“But what’s that to me?”
“Only this: you are the informer, and will have to give evidence against them when they are examined. Now, please, no more words, Mr Anson; you are my prisoner. Quick, boys! Get the team in-spanned and the wagon turned the other way.”
“But breakfast,” said Anson, with a groan. “I must have something to eat.”
“The billy is boiling,” said the sergeant to his chief, in a confidential tone, “and the bullocks would be all the better for an hour’s feed, sir.”
The superintendent looked sharply towards the fire and the prisoner’s provisions, and shaded his eyes and gazed for some minutes south.
“You’re right,” he said. “Send two men off a good mile forward as outposts, and let the oxen feed.—Now, Mr Anson, I’ll take breakfast with you if you’ll have me for a guest.”
“Yes; I can’t help myself,” said the prisoner bitterly; “and suppose I shan’t have a chance given me to make your tea agreeable with something I have in the wagon.”
“No; I don’t think you will, sir, thanks.”
“But I can sit and wish you luck, my friend, and my wish is this—that a commando may swoop down upon you and your gang.”
“Thanks once more,” said the superintendent grimly. “There, sit down, sir, and I’ll preside and send you your breakfast.”