“Hadn’t we better return, Obed?” he said. “We must be a mile from the camp.”
“You are right,” said Obed. “It would be rather unlucky to meet with the bushrangers, just as we are gettin’ on so well.”
“That’s true; we mustn’t run any risks.”
They started to return, when Jack, stopping suddenly, said, “I thought I heard a groan.”
“So did I,” said Harry.
They paused, and the groan was repeated. It appeared to come from a little distance to the left in the recesses of the forest.
“If there’s any poor critter in pain we ought to help him,” said Obed. “Come along, boys!”
It was not difficult to discover the spot from which the groan proceeded. A man of middle age lay outstretched beneath a tree, with an expression of pain on his face.
“What’s the matter, my friend?” asked Obed, standing over him.
“The bushrangers have robbed and beaten me,” said the prostrate man feebly.