chaplain. He did his gallant best, poor fellow, but
I had to leave him fallen by the way. I am an old miler, you know; it
came easier to me; but the cinder-path and running-shoes are a different
story from hot sand and naked feet! And now, if you please, I will
strike one little blow while our hearts are still warm."

But how shrewdly he struck it, how straight from the shoulder, how
simply, how honestly, there is perhaps no need to tell even those who
have no previous knowledge of back-block Bishop Methuen and his manly
ways.

What afterward happened to Stingaree is another matter, to be set forth
faithfully in the sequel. This is the story of the Purification of
Mulfera Station, N.S.W., in which the bushrangers played but an indirect
and a most inglorious part.

The Bishop and his chaplain (a good man of no present account) stayed to
see the police arrive that night, and the romantic ruffians taken thence
next morning in unromantic bonds. Comparatively little attention was
paid to their departure--partly on account of the truculent attitude of
the police--partly because the Episcopal pair were making an equally
early start in another direction. No one accompanied the armed men and
the bound. But every man on the place, from homestead, men's hut,
rabbiter's tent, and boundary-rider's camp--every single man who could
be mustered for the nonce had a horse run up for him--escorted Dr.
Methuen in close cavalcade to the Mulfera boundary, where the final
cheering took place, led by Carmichael, who, of course, was font and
origin of the display. And Carmichael rode by himself on the way back;
he had been much with the Bishop during his lordship's stay; and he was
too morose for profanity during the remainder of that day.

But it was no better when the manager's mood lifted, and the life on
Mulfera slipped back into the old blinding and perspiring groove.

Then one night, a night of the very week thus sensationally begun, the
ingenious Chaucer began one of the old, old stories, on the moonlit
veranda, and Carmichael stopped him while that particular old story was
still quite young in the telling. There was an awkward pause until
Carmichael laughed.

"I don't care twopence what you fellows think of me," said he, "and
never did. I saw a lot of the Bishop," he went on, less aggressively,
after a pause.

"So _we_ saw," assented Smart.

"You bet!" added Chaucer.

For they were two to one.

"He ran the mile for Oxford,