didn't
show their white teeth for nothing."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you, sir. They was along with Dillon's blackfellows yes'day
most o' the arternoon, and Dillon's blackfellows didn't find old
Leather."

"No; you said so before."

"Ay, I did, sir; but don't you see why they didn't hit out Leather's
track?"

"Because the rain had washed it away."

"Nay!" cried Sam, with a long-drawn, peculiar utterance; "because our
fellows wouldn't let 'em. They belongs to the same tribe."

"Ah!" cried Nic.

"That's it, sir. Our boys give 'em a hint, or else they'd ha' found him
fast enough."

"Then he'll escape!" cried Nic eagerly.

"Nay! There's no saying. Government's very purticlar about running a
pris'ner down. 'Bliged to be. Soon as it's reported as Leather's
jumped for the bush, some o' they mounted police'll be over, and they'll
bring blackfellows with 'em as don't know him and don't belong to our
boys' tribe, and they'll find him. 'Sides, there's black tribes in the
bush as'd take a delight in throwing spears at him. And then again,
how's a white man going to live? He ain't a black, as'll get fat on
grubs, and worms, and snakes, and lizzars, and beadles, when he can't
get wallabies and birds. But there, we shall see. I'm sorry he jumped
for the bush; but don't you go and think I want to see him caught and
flogged."

"I don't, Sam."

"Then you're right, Master Nic; on'y raally you mustn't keep me
a-talking here. I say, though," he whispered confidentially, and
chuckling with delight all the time, "Brooky won't enjy his wittles till
Leather is ketched."

"What do you mean?"

"He's going about, sir, in the most dreadfullest stoo. He walked over
in the night to the Wattles, and come back all of a tremble, and he's
got a loaded gun behind the wool-shed door, and another behind the
stable."

"Yes; I saw that, and wondered how it came there."

"He put it there, sir," chuckled the old man. "Just you watch him next
time you see him. He's just like a cocksparrer feeding, what keeps on
turning his head to right and then to left and all round, to see if
Leather's coming to pounce on him and leather him. The pore chap don't
know it, but he's sarving out Mister Brooky fine. There, now I must go,
sir, raally. One word, though: Brooky's doing nothing but grumble, and
look out for squalls, and the master away--not as that matters so much,
for the way in which you're a-steppin' into his shoes,