On the way south, our party conversed with each other concerning their late acquaintances.
“I only saw the third white man once, the first morning, and then only for a second,” remarked Mat.
“But I saw him again,” said Dromoora. “One evening I was lying very still, and he crawled to the opening of his tent to get a better light from the fire, so that he might look at some of those yellow stones, like yours. I suppose all white men have them?”
“Did he?” asked Tim in a startled tone, “Let’s count the nuggets.”
Forthwith the dilly bag was opened, and several of the lumps of gold were found to be missing!
Yet this loss did not affect our foresters much, for they knew where more was to be found; besides, were they not “Homeward bound.”
For weeks more our little party journeyed on, happy and contented, the brothers realizing that they were really leaving their lonely life behind them, and knowing that their guide was taking them straight to their destination, for the black told them one day that they were getting near a small store, pointing to the tracks of drays and bullocks.
Having reached this building, our party had to go through so many examinations as to who they were, and from what part of the world they hailed, that it was a long time before they could be rigged out in clothes. Dromoora said he knew all about shirts and trousers, and declined to be burdened with anything but a straw hat and a thin cotton shirt, the former of which he ended by giving to his wife.
A looking-glass proved as great an object of interest to the brothers as it did to the natives.
Keeping along a well-marked track, after quitting the store, they came to a fenced-in country; and, guided by the barking of dogs, found themselves at Burns’ Station.