“Comrades, brothers,” he said, in a voice indicating deep emotion, “I thank you for giving me back my life. It shall be devoted to your service.”
The first to press forward and grasp his hand convulsively was his brother, Robert Graham.
“Robert,” said Sandy, “but for your brave act I should have been lying dead instead of him,” and he pointed, with a shudder, to the dead captain.
Their conversation was interrupted by Rupert Ring.
“Comrades,” he said, “the captain is dead. We can do nothing without a leader. We should appoint one at once.”
Here Fletcher pushed forward.
“I am the oldest in service among you,” he said. “I was the trusted friend of Captain Stockton. I submit that I have the best claim to be your leader.”
But among bushrangers, as in other communities, the man who is the most anxious to secure office is very apt to be left in the lurch. Now, it happened that Fletcher was by no means a favourite in the band. He was sly and sneaking in his methods, currying favour with the captain, even at the expense of manliness and self-respect, and there were serious doubts as to his courage. If he had been wiser, he would not have made a boast of his standing with the late leader, for the men were heartily tired of his tyranny, and resolved to elect some one in his place who bore no similarity to him.
Rupert Ring smiled slightly as he heard Fletcher’s modest claim.
“Comrades,” he said, “you have heard Fletcher’s appeal. It is true that he is the oldest in service among you. It is for you to consider whether that entitles him to the post of leader. Those of you who are in favour of Dick Fletcher as your leader will signify it by raising your right hands.”