“No. Winslow says we are sure of him for six months, anyhow. Then he’ll go to town and knock his cheque down. But come on, Craig and his lads will be waiting for us.”
At the most southerly and easterly end of the selection they met Gentleman Craig himself.
He rode forward to meet them, lifting his broad hat, and reining up when near enough. He did this in a beautifully urbane fashion, that showed he had quite as much respect for himself as for his employers. He was indeed a handsome fellow, and his rough Garibaldian costume fitted him, and set him out as if he had been some great actor.
“This is an awkward business,” he began, with an easy smile; “but I think we’ll soon catch the runaways up.”
“I hope so,” Bob said.
“Oh, it was all my fault, because I’m boss of my gang, you know. I ought to have known better, but a small mob of stray beasts got among ours, and by-and-by there was a stampede. It was dirty-dark last night, and looked like a storm, so there wouldn’t have been an ounce of use in following them up.”
He flicked his long whip half saucily, half angrily, as he spoke.
“Well, never mind,” Bob replied, “we’ll have better luck next, I’ve no doubt.”
Away they went now at a swinging trot, and on crossing the creek they met Craig’s fellows.
They laid their horses harder at it now, Bob and Archie keeping a bit in the rear, though the latter declared that Tell was pulling like a young steam-engine.