his imagination.

His horse was justifying the reputation given of him to Joe by Harry, the stockman, one day when they were discussing the relative merits of their mounts.

"For a hack," that worthy had remarked, "there's nothing on the run equal to the little thing you're ridin'. With a light weight up like yourself she can show a dash of foot an' staying powers that'll take a tremendous lot of lickin'."

This was a just criticism, as events were proving. Still, the pace was beginning to tell, and Joe was forced to ease the mare somewhat, even at the risk of losing sight of the quarry. The rough ridges, too, made the going to be precarious.

Things were as bad with Master Dingo, however. The pursuit was hot enough to extend him to the fullest. He was always in view, and could not shake off the foe. As long as he remained in sight it was impossible to resort to any trick by which he might gain time or wind. The ordinary pace of the dingo when on the chase may be described as a lope. This can be kept up the live-long day, and thus wear down the fleetest victim. To keep extended at full gallop in this unwonted fashion is not at all to the dingo's liking, and the sooner he can reach the distant scrub, which is his objective, the better pleased he will be. The cattle dog, though not ordinarily a hunter, is strong and tough, and possessed of a good pair of bellows. He started the game with the utmost alacrity, and now continues it with the greatest vim and determination.

So the chase continues, and is now but little more than a mile from the scrub belt which fringes the base of the hills. To this ark of safety, therefore, the dingo strains every muscle, and seizes every small advantage which his instinct discerns. No less strenuous is the cattle dog. He has the staying powers of his class, and he too runs to win. In this way the pursued and pursuers hurry-skurry over bush and brake, over stony ridges and across intersecting gullies.

Within half a mile of the scrub the country flattens out, and this gives an advantage to the cattle dog, who closes up. Joe's horse is now in distress. The course has been long and rough, the pace severe, and the grass-fed steed is weakening, can make no headway, is indeed losing in the race. The lad sees this, and chevies the dog on, for he can plainly mark now that unless the chase be ended on this side of the scrub all hope must be abandoned, Oh, to win! A supremely glorious thing were he to achieve the impossible! There are chances. Lots of things might happen yet. On, on, good doggie! Catch him, Brindle! Hurrah, Brindle is closing; is surely creeping up!

They are now about three hundred yards from the timber belt, and the dingo is slowly but surely being overhauled. Visions of the scalp as a proud trophy fill the boy's imagination. If only Brindle may seize his victim and hold him till he rides up and gives the brute its quietus with the stirrup iron! Brindle is now not more than four lengths behind, and the beasts are still a hundred yards from the scrub.

"On then, doggie: catch him: hold him!" shouts Joe across the widely intervening distance. The voice is borne faintly to the dog's ears, and nerves him to heroic effort in this the final stage of the struggle, the last lap, so to speak. Breath is too precious to be wasted in answering cry, but the spurt of the hound speaks volumes: "I shall catch him, master, never fear: I am gaining; but ''twill be on the post."

Both dogs, wild and domestic, are stretched to their fullest extent. It is the crowning burst. They are labouring heavily, staggering, and rolling in their stride. The pace is slow but hard. It is a question of endurance. Every ounce of strength in each body is laid under contribution. Once within the scrub the chances in favour of the dingo will immediately increase a hundredfold, for in doubling and dodging through the densely timbered belts the native dog has no equal.

Only thirty yards now lie between the dingo and his salvation--the good thick scrub that will swallow him up; but--the breath of the pursuer blows hot upon him. Throwing his head over his shoulder for the fraction of a second, the desperate beast sees that only by a miracle can he escape. The adversary is upon his quarters, and in another second the brute's fangs will be buried in his back. It is a supreme moment. Now or never! Making a super-canine effort, the fear-stricken thing draws away from its enemy in the last dozen strides. Saved, saved! Alas, alas! Right at the very fringe, and within a single step of safety, he tumbles in a heap, and with a convulsive gasp rolls over and gives up the ghost: the prolonged exertions have broken his heart.

You can work your will on the hunted one now, Brindle: no need to fear the vicious snap that was reserved for you should the worst happen. But the dog's instincts inform him that all power of resistance has gone from that mute and still form; indeed, he has no strength to worry should the call be made: the last spurt has left him without a vestige of strength. And so, when Joe appeared upon the scene a few minutes later, it was to behold the motionless dingo, and by his side, with lolling tongue and cavernous mouth, the panting and exhausted Brindle.

In a moment the boy has slid from his horse, and is dancing a grotesque fandango, expressive of his unbounded joy. But, when in a calmer moment he understood the tragedy of it from the dingo's side of things, a feeling of compassion possessed him, yet joy persisted. "He's a noble fellow, and has given me the grandest sport I've ever had. I'm sorry, and yet I'm glad," quoth the lad. "What'll old Nosey say to this! My stars, ain't the boys out of it! Wonder where the poor beggars have got to. Hope nothing's happened to them. Poor beast!" apostrophising the dingo, "you made a royal struggle and deserved to escape, but the fates were against you. And you, good old Brindle; my word, you've covered yourself with glory, sir! Poor fellow, you are done up; can only blink your pleasure; can't wag even the tip of your tail. Good doggie, I'm proud of you!"

