“No fear of that,” said Turner with a sigh. Then he turned to his old chum, and stretching over laid a kindly hand on his arm, “I congratulate you, old chap.”
“Thank you.” And they rode on in silence, the one man thinking bitterly that if ever he had cherished a spark of hope of winning the woman he had loved he must give it up at last, the other trying to realise the good fortune that had come to him.
And an hour ago he had been as this man beside him—only one little hour ago!
“How far do you reckon it to the head-station? Fifty miles?”
“Fifty? Nearer eighty I should say.”
“Then I guess I ‘ll put up at your place. How far’s that?”
“About ten miles.”
“All right. Lead on, master of Heyington.”
To refuse a man hospitality in the bush—such a thing was never heard of, and, though Stanesby said no welcoming word, it never occurred to Turner to doubt that he was more than welcome.
“It’s right out of your way.”