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“My dear old boy, I’m fully alive to it. I only don’t see the point of finishing the trip at a gallop.”

“The point is that our little all is concealed about my person,” said Edmonstone, grimly.

“And my point is that it and we are absolutely safe. How many more times am I to tell you so?” And there was a squeak of impatience in the- absurd falsetto voice, followed by clouds of smoke from the bearded lips.

Edmonstone drove some distance without a word.

“Yet only last week,” he remarked at length, “a store was stuck up on the Darling!”

“What of that?”

“The storekeeper was robbed of every cent he had.”

“I know.”

“Yet they shot him dead in the end.”

“And they’ll swing for it.”

“Meanwhile they’ve shown clean heels, and nobody knows where they are or are not.”

“Consequently you expect to find them waiting for us in the next clump, eh?”

“No, I don’t. I only deny that we are absolutely safe.”

Flint knocked out his pipe with sudden energy.

“My dear boy,” cried he, “have I or have I not been as many years out here as you’ve been weeks? I tell you I was in the mounted police, down in Vic, all through the Kelly business; joined in the hunt myself; and back myself to know a real bushranger when I see him or read about him. This fellow who has the cheek to call himself Sundown is not a bushranger at all; he and his mates are mere robbers and murderers. Ned Kelly didn’t go shooting miserable storekeepers; and he was the last of the bushrangers, and is likely to remain the last. Besides, these chaps will streak up-country, not down; but, if it’s any comfort to you, see here,” and Flint pocketed his pipe, made a long arm overhead and reached a Colt’s revolver from a hook just inside the hood of the wagon, “let this little plaything reassure you. What, didn’t you know I was a dead shot with this? My dear chap, I wasn’t in the mounted police for nothing. Why, I could pick out your front teeth at thirty yards and paint my name on your waistcoat at twenty!”