"I'm blest if I don't skin the dingo," exclaimed he, after a moment's pause. "I'll keep it as a trophy. Something to look at in after years when I'm a grey-beard," chuckled the youth. So saying, he whipped out his knife. Joe had never before skinned a dingo, but as he had performed that office on many a wallaby and 'possum he was fairly expert, and in a few minutes had achieved his object. Rolling the pelt in the approved manner, the youth bound it with a stout piece of cord which he extracted from his pocket, and fastened it to the saddle ring.

"Next thing's to get some water. My word! I'm as dry as leather, an' could drink a tank dry. The animals, too, are clean done up, an' I'll get nothing out of them unless they have water. Good gracious! why--the sun's down, an' it'll soon be dark."

Not until this moment did the young hunter realise his position. "Must be miles and miles off the track," muttered he as he took a brief survey of his surroundings. "I'll have to make tracks with a vengeance! Won't do to be nipped here. Let's see; yes, the way back is across that flat for a certainty, and then over yon stony ridge. Beyond that we bend to the right till we reach a rocky creek." In this way the hunter strove to recall the innumerable bends and curves taken in the chase. "Ah, here's the moon rising: good old moon!"

Joe had plenty of heart, nerve, and resource. His good spirits were proverbial. Yet the situation was not at all inviting. Fourteen miles or so from home on the eve of night. A complete stranger to this rough and trackless region, and his horse badly used up! These were things calculated to try the nerves and tax the courage of the benighted youth.

He made small bones of these, however, and started off at a slow pace on his return. The dog had recovered sufficiently to drag himself along at the horse's heels. The boy eagerly scanned the country for signs of water for this would afford the greatest relief to man and beasts: all of whom felt an intolerable thirst. At last they dropped across a small pool in a stony creek, to their great delight.

Both horse and dog drank as if they would never stop. This, the boy felt, would be bad for the animals, and he sought to stay them. He with difficulty checked the horse, but the dog would not quit lapping until he was as tight as the proverbial drum. Joe himself drank sparingly, and then moved onward. The dog soon began to vomit, and appeared to be on the verge of collapse. So after vain waiting and entreaty the lad was forced to leave it behind, in the hope that it would recover during the night, when he had small doubt as to its ability to find its way home. The horse went easier, now that she had assuaged her thirst. All light had vanished save that of the moon, which shed an uncertain light, making puzzling shadows on the rough ground.

"It's time I was at the head of the long gully," muttered the lad. "From there it's only a mile or so to the home track. Get up Jill, and moosey along. The other chaps are home by this time I expect, and they're wondering what's become of me."

Strange to say, the long gully refused to appear, until it dawned on Joe at last that he was off the track. None but those who have experienced it can understand the weird feeling that possesses one in the dawn of that consciousness. To be in the lonely Australian bush, where the silence is an oppression, is something like being cast adrift in mid-ocean on a raft, with nothing in sight save the wild waste of waters.

That he had lost his bearings became increasingly evident to the wanderer as he moved along. He became a prey to disquieting qualms and the creeping chill of apprehension. Gruesome accounts of the fate of lost travellers had often been related at the home fireside, and these memories awoke in his mind.

"I'm off the track all right; still, I'm sure to cut across the Razorback trail; it'll lie over in that direction." After a pause he determined to adhere to the way that he had been pursuing for some little while. On then "breast forward." There is no semblance of a track, and presently the lad gets into very difficult country. It would be bad enough to travel through in daylight, but now the trouble is accentuated; yet the boy, with strong faith in his ultimate emergence from this chaos, bravely faces the situation. Up hill, down dale, across gullies, forcing the patches of scrub, slithering down ridges, going on hands and knees, ever and anon, to feel for the hoof-prints on what appeared to be the longed-for track--an unceasing march goes on.

At last the mare, completely done up, comes to grief over a tree root, and tumbles to mother earth. The rider rises, unhurt; not so the mare, who has strained her fetlock. What is to be done now? It is a serious mischance, and the boy feels the gravity of the situation. The only thing to be done is to relieve his steed of saddle and bridle, cache his accoutrements, and trudge along on foot.

"Might have been worse," sighed the philosophic lad. "Poor Jill! I don't like leaving you; but it won't be for long, my beauty. Your master will send some one to look after you to-morrow. To-morrow!--Why, it must be past midnight now! Good-bye, Jill."

