ometimes some of them got a
bad start--but it helped break the news.

"Well, if he ain't there, I suppose I'll have to do it," thought Ben as
he passed quietly through the upper sliprails and neared the house. "The
old man might have knocked up or got drunk after all. Anyway, no one
might come in the morning till it's too late--it always happens that
way--and--besides, the women'll want time to look up their black
things."

But, turning the corner of the cow-yard, he gave a sigh of relief as
he saw old Fosbery's horse tied up. They were up, and the big kitchen
lighted; he caught a glimpse of a shock of white hair and bushy white
eyebrows that could have belonged to no one except old Break-the-News.
They were sitting at the table, the tearful wife pouring out tea, and by
the tokens Ben knew that old Fosbery had been very successful. He rode
quietly to the lower sliprails, let them down softly, led his horse
carefully over them, put them up cautiously, and stood in a main road
again. He paused to think, leaning one arm on his saddle and tickling
the nape of his neck with his little finger; his jaw dropped, reflecting
and grief forgotten in the business on hand, and the horse "gave" to
him, thinking he was about to mount. He was tired--weary with that
strange energetic weariness that cannot rest. It was five miles from
Mudgee and the news was known there and must have spread a bit already;
but the bulk of the Gulgong and Gulgong Road race-goers had passed here
before the accident. Anyway, he thought he might as well go over and
tell old Buckolts, of the big vineyard, across the creek, who was a
great admirer of Jack Denver and had been drinking with him at the races
that day. Old Buckolts was a man of weight in the district, and was
always referred to by all from his old wife down, as "der boss," and by
no other term. The old slab farmhouse and skillions and out-houses,
and the new square brick house built in front, were all asleep in the
moonlight. The dogs woke the old man first (as was generally the
case), as Ben opened the big white home gate and passed through without
dismounting.

"Who's dat? Who voss die [there]?" shouted the old man as the horse's
hoofs crunched on the white creek-bed gravel between the two houses.

"Ben Duggan!"

"Vot voss der matter?"

"Jack Denver's dead--killed riding home from the races."

"Vot dat you say?"

Ben repeated.

"Go avay! Go home and go to sleep! You voss shoking--and t