, with leaden face
upturned to the shuddering youngster in the tree.

"One of you a doctor?" asked Stingaree, checking a forward movement of
the file.

"I am."

The cigar was paling between finger and thumb.

"Then come you here and have a look at him. The rest of you move at your
peril!"

Stingaree led the way, stepping backward, but not as far as the injured
man, who sat up ruefully as the bushranger sprang into the saddle.

"Another yard, and I'd have grabbed your ankles!" said the man on the
ground.

"You're a stout fellow, but I know more about this game than you," the
outlaw answered, riding to his distance and reining up. "If I didn't you
might have had me--but you must think of something better for
Stingaree!"

He galloped his mare into the bush and Oswald clung in lonely terror
to his tree. A snatch of conversation called him to attention. The
plundered party were clambering philosophically to their seats, while
the driver blasphemed delightedly over the integrity of his mails.

[Illustration: The mare spun round, bucking as she spun.]

"That wasn't Stingaree," said one.

"You bet it was!"

"How much? He hardly ever works so far south."

"And he's nuts on mails."

"But if it wasn't Stingaree, who was it?"

"It was him all right. Look at the mare."

"She isn't the only white 'orse ever foaled," remarked the driver,
sorting his fistful of reins.

"But who else could it have been?"

The driver uttered an inspired imprecation.

"I can tell you. I chanst to live in this here township we're comin' to.
On second thoughts, I'll keep it to myself till we get there."

And he cracked his whip.

Oswald himself rode back to the township before the moon went down. He
was very heavy with his own reflections. How magnificent! It had all
surpassed his most extravagant imaginings--in audacity, in expedition,
in simple mastery of the mutable many by the dominant one. He forgave
Stingaree his gibes and insults; he could have forgiven a
horse-whipping from that king of men. Stingaree had been his imaginary
god before; he was a realized ideal from this night forth, and the
reality outdid the dream.

But the fly of self must always poison this young man's ointment, and
to-night there was some excuse from his degenerate point of view. He
must give it up. Stingaree was right; it was only one man in thousands
who could do unerringly what he had done that night. Oswald Melvin was
not that man. He saw it for