etly enough at
play of every kind. A stream of men came and went to and from the gaming
boards and bar.

Benito ordered a drink, and surveyed the room searchingly. The man he
sought was not in evidence. "Is McTurpin here?" he asked the bartender.

If that worthy heard, he made no answer; but a slight, agile man with
sly eyes looked up from a nearby table, "What d'ye want of him,
stranger?"

An arrogant retort sprang to Benito's lips, but he checked it. He bent
toward the questioner confidentially. "I've news for Alec," he
whispered; "news he ought to know--and quickly."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SQUATTER CONSPIRACY

Instantly the slight man rose. He had narrow eyes, shrewd and
calculating and the sinuous motions of a contortionist. Linking his arm
with Benito's, he smiled, disclosing small, discolored teeth. There was
something ratlike about him, infinitely repellant. "Come, I'll tyke ye
to 'im," he volunteered.

But this did not suit Benito's purpose. "I must go alone," he said
emphatically.

The other eyed him with suspicion. "Then find him alone," he countered,
sullenly. But a moment later he was plucking at Benito's elbow. "What's
it all abaout, this 'ere news? Cawn't ye tell a fellow? Give me an
inklin'; trust me and I'll trust you; that's business."

Benito hesitated. "It's about the ranch," he returned at a venture.

"Ow, the rawnch. Well, you needn't 'ave been so bloody sly about it.
Alec isn't worried much abaout the rawnch. 'E's bigger fish to fry. But
you can see 'im if you wants. 'E's at the Broken Bottle Tavern up in
Sydney Town."

They had a drink together; then Benito parted from his informant,
ruminating over what the little man, so palpably a "Sydney Duck,"
had told him.

Benito surveyed his reflection in a glass. In his rain-bedraggled attire
he might pass for one of the Sydney Ducks himself. His boots were
splashed with mud, his scrape wrinkled and formless. He pulled the
dripping hat into a disheveled slouch, low down on his forehead.
McTurpin had not seen him with a beard, had failed to recognize him at
the polling station. Benito decided to risk it.

* * * * *

One of the largest and most pretentious of Sydney Town's "pubs," or
taverns, was The Broken Bottle, kept by a former English pugilist from
Botany Bay. He was known as Bruiser Jake, could neither read nor write
and was shaped very much like a log, his neck being as large as his
head. It was said