"Nat six in the coorse o' the year," replied Rory, too amiable to heed the impolite change of subject. "Las' time A seen Ward," he continued, after a moment's pause, "he toul' me there was a man come to the station wan mornin' airly, near blin' wi' sandy blight; an' he stapped all day in a dark skillion, an' started again at night. He was makin' fur Ivanhoe, fur till ketch the coach; but it's a sore ondhertakin' fur a blin' man till thravel the counthry his lone, at this saison o' the year. An' it's quare where sthrangers gits till. A foun' a swag on the fence a week or ten days ago, an' a man's thracks at the tank a couple o' days afther; an' the swag's there yit; an' A would think the swag an' the thracks belonged till the man wi' the sandy blight, barr'n this is nat the road till Ivanhoe."
"My word, Rory, I wish either you or I had spoken of this when you came home last night. Never mind the horses now. Give me your bridle, and take Mary on your back."
As we went on, I related how I had seen the man reclining under the tree; and Rory nodded forgivingly when I explained the scruple which had withheld me from making my presence known.
"He must 'a' come there afther ten o'clock yisterday," observed Rory; "or it would be mighty quare fur me till nat see him, consitherin' me eyes is iverywhere when A'm ridin' the boundhry."
"But he was n't near the boundary. I had turned off from the fence to see that dead pine with the big creeper on it."
"Which pine, Tammas?"
"There it is, straight ahead—the biggest of the three that you see above the scrub. You notice it's a different colour?"
"'Deed ay, so it is. A wouldn't be onaisy, Tammas; it's har'ly likely there's much wrong—but it's good to make sartin about it."
No effort could shake off the apprehension which grew upon me as we neared the fence. But on reaching it I said briskly:
"Stay where you are, Rory; I'll be back in half a minute." Then I crushed myself through the wires.