the wagon clear the trees, but never, by any chance, looking forward against the blaze of the declining sun intently enough to notice the back of the buggy, partly concealed, as it was, by an umbrageous wilga. As I watched him, I wished, with Balaam, that there were a sword in mine hand, that I might slay the ass.
I dare n't ride past the buggy, for fear of Montgomery looking round to say something. I half-heard him tell me that the Sydney crew had won the regatta, and that Jupiter was starting a hot favourite for the Flemington. And all this time, the unconscious son of perdition was crawling nearer; not a jolt nor a click-clock came from his wagon as it pressed the yielding soil; and the faint creaking of the tackle was drowned in the rustle of a hot wind through the foliage.
"I'm sorry to see you starting so late in the day, and Saturday too," continued the squatter courteously. "The barracks will be lively to-night over these sporting events."
I bowed. I would have licked the dust to see him stand not upon the order of his going, but go at once. "Well, I must be moving," I mumbled hastily, glancing behind me at the sun, and backing Cleopatra into the scrub, to let the buggy pass—noting also that Priestley was n't forty yards away.
"Now, confess the truth, Collins—you've been having a tiff with Mrs. Beaudesart?" continued Montgomery. "Lovers' quarrel? That's nothing. I did n't think you were so pettish as to run away like this."
"Indeed, Mr. Montgomery," said I earnestly; "I assure you I'm only going at the call of duty. I'll show"here it struck me that the production of my letter would delay things worse, and
"By the way, there's a parcel for Alf Jones in the mail-bag," continued the squatter, with hideous dilatoriness. "I see it's a roll of music. Better take it. And his newspaper. Get him to give you a tune on his violin, if you can. It will be something to remember."
"Thank you for the suggestion, sir," I continued slavishly, whilst backing Cleopatra a little further into the scrub, and clearing my throat with a sharp, pentrating sound, as if I had swallowed a fly.
Just then, the bullocks stopped of their own accord, within ten yards of the buggy; and Priestley, pre-occupied in laying out fresh work for himself, was roused by my loud r-r-rehm! and took in the situation.
Montgomery seemed amused at my tribulation. "Why, your manner betrays you, Collins! Never mind. You'll grow out of that in good time. When is it coming off?" He crossed his knees, and held the reins jammed between them, whilst deliberately filling and lighting his pipe. Meanwhile, Priestley, in silent communion with his Maker, stood by his team as if waiting to be photographed. The buggy was in a cool, pleasant shade; and Montgomery would maintain this flagitious procrastination of his managerial duties while I remained a butt for his ill-timed chaff. Critical is no name for the state of affairs.
But an angel seemed to whisper me soul to soul. I responded to the inspiration.
"Well, I'll show you the letter, Mr. Montgomery," said I, with a
