I'll
run 'em up myself."

The storekeeper came to him as he was pulling on his boots. He was not a
conspicuously attractive young man, but he had one huge merit. His
devotion to Rigden was quite extraordinary.

"Why not let one of us run up those horses, sir?"

"One of you! I like that. Give us those spurs."

"Well, of course I meant myself, Mr. Rigden. The new chum wouldn't be
much use."

"I'm not sure that you'd be much better. You don't know the paddocks as
I know them, nor the mokes either. Nobody does, for that matter. But I
don't want the men to get wind of this to-night."

"I'll see that they don't, Mr. Rigden."

"Now I'm ready, and I'll be twice as quick as anybody else. What's the
time, Spicer?"

"Just on ten."

"Well, I'll be back by eleven. Now go in and see they've got everything
they want, and take Mr. Bethune in with you for a drink. That's your
billet for to-night, Spicer; you've got to play my part and leave the
store to take care of itself. Now I'm off."

But it was some minutes before he proceeded beyond the horse-yard;
indeed, he loitered there, though the jackeroo had the night-horse ready
saddled, until Theodore had accepted the storekeeper's invitation, and
the verandah was empty at last.

"Hang it! I'll have my dust-coat," he cried when about to mount. "Hold
him while I run back to the barracks."

"Can't I go for you, sir?"

"No, you can't."

And the Rugby boy thought wistfully of Cambridge while Rigden was gone;
for he was an absent-minded youth, who did not even notice how the
pockets of the dust-coat bulged when Rigden returned.

Only Moya, from her dark but open door on that same verandah, had seen
the manager slip from the barracks over to the store, and remain there
some minutes, with the door shut and the key inside, before creeping
stealthily out and once more locking the door behind him.

V

A RED HERRING

Rigden cantered to the horse-paddock gate, and on and on along the
beaten track which intersected that enclosure, and which led ultimately
to a wool-shed pitched further from the head-station than wool-shed ever
was before or since. Rigden rode as though he were on his way thither;
he certainly had not the appearance of a man come to cut out horses in a
horse-paddock. His stock-whip was added to the bulging contents of the
dust-coat pockets, instead of being ready as a lance in rest. The rider
looked neither right nor left as he rode. He passed a mob of