Next morning while we were at breakfast, Billy, the black boy, who had been out after the horses, came dashing up to the Homestead, almost beside himself with excitement.
"Me been find him," he cried. "Me been find him, all same fellow what been make debbil-debbil longa here."
"What do you mean?" asked Spicer, putting down his cup of tea. "Where have you found the man?"
"Me been find him longa billabong. My word he most like dead, mine think it."
Spicer made a sign to me, and without another word we jumped up and ran in the direction of the stockyard. Mounting our horses we followed our guide through the scrub for a distance of perhaps a mile and a half until we came to a small billabong or backwater of the main river.
Away at the further end we could see a curious white heap, and towards it we galloped, making our horses put their best feet foremost, you may be sure.
On reaching it, we found a man lying huddled up upon the ground beneath a low-growing tree. He was dressed in a complete suit of white flannel, his boots were painted the same colour, and even his hat was fixed up to match, white. Still looped over his ears was a long grey beard and moustache of false hair.
Spicer dismounted and knelt beside him. After feeling his heart he plucked the beard away and almost shouted his astonishment aloud.
"Good heavens!" he cried; "do you recognise this man?"
I stooped and looked. I don't know whether you will believe it, but the Phantom Stockman, the person who had performed such prodigies two nights before, was none other than our friend Chudfield, the young English owner of Yarka Station, across the river, the man who had appeared to be so frightened by the ghost, and who had made it his boast that he knew nothing at all about Bush-work. For some moments we stood and stared at him in stupefied amazement. I was the first to speak.