“There he is, father,” cried Rifle, merrily; “yonder in white drawers.”
“A very valuable one, but you can’t go without one that you can put in your pocket. What did we say last night about being lost in the bush?”
“Forgot!” cried Norman, after searching his pockets. “Have you got it, Tim?”
Tim put his hand in his pocket, and shook his head.
“Have you, Rifle?”
“No.”
“Of course he has not,” said the captain; “and it is the most important thing of your outfit.
“Here it is,” he continued, producing a little mariner’s compass; “and now be careful. You ought to have had three. Good-bye, boys. Back within the fortnight, mind.”
Promises, more farewells, cheers, and twenty minutes later the boys turned their horses’ heads on the top of Wallaby Range, as they had named the hills behind the house, at the last point where they could get a view of home, pausing to wave their three hats; and then, as they rode off for the wilds, Shanter, who was driving the packhorse, uttered a wild yell, as he leaped from the ground, and set all the horses capering and plunging.
“What did you do that for?” said Norman, as soon as he could speak for laughing, the effects on all three having been comical in the extreme.