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“Is there anything you want before we go?” the bushranger inquired, as civilly as you please.

“Yes,” said Flint; “I want you to fill my pipe, stick it in my mouth, and put a match to it, if you will be so good.”

The other laughed, but complied with the full request before turning his attention to young Edmonstone.

“As for you,” he said, “here’s your pocket-book. I couldn’t take such a treasure from you. Better keep it in memory of the fortune (the immense fortune of a hundred and thirty pounds) it once contained. Not that I have quite emptied it, though; I may be a devil, but I never clean a man out quite; so you’ll find enough left to get you a night’s lodging and some tucker. And and don’t forget old Sundown altogether; you may be able to put in a good word for him some day!”

These last words, though spoken after a pause, were thrown off lightly enough; yet somehow they were unlike the rest that had gone before. Before their sound had died away Sundown was in his saddle, and the sound of horses galloping through the scrub was growing faint and far away.