"I say, Sandy, when'll we start?"
"Start! Ah—well—we'll talk about that when we get leave—which, let me tell you, is pretty doubtful. 'Twouldn't take long to get ready once we have permission: a day at most. I declare I'm gettin' sleepy. Good-night, chaps."
The boys opened at short range during the breakfast hour the next morning. In other words, they pled most vigorously for permission to camp out for a week or so, according to the programme concocted the night previously. The chief objection lay in the reappearance of Ben Bolt in the district. It was all in vain that the boys insisted that even were the redoubtable 'ranger to visit their camp, which was most unlikely—he would not harm them: would, in fact, have no interest in bailing up a parcel of boys. Mr. M'Intyre showed palpable signs of yielding, and had it been left to him would have granted a reluctant permission. The insurmountable barrier, as indeed the boys knew beforehand, lay in Mrs. Mac's excessive fear. She held the fort, so to speak, against all comers.
"I'm more sorry than I can tell you, boys, to say no, but nothing you could say would alter my mind. Neither Joe's mother nor Tom's would dream of letting them go camping out while those dreadful men are about."
The pals felt the reasonableness of the refusal, and showed not a flicker of resentment, though of course their disappointment was keen.
"I say, chaps, let's put in the mornin' fishin'," suggested Joe.
The vote was unanimous, and in a few minutes, armed with rods and lines and a tomahawk—the latter for use in cutting grubs out of the honeysuckle trees—the boys were en route to some of the deep pools in the creek. They had a really good time with some giant perch. The dangling grubs formed an irresistible lure to these voracious denizens of the water-holes, and the fishermen had no reason to grumble at the result. On their return home to lunch they were dumbfounded with the news shouted out by Denny as soon as they were within speaking distance, "Owld Ben's dead!—shot by the p'lice in th' ranges."
The whole household was greatly excited by the news, which had been brought by a stockman from Captain White's station. There seemed no reason to doubt the intelligence, which had come via the "bush telegraph." Hennessey's lot had picked up the 'rangers' tracks and partly surprised them in the mountains. The outlaws promptly but barely succeeded in getting away. They gradually drew away, however, from all save the Sergeant, who was on a new mount—one of the Tocal noted breed—which proved to be a "ringer."
The leader and his companion, who was a light weight, tried every dodge to shake off the pursuit, and in this they were past masters; but they had to reckon with Hennessey, who was one of the finest troopers in the force—as dare-devil a rider as Ben Bolt himself.
After some marvellous riding among the ravines and tangled mountain scrub—during which a few long-range shots had been exchanged—Hennessey began to draw upon the outlaws. Even that equine magician, Samson, was reaching his limits. The capture of this illusive freebooter seemed now a certainty, could the Sergeant hold out another ten minutes.