"It's thrue for ye, Tom. Owld Ben's not thrubblin' me to-da-ay. 'Tis only thinkin' ov me dear farther an' mauther comin' out on th' sa-ay Oi am. As for th' 'ranger, he's as dead an' dhry by this toime as the smoked fish yonder."
"Is he?" cried a loud voice from the rear.
"Howly Moses! 'tis th' 'ranger's ghost," cried the Irish boy, as a bull's-eye flashed in his face, dazzling his eyes and confusing his mind. Terror-possessed by this ghostly manifestation—for he saw naught but a bright light, preceded by an awful voice—the boy bolted. He rushed towards the chamber exit, which he barely reached ere the sharp crack of a revolver sounded, what time the panic-stricken youth staggered forward, falling with a dull thud upon the stone floor.
It need hardly be said that the other members of the group were startled out of speech and action. Not ten seconds elapsed between the cry of the man or ghost and the tragedy of the revolver shot and the fallen boy.
The moment the boy fell the others ran towards him, but before they had taken three steps the light flashed on them and a revolver covered them. Behind the lantern came a voice that more than the lantern, or even pistol, cowed them: "Stop! Hands up!"
[Illustration: Behind the lantern came a voice that
more than the lantern, or even pistol, cowed them:
"Stop! Hands up!" (missing from book)]
For the second time the hands of the boys went up at command. One thing was made quite clear, at any rate: this was no ghostly visitant. Ghosts didn't carry revolvers, nor was there long any mystery about this personage.
"That young cove reckoned I was dead and dry as your smoked schnapper, did he? The young fool'll smoke and dry fast enough in the place I've sent him to. You infernal asses to come here! But you'll never live to tell any one; make up your minds to that."
It was in truth the bushranger himself. Of that there could be no doubt. The news of his death was either a make-up or a gross exaggeration. Here he stood, in the flesh, in one of his most dangerous moods. A black fit was on him. Under its influence he was capable of almost any atrocity. The lads were horror-stricken. There, before them, lay the body of their comrade, the gay, witty, affectionate Denny, who but a few moments ago was in the seventh heaven of delight at the thought of bringing out his parents with the proceeds of his share of the gold; and now—it was too awful!
"Look 'ere, Ben Bolt!" exclaimed Harry, after a few seconds' silence, "you've shot an innercent boy in cold blood. You've grossly belied your reputation that you never laid a hand on woman or child. We came here with no thought of spyin' upon yer, for we believed yer to be dead. In five minits we wud 'ave gone away with our fish, none the wiser for your presence. You've not the slightest justerfication fer takin' that life, an' if yer shoots me the next minit fer it, I tell yer to yer face ye're a blaggard an' coward, an' the pity is that the news of yer bein' shot wasn't true."