denly, in spite of the gins' shrill
cries, some of the leaders broke out and set off up the plain; with the
rush of a cavalry charge the rest were after them, racing at full speed
parallel with the edge of the scrub, and always trying to make over
towards it.

Old Considine met this new development with Napoleonic quickness. He
and the others formed a line parallel with the course of the cattle,
and raced along between them and the timber, keeping up an incessant
fusillade with their whips, while the old man's voice rang out loudly in
directions to the blacks behind.

"Keep the coachers with 'em! Flog 'em along! Cut the hides off 'em!"

In the first rush the quiet cattle had dropped to the rear, but the
blacks set about them with their whips; and, as they were experienced
coachers, and had been flogged and hustled along in similar rushes so
often that they knew at once what was wanted, they settled down to race
just as fast as the wild ones. As the swaying, bellowing mass swept
along in the moonlight, crashing and trampling through the light
outlying timber, some of the coachers were seen working their way to the
lead, and the wild cattle having no settled plan, followed them blindly.
Considine, on his black horse, was close up by the wing of the mob, and
the others rode in line behind him, always keeping between the cattle
and the scrub.

"Crack your whips!" he yelled. "Crack your whips! Keep 'em off the
scrub! Go on, Billy, drive that horse along and get to the lead!"

Like a flash one of the black boys darted out of the line, galloped to
the head of the cattle, and rode there, pursued by the flying mob, the
cracks of his heavy stockwhip sounding above the roar of hoofs and the
bellowing of the cattle. Soon they steadied a little, and gradually
sobered down till they stopped and began to "ring" again.

"That was pretty pure, eh, Mister?" roared Considine to Carew. "Ain't it
a caution the way the coachers race with 'em? That old bald-face coacher
is worth two men and a boy in a dash like this."

Suddenly an old bull, the patriarch of the wild herd, made towards one
of the gins, whose shrill yells and whip-cracking failed to turn him.
Considine dashed to her assistance, swinging his whip round his head.

"Whoa back, there! Whoa back, will you!" he shouted. The bull paused
irresolute for a second, and half-turned back to the mob, but the sight
or scent of his native scrub decided him. Dropping his head, he charge