"Len's yer horse, like a good feller," said Mosey hastily.
"To (sheol) with your cheek!" snapped Moriarty. "What next I wonder?"
Mosey snatched up his bridle, and went off at a run. "Hello, Collins!
I didn't notice you in the hurry. Bright cards, ain't they? Nothing short
of seven years'll satisfy them. You've been travelling all night?"
"No; I camped here with the teams."
"I thought when I saw the saddled horse, that you had just turned him in to get a bite."
"He's not saddled. There's my saddle."
"I thought that was your horse—that black one with the new saddle on." (I should explain that Moriarty, being mounted, could see across the old-man salt-bush, which I could not.) "But I say," he continued; "what do you mean by stopping here instead of making for the station? I've a dash good mind to tell Mrs. Beaudesart. Why, it's two months since you parted from her."
"Where's Martin?" I asked.
"I left him at the ram-paddock, trying to track his horse.
I suppose you haven't heard that he lives here now?"
"Well, we heard that some one was being sent to live here. By the way,
Moriarty, you better keep out of sight of that fellow at the hut"
"No odds. It's only Daddy Montague; he can't see twenty yards. But I say—Mrs. Beaudesart is sorting out her own old wedding toggery; she knows you'll never have money enough to"——