digger. The doctor was a gentleman, and like many others had to retire from the field of practice to seek for another and more profitable one, and on the eve of his departure felt sleepless. However, he went to bed, after seeing his goods and chattels duly boxed, and only sorry that he had not a larger treasure. Someone thought otherwise, and at midnight he thought he saw the tent door move. It’s a dog, said the doctor; but he touched his double-barrelled gun to give himself courage. He was alarmed, however, and seeing a larger object than before, he made no noise. Suspecting there was something up, he watched, and soon after saw the tent move again, and off went one barrel, and, little thinking what would be the result, he fired off the second, saying, “Will you take another.” No reply. The doctor went to sleep. Next morning a man was found on the hill side, bleeding, sick, and weary, and lying under a tree, then between Jack Morris’s and the parsonage. In course of time the doctor was up and about. A man was found, evidently shot by somebody—not dead, but dying. The doctor told his adventure, and gave himself up as the man who did the deed. The man died; a bullet was found in his neck. The doctor went before the authorities, and was at once discharged.
[The foregoing chapters have been compiled from my late father’s note books, which will in some measure account for their fragmentary character. They do not aim at being anything more than plain records of daily events, and are written in the first person. The remaining portion of this work will, of course, appear in the usual form.]
