"Now then, Joe," said Tom, turning to that worthy, "what's the verdict of the court?"
"I s'pose we'll have to discharge the prisoner without a character," replied Joe with a wink.
"Blow these bally flies!" cried Tom, after an interval. "They're here in millions. Faugh!—splutter—there's one down my jolly throat. Say, Joe, what are you goin' to do?"
"Boil the billy," replied that youth laconically. "May as well do something, an' kill time."
So the hours sped until the sun was well on its descending curve in the late afternoon. Their patience was now thoroughly exhausted in waiting for the trapper. They canvassed the reasons for his non-appearance, until they were mortally sick of discussing the subject.
"Tell you what, boys, message or no message, Nosey or no Nosey," cried Sandy at last, "we must make tracks for home. We are not to blame for old George's absence. They'll be wondering what's become of us. It'll take us all our time to get there before dark as it is. At the worst, we'll have to come out to-morrow."
It took but a few minutes after this to secure the horses, saddle them, call the dog which had accompanied them to heel, and set out on the return journey.
After jogging briskly for a couple of miles or so the cattle dog, a strong wiry hound and a noted warrior among his species, began to sniff about, uttering a series of low, short barks.
"Hello, Brindle, what's up? Got 'possum scent? Bandicoot, I 'spect. Fetch him, boy!"
Just at this moment Brindle made a dash forward, what time a big dog-dingo started out from under an old log a hundred yards or so ahead. The route taken by the chase lay up a long gully. This gully was, more correctly speaking, a depression, lacking abrupt and precipitous sides, and was comparatively free from rocks.