sir, is raally
fine. But I want things to look to-rights when he comes back."

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A FALSE SCENT.

Two days, three days glided by, and the convict was not found. Then a
week passed, and another, and he was still at large; but a letter was
brought up from the post, a couple of the mounted police being the
bearers. This letter, from the doctor, told that Sir John O'Hara was
dangerously ill, and that his life was despaired of; it was impossible
to leave him till a change took place; and the letter ended
affectionately, with hopes that Nic was managing the station well, and
that all was going on peacefully.

The mounted police were going on to Mr Dillon's, and on their return in
three days they were to take back Mrs Braydon's answer.

The men had just ridden off after a rest and a hearty meal, when, as Nic
turned to re-enter the house and hear the letter read over again, he saw
old Sam's head over the garden fence, and the handle of his spade held
up as a signal.

"Want me, Sam?"

"Ay, sir; come in here. I don't want Brooky to see me talking to you as
if I was telling tales. We has to live together, and we're bad enough
friends without that."

Nic went round by the gate, and the old man sunk his voice.

"He's been at 'em, sir."

"Who has been at what?"

"I don't mean what you mean, sir. Brooky got at them two police. Know
what that means?"

"About Leather?" cried Nic.

"That's it, sir. There'll be another hunt 'safternoon and to-morrer;
and if they don't ketch him then, when they go back they'll take a
'spatch from Mr Dillon, and we shall have a lot of 'em down here."

Nic's face contracted from his mental pain.

"Don't you look like that, my lad. They ain't got him yet. Do you
know, I shouldn't wonder if he's gone right away with Bung's tribe, and
they won't get him. But I say, Master Nic, you won't go over to the
Wattles, will you?"

"No, certainly not."

"But you'd like to hear?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I tell you what, sir: just you tell our three that, as they've
been very good boys, they may have a holiday and go and get a good lot
o' bunya nuts."

"Get a lot of what?" said Nic, in a tone of disgust.

"Bunya nuts, sir: grows on them trees something like firs. They ain't
half bad, I can tell you."

"But I don't want to send them out nutting," said Nic. "They're better
at work."

"You don't understand, sir. I saw them staring over the fences at the
p