l white people."

"Kate is an ignorant goose," growled Bob; "much she can know about
it! Why, my father has had black-fellows in his employment for
years, and they've been all right. Don't you listen to Kate's
nonsense."

There was silence awhile, then Bob went on,--

"But I tell you what I'll do, if it will be any comfort to Mrs.
Orban. I'll come over nearly every day and hang about the place as
if I were living here. How would that do?"

"I should like it, of course, and I believe mother would," said the
boy slowly.

"Of course you would be all right anyhow," Bob said bracingly.

"Of course," repeated Eustace with less certainty, hesitated, then
went on haltingly, "but supposing--of course I believe you,
Bob--but just only supposing one night some black-fellows did turn
up, what should you do?"

"I should shoot them," Bob said promptly.

"But if you were me?" questioned Eustace.

"Oh, if I were you," repeated Bob thoughtfully. "Well, of course,
you wouldn't shoot them--they wouldn't be scared enough of a chap
your size. On the whole, I think if I were you I should scoot down
the hill as hard as I could go for Robertson, Farley, and Ashton.
They would soon settle matters."

"But that would be leaving mother to face them alone," objected
Eustace.

Bob stared solemnly for one moment, then broke into a laugh.

"Cheer up, old boy," he exclaimed; "you look as if you had a whole
tribe at your heels this minute. Why, what has happened to you? I
thought you had more spirit than to be scared by a pack of silly
maids' stories."

The laugh was so genuine, the look in Bob's eyes so quizzical, that
Eustace felt suddenly abashed, and as if he had been making a
stupid fuss about nothing. With all his heart he wished he had not
mentioned the subject to Bob--Bob whose opinion he valued above all
others, except, perhaps, his own father's.

CHAPTER III.

THE BAREFOOT VISITOR.

When Mr. Orban came home to dinner he brought with him another
excitement--the mail letters that Hadji ought to have brought with
the parcel the day before.

To Bob Cochrane, whose parents were Australian born and bred, this
meant nothing; but he was so intimate with the Orbans that he
understood their feelings on the subject. He sat silently puffing
at his pipe while Mr. and Mrs. Orban read their letters. Eustace,
Nesta, and Peter had seized on some packets which they knew to
contain English papers and magazines.

Suddenly Mrs. O