as is seldom heard in scrub-lands.

Out in the kitchen long Dave Regan grabbed, from the far side of the
table, where he had thrown it, a burst and battered concertina, which
he had been for the last hour vainly trying to patch and make air-tight;
and, holding it out towards the back-door, between his palms, as a
football is held, he let it drop, and fetched it neatly on the toe of
his riding-boot. It was a beautiful kick, the concertina shot out into
the blackness, from which was projected, in return, first a short,
sudden howl, then a face with one eye glaring and the other covered by
an enormous brick-coloured hand, and a voice that wanted to know who
shot 'that lurid loaf of bread?'

But from the schoolroom was heard the loud, free voice of Joe Matthews,
M.C.,--

'Take yer partners! Hurry up! Take yer partners! They've got Johnny
Mears with his fiddle!'

The Buck-Jumper.

Saturday afternoon.

There were about a dozen Bush natives, from anywhere, most of them lanky
and easy-going, hanging about the little slab-and-bark hotel on the
edge of the scrub at Capertee Camp (a teamster's camp) when Cob & Co.'s
mail-coach and six came dashing down the siding from round Crown Ridge,
in all its glory, to the end of the twelve-mile stage. Some wiry,
ill-used hacks were hanging to the fence and to saplings about the
place. The fresh coach-horses stood ready in a stock-yard close to the
shanty. As the coach climbed the nearer bank of the creek at the foot of
the ridge, six of the Bushmen detached themselves from verandah posts,
from their heels, from the clay floor of the verandah and the rough slab
wall against which they'd been resting, and joined a group of four or
five who stood round one. He stood with his back to the corner post
of the stock-yard, his feet well braced out in front of him, and
contemplated the toes of his tight new 'lastic-side boots and whistled
softly. He was a clean-limbed, handsome fellow, with riding-cords,
leggings, and a blue sash; he was Graeco-Roman-nosed, blue-eyed, and
his glossy, curly black hair bunched up in front of the brim of a new
cabbage-tree hat, set well back on his head.

'Do it for a quid, Jack?' asked one.

'Damned if I will, Jim!' said the young man at the post. 'I'll do it for
a fiver--not a blanky sprat less.'

Jim took off his hat and 'shoved' it round, and 'bobs' were 'chucked'
into it. The result was about thirty shillings.

Jack glanced contemptuously into the