was.

'Ben Marston, by all that's lucky, boys!' says he, as two of the other
chaps came running down at the shot. 'We've got the ould sarpint out of
his hole at last.' With that they all fires at father as quick as they
could draw; and Aileen gives one scream and starts running along the
track up the hill that leads to George Storefield's place.

Father drops; one of the bullets had hit him, but not so bad as he
couldn't run, so he ups again and starts running along the gully, with
the whole four of them shouting and swearin' after him, making sure they
got him to rights this time.

'Two hundred a man, boys,' the big fellow in the lead says; 'and maybe
we'll take tay with the rest of 'em now.'

They didn't know the man they were after, or they'd have just as soon
have gone to 'take tea', as they called it, with a tiger.

Father put on one of his old poacher dodges that he had borrowed from
the lapwing in his own country, that he used to tell us about when we
were boys (our wild duck 'll do just the same), and made himself out a
deal worse than he was. Father could run a bit, too; he'd been fast for
a mile when he was young, and though he was old now he never carried
no flesh to signify, and was as hard as nails. So what with knowing
the ground, and they being flat-country men, he kept just out of
pistol-shot, and yet showed enough to keep 'em filled up with the notion
that they'd run him down after a bit.

They fired a shot every now and then, thinking a chance one might wing
him, but this only let Moran and Daly see that some one was after dad,
and that the hunt was coming their way.

They held steady where they had been told to stop, and looked out for
the men they'd been warned of by father. As he got near this place he
kept lettin' 'em git a bit nearer and nearer to him, so as they'd follow
him up just where he wanted. It gave them more chance of hitting him,
but he didn't care about that, now his blood was up--not he. All he
wanted was to get them. Dad was the coolest old cove, when shooting
was going on, ever I see. You'd think he minded bullets no more than
bottle-corks.

Well, he goes stumbling and dragging himself like up the gully, and
they, cocksure of getting him, closing up and shooting quicker and
quicker, when just as he jumps down the Black Gully steps a bullet did
hit him in the shoulder under the right arm, and staggers him in good
earnest. He'd just time to cut down the bank and turn to the