"How's that?"
"Got two of the vermin in the traps six months ago over at the mountains, an' a cove wot got away left two toe nails of his near hind-foot in the trap."
"Too fly for poison, eh?"
"'Twould be a waste of good strychnine over the rubbage," replied the trapper, waxing more communicative. "They know a bait better than a Christun. 'Sides, I tried them over at Razorback. Got plenty o' cats, gohanners, an' crows; an', be gosh! laid out one of my own cattle puppies, but ne'er a dingo."
"The traps'll fetch 'em, won't they, George?"
George returned no answer, but "smoled" a cryptic smile. Mounting their steeds, the party turned in the direction of home. Mr. M'Intyre received the trapper's report without interruption, and then consulted as to the best way to work their destruction.
"Hunting them is out of the question," said the squatter in reply to a remark of his son that it would be grand sport hunting them. "We'd only ruin the horses in that country and miss most o' the dingoes. Na! the traps are the best an' safest. If ony ane can catch 'em in that fashion, George is the mon. I leave the hale matter in his hands. He kens best what to do to circumvent the brutes; so go your own way to work, George. What aboot traps? Have ye enough?"
"Got seven or eight, dunno for sure. Ought to have a dozen."
"Varra weel; ane o' the laddies will ride to Tareela and get ither fower."
Accordingly, Joe and Tom mounted their horses and rode into the store for the additional traps.