It was only the Eureka jackeroo (or "Colonial experiencer"), who had the hardest work on the station, and did it "for his tucker," but so badly as to justify Rigden in his bargain. It may here be mentioned that the manager's full name was Pelham Stanislaus Rigden; it was, however, a subconscious peculiarity of this couple never to address each other by a mere Christian name. Either they confined themselves to the personal pronoun, or they made use of expressions which may well be left upon their lovers' lips. But though scarcely aware of the habitual breach, they were mutually alive to the rare observance, which was perhaps the first thing to make Rigden realise the breadth and depth of his offence. It was with difficulty he could hold his tongue until the jackeroo had turned his horse adrift and betaken himself to the bachelors' hut euphemistically yclept "the barracks."
"What have I done," cried Rigden, in low tones, "besides lying as you heard? That I shall suffer for, to a pretty dead certainty. What else have I done?"
"Oh, nothing," said Moya impatiently, as though the subject bored her. In reality she was wondering and wondering why he should have run the very smallest risk for the sake of a runaway prisoner whom he had certainly pretended never to have seen before.
"But I can see there's something else," persisted Rigden. "What on earth is it, darling? After all I did not lie to you!"
"No," cried Moya, downright at last; "you only left me for two mortal hours alone on this verandah!"
Rigden sprang to his feet.
"Good heavens!" he cried; and little dreamed that he was doubling his enormity.
"So you were unaware of it, were you?"
"Quite!" he vowed naïvely.
"You had forgotten my existence, in fact? Your candour is too charming!"