to break off the point and draw the shank
through. Lucky for Buffalo Jim if the wound were not poisoned. All we
could do was to place him in the chaise, and for Mary to remount and
keep near us. The bronze figure had vanished, as a snake might glide
into the brushwood. Indeed, for a moment, when we reached the spot, I
fancied I saw the glint of a fierce emu eye away in the dark leaves that
hung by the bark of a mighty Eucalyptus, and I gave the _cooee_ of the
native, but no response came.

Well, to make an end of this unconscionable letter, I need not tell what
trouble we had when we took the wounded man to the next station, nor how
we were detained to be examined and questioned. Buffalo Jim died in the
prison infirmary a good while after, and though we had not forgotten the
adventure, we had about ceased to think of it by the time I had settled
here in Hobart Land, for the fact is there was a magnet here that I
could not but follow, and another Christmas picnic on the Derwent,
amidst the lovely woods and gardens that fringe a part of its banks
completely settled me. The end of all which is Mary Deane became Mary
Grantley, and here we are on our own lot, with very pretty farming and a
capital dairy, and a good heart's welcome for you if you will only come
out to us. Oh, I ought to say as a sequel that about a month after we
settled down here one of the men came in and said there was a black
fellow at the fence gate asking to speak to me. Out I went, and there,
looking at me with a smile or rather a grin, was Jacky Fishook. "How do,
sar?" said he. "Just come from Sydney, sar, to look for job. Massa take
me for man, sar? yes? Jacky, sar, good black fellow, no stink-water,
sar, ride sar, fish, shoot, fetch bullocks, sar? yes."

"And then the spear, eh?" said I, frowning, "Who was it killed Buffalo
Jim, you villain?"

"Buff'lo Jim, sar, bad white fellow, sar--he try kill Maori, but Maori
too much not kill, sar. Jacky Fishook stupid fellow, sar--not know
Maori--but Maori throw spear--yes." And there and then the muscular
lithe figure was drawn up like a statue; the beady eye glaring straight
forward, the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin. It was quite
enough--I knew who had appeared suddenly in the sandy road that day.
Buffalo Jim had come out to hunt, and had himself been tracked down and
hunted.

But Jacky Fishook stayed with us. He is at this moment cleaning up my
gun; and when I go shooting to-morrow he will car