w-men.

Burton returned, swinging four featherless birds. The invasion of their
camp did not surprise him. He greeted the strangers cheerfully, and held
the birds up for Jim's inspection.

'Our breakfast,' he said. 'Fat 'n young.'

'Where did they come from?'

'A lagoon half a mile up the creek. Four shots, four duck.' He touched
his revolver.

'But Nature doesn't provide plucked birds for our benefit.'

'Skinned an' cleaned 'em at the water.'

The teamsters were not averse to boiled duck and broth for breakfast, and
the two billies were soon steaming on the camp-fire, while the company
yarned and smoked. It was nearly ten o'clock, and all hands were thinking
of taking to their blankets for the night, when a sixth man came quietly
through the trees, unobserved until his greeting disturbed them. Done had
to turn on his side to look at the newcomer, a handsome, beardless man in
the garb of a digger, but much more scrupulous in the matter of
cleanliness and fit than the majority.

'I did not like the society at the Rest,' he said, 'and walked on,
looking for quieter company.'

'Make yourself at home,' answered Mike. 'There's tea in the pannikin, an'
there's grub in the dilly-bag. You're not carryin' traps.'

'No. Sent everything ahead but this 'possum rug. Thanks for--'

He ceased speaking. His face had been composed, almost colourless; into
it there sprang an expression of amazement, which deepened into an animal
ferocity shocking to see. The mouth twitched spasmodically, the eyes
caught the glare of the flame, and glowed with a catlike lustre.
Surprised, Done turned in the direction of his glance, and discovered the
man Stony crouching on the other side of the fire, his weak, tremulous
hands stretched out before him, his face gray as ashes and convulsed with
horror. Glaring at the stranger, he lifted his hands, thrusting the
vision from him, and a cry of terror burst in his throat, as the man
sprang at him, bearing him to the ground as a tiger might have done,
groping fiercely at his throat with iron fingers. Stony lay on his back;
his enemy, kneeling on his body, choking him, bent his face down, and
cried fiercely:

'It is you, then? I am not mistaken! You know me, you dog, and you know
that I mean to tear the heart out of you!'

Releasing his grip on the flesh, he wrenched at Stony's shirt, ripping it
at the neck.

'Help!' gasped the prostrate wretch. 'For the love of God, help!'

'There's your brand