On speeds the gallant youth, whistling and singing snatches as he tramps the interminable bush. "Might be worse," he reiterates in thought. There's a chill in the midnight air, and the walk will warm him nicely. On, then, through the still hours! Not even the hollow note of the night-owl or the familiar thump made by the feeding marsupial breaks the monotony of silence. No sound, indeed, save the crunching of the traveller's boots on the rough ground. How long drawn out the day has been. It seems an eternity since he dowsed Tom and Sandy on the bedroom floor. Lucky beggars, they are snug and sound under the blankets, dreaming the happy dreams of youth; while he, Joe Blain, is tramp, tramp, tramping. At length the thought of his comrades' sweet repose fills him with longing for rest and sleep.

"How long ago it is since I broke my fast? Must be eight, ten, twelve hours; yes, twelve mortal hours! Eat! Oh, for a slice of damper and salt junk! That were a feed if you like. Puddings, tarts, cakes! Bah! Gimme a slice (thick) of Nosey's damper, an' a slab of that corn-beef."

What a sinking seems to fill his being! How heavy his boots have grown! How steep those everlasting ridges have become! How lovely to crouch down on that patch of bracken--for five minutes only! He must stop and rest awhile; not to lie and sleep: just to get his wind and ease his tired limbs. Shall he----? But no! he must first cut the track--then! His limbs are trembling; he must not stand still, or he will fall. On, on--to the station track! Onward, then, creeps the tottering, stumbling lad. Whistle and song have long ceased. Fatigue reigns supreme, and sheer weariness confuses his brain, and bears heavily on will. Mechanically now, the dear lad staggers over the pathless waste.

But see! Yes, there is a change. What is that line ahead? Is it on the ground or in the air? It rises and falls in the moonlight, but still persists. The ground, too, is getting smoother. The ridges have disappeared. Hurrah! Is not this the end? A few steps more now, and--the station track!

On trudges the lost boy with rising hope. But, alas! the line thickens, darkens, deepens, until it stands out solid, an impregnable scrub. How weird it all is; how awful! In a moment the benighted lad is stripped of hope. He is frightened beyond words. With a momentary strength born of despair the wretched youth coasts the dismal scrub, seeking an opening in vain. Suddenly he stumbles over a soft, dark mass, and falls to the ground. Putting out a hand instinctively, he touches the substance. Great Caesar, it is the dingo! Yes, it has happened to poor Joe Blain as it has to many a one more experienced in the ways of the bush--he has circled!

This shock is the last blow. Nature is drained of her resources and can hold out no longer. The lad sinks back into a half-swoon, which presently merges into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

"Joe, old fellow, wake up! Wake up, I say; Joe--Joe--d'ye hear?"

"W-w-w-what is it? Drat you, lemme lone. 'Snot mornin'. There's goo-good fler, so s-s-sleep----"

Joe Blain, eyes sealed, dead with sleep, rolls over on the ground, and never was any creature more gently rocked in the arms of Morpheus than he.

Another voice now breaks the silence, sharp and penetrating.

"Hi! hi! there, you sleepy lubber. Are ye going to lie there all day? Rouse up, laddie!"

This imperative speech was accompanied by vigorous shakings and rollings.

"Well, well," grunted the half-awakened boy, "sounds like Mr. M'Intyre's voice. Never knew him to come into the room be-before. Wish they'd leave us alone. Can't open"--and the next moment Joe had relapsed into sleep. Only for a moment, though. The next he was taken neck and crop, lifted to his feet, and shaken violently, what time a voice rasped his ear drum: "Wake up, wake up, ye young Rip Van Winkle!"

Opening his eyes, the dazed Joe starts at the unwonted scene. He is not in his bedroom, then! What on earth has happened? Who are these that surround him? Why--he's in the bush! And then the truth dawns upon the weary and weakened lad; he was really lost, and--thank God he is found!

He greets the squatter with a wan smile, and, with the grace characteristic of the boy, begins to thank him. But Mr. M'Intyre, patting him affectionately on the back while supporting him with his arm, extracts the cork of a pocket flask with his teeth, and puts it to the lad's mouth.

"Tak' a pu' at this, ma laddie; it'll revive ye wonderfu'."

The brandy worked wonders on the boy, so unaccustomed to it.

"We--we ran the dingo down, sir--Jill and Brin--why, here's ole Brindle! Left him at the water-hole; too sick to follow. The horse too----"

"Horse's all right, Joe. We picked her up at the water-hole, where we'll leave her for a few days, as she's limping badly. Can you sit on the saddle before me?" Joe is sure he can, and no time is lost in starting homewards. M'Intyre, to whom the country was an open book, knew a short cut that would take them home in ten miles.

During the ride Joe recited his experiences to the squatter, who in return related how Willie had picked up the tracks, sighting first the horse and then the dog, and followed the trail till they came upon the sleeping lad.

It was a weary but not unhappy boy who reached the homestead at length. The household, duly apprised by Willy, who had ridden on ahead, were in readiness to cheer the conquering hero.

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