arlight; 'but
keeping this place here a dead secret is our sheet-anchor. Lose that,
and we'll be run into in a week. If you let it out to any fellow you
come across, you will soon know all about it.'

'I've known Dan Moran and Pat Burke nigh as long as I've known you, for
the matter of that,' says father. 'They're safe enough, and they're not
to come here or know where I hang out neither. We've other places to
meet, and what we do 'll be clean done, I'll go bail.'

'It doesn't matter two straws to me, as I've told you many a time,' said
Starlight, lighting a cigar (he always kept a good supply of them). 'But
you see if Dick and Jim, now, don't suffer for it before long.'

'It was as I told you about the place, wasn't it?' growls father; 'don't
you suppose I know how to put a man right? I look to have my turn at
steering this here ship, or else the crew better go ashore for good.'

Father had begun to drink harder now than he used; that was partly
the reason. And when he'd got his liquor aboard he was that savage and
obstinate there was no doing anything with him. We couldn't well part.
We couldn't afford to do without each other. So we had to patch it up
the best way we could, and let him have his own way. But we none of us
liked the new-fangled way, and made sure bad would come of it.

We all knew the two men, and didn't half like them. They were the head
men of a gang that mostly went in for horse-stealing, and only did a bit
of regular bush-ranging when they was sure of getting clear off. They'd
never shown out the fighting way yet, though they were ready enough for
it if it couldn't be helped.

Moran was a dark, thin, wiry-looking native chap, with a big beard, and
a nasty beady black eye like a snake's. He was a wonderful man outside
of a horse, and as active as a cat, besides being a deal stronger than
any one would have taken him to be. He had a drawling way of talking,
and was one of those fellows that liked a bit of cruelty when he had the
chance. I believe he'd rather shoot any one than not, and when he
was worked up he was more like a devil than a man. Pat Burke was a
broad-shouldered, fair-complexioned fellow, most like an Englishman,
though he was a native too. He'd had a small station once, and might
have done well (I was going to say) if he'd had sense enough to go
straight. What rot it all is! Couldn't we all have done well, if the
devils of idleness and easy-earned money and false pride had let us