"I had a small black stick," said Wyck to him, after he had inspected the contents of his portmanteau.
"That's all you had, governor," said Bill, with emphasis. And Wyck, seeing it was useless to argue with him, had to accept the inevitable.
"All my luck will desert me now," he said to himself, when he was safely in a train bound for Sydney. "I've lost my fetish."
At Tenterfield he bought a paper, and saw to his delight that heavy rain had set in in the Western district, and that all the country was flooded.
"I hope those two bloodhounds may be drowned too," he said, as he lay down to sleep.
Nearing Sydney, the next morning, he heard the newsboy crying out "Herald. Dreadful floods!" and jumping up, he bought a copy. Opening it, he received a shock, for his eyes caught the broad head-lines:
HEAVY FLOODS IN QUEENSLAND.
27 LIVES LOST.
THOUSANDS OF STOCK DROWNED.
TERRIBLE SCENES.
DALBY COMPLETELY FLOODED.
RAILWAY LINE WASHED AWAY.
He eagerly read the detailed account of the flood from the beginning.
"Hallo, what's this?" he cried, jumping up. "By Jove! I'm drowned! I'm dead," and he read the paragraph again.
"This afternoon a man rode in and reported that the body of a young man was in the creek at Campbell Camp Crossing. The police were informed, and they brought the corpse into the town, which was in a terribly battered condition. It was immediately identified by a shearer, named Brown, as the body of a young English gentleman, named Villiers Wyckliffe, who was touring the back blocks and was bound for Chinchilla station. The body was buried this morning."