“Who?”
“The man that I saw standing at this corner a while ago. He came round this way I'll be sworn.”
“He is gone away, I suppose. I never saw any one, for my part.”
“I did, though. Gone away? How could he go away? The road is in sight for miles, and not a creature on it. He is vanished.”
“I don't see him anyway, Tom.”
“Of course you don't, he is vanished into the bowels of the earth. I don't like gentlemen that vanish into the bowels of the earth.”
“How suspicious you are! Bushrangers again, I suppose. They are always running in your mind—them and gold.”
“You know the country, George. Here, take my stick.” And he handed George a long stick with a heavy iron ferule. “If a man is safe here he owes it to himself, not to his neighbor.”
“Then why do you give me your weapon?” said George with a smile.
“I haven't,” was the reply. “I carry my sting out of sight, like a humble bee.” And Mr. Robinson winked mysteriously, and the process seemed to relieve his mind and soothe his suspicions. He then fell to inspecting the rocks; and when George pointed out to him the broad and distant pasture he said, in an absent way, “Yes;” and turning round George found him with his eyes glued to the ground at his feet, and his mind in a deep reverie. George was vexed, and said somewhat warmly, “Why, Tom, the place is worth looking at now we are come to it, surely.”