An hour’s rest, a gentle run, and then Mat changed his shirt, and told Burns he was ready.
“What! going to ride with bare legs and feet?”
“Yes, I seem to feel more supple, and my feet are as hard as leather.”
These remarks were followed by a jeer from the breaker, who hiccoughed between his cups, “Ring up, the show’s a-going to commence.” “Hullo!” he added, “what’s the nigger up to?” for Dromoora approached at this moment, armed with spears and club, and calling Mat aside, whispered,—
“Take the ‘thunder-stick,’ that thing will kill you.”
Mat laughed, and was proceeding to explain the matter to his companion, when they saw that the horse had at last been yarded.
The last bit of advice came from the breaker. “Take a drink, mate; it’s the last you’ll ever taste.”
“No thanks,” laughed Mat, as he walked towards the stockyard, which by this time was surrounded by every man, woman, and child about the station.
It was a long time before the stock-riders could induce the horse to put his head into the “bail,” as he rushed open-mouthed at every one who approached, causing a general stampede to the rails.
When at last his head was between the two beams, and these had been locked, he gave a heave with his neck to test the timbers, and then remained quiet for a moment.