‘Was there anything else to tell?’

‘Well, not much. He was going to let Jack have Boinmaroo at Mildool, and keep Piambook here; when they mustered at either place they could join forces. Oh! the Freemans. Well, they had all gone a month back. Joe and Bill had gone to take up more land in the Albury district. Wish them joy wherever they go. We’re quit of them, that’s one comfort. Abraham Freeman and his lot cleared out for his old place at Bowning. They’ll do well there in a quiet way. Poor Tottie was sorry to leave Rainbar, and cried like fun. Had to comfort her a bit when the old woman wasn’t looking. It’s a beastly nuisance having other people’s stock on your run, and other people’s boys galloping about all over the country, whether you like it or not. Was deuced glad to see their teams yoked and their furniture on, I can tell you. Suppose you’d like to ride over to Mildool, now you are here?’

Mr. Neuchamp thought he might as well, although fully satisfied that the muster would have been satisfactorily completed without him. So the two men rode over that day and had a look at the humours of a delivery muster.

There was, as usual, great skirmishing about the ownership of calves temporarily separated from their maternal parents, one stockman averring that he remembered every spot on a certain calf’s hide since its early infancy, others corroborating his assertion that it ‘belonged to,’ or was the progeny of, his old black ‘triangle-bar’ cow; Mr. Windsor, as counsel for the Crown, declaring, on the other hand, that no calf should leave the Mildool run unless provided with a manifest mother, then and there substantiating her claim to maternity by such personal attentions or privileges as could not be fabricated or misunderstood. To him the adverse stockman would remark that, if he was going to talk like that, he might stick to every blessed clear-skin on the river. Mr. Windsor retorting that he doesn’t say for that, but if people think they can collar calves for the asking, they’ve come to the wrong shop when they ride to Mildool muster. And so on, and so on.

Nathless, in course of time all things are arranged, in some shape, with or without a proportionate allowance of growling, as the men say. It being apparent that Mr. Windsor, now full-fledged overseer of Mildool, knows a thing or two, and will stand up stoutly for his master’s rights, fewer encroachments are, let us suppose, attempted.

The cattle are counted and finally gathered, and are discovered to exceed, by three hundred odd, the station number. The former manager feels complimented that he has been able to muster beyond his books. The purchaser is satisfied, as the additional cattle are merely charged to him at store cattle price, and, being ‘to the manor born,’ will swiftly ‘grow into money.’ The strange stockmen depart, carrying with them a large mixed drove of strayed cattle. The ex-overseer pays his men and then leaves for down the country, there to wait on the agents, and receive his congé or further employment, as the case may be. Charley Banks and the black boys, Jack Windsor, and Mr. Neuchamp are left in undisputed possession of the new kingdom.

With such a season, with such prices ruling, the management is the merest routine work, a few hundred calves to brand, arrangements to make for an early muster to show the herd to the great cattle-dealer, who wants to buy a thousand head fat to be taken away in three months, and paid for by his acceptance at that date. Mr. Mooney happens to come before Ernest leaves for Sydney, and the negotiation being successful, the new proprietor of Mildool sets out for the metropolis with a negotiable bill in his pocket for seven thousand pounds—more than a third of the purchase-money of the run.

While Mr. Neuchamp was possessing his soul in tranquillity at Rainbar, he was surprised at receiving a letter from his erstwhile Turonia comrade, Mr. Bright. That cheerful financier wrote as follows:

Turonia, 10th December 18—.

My dear Neuchamp—I hear you are to be married to the nicest girl in Sydney. I thought it only reasonable, considering our two or three larks here, to offer my congratulations; and, by the bye, talking of things happening, that fellow Greffham, whom you remember my helping to arrest, was hanged last Wednesday at Medhurst.

The evidence, joined to his paying away the numbered notes, known to be in the escort parcel, was awfully strong against him. He made no confession, and was as cool and unconcerned to the very last, as you and I ever saw him at the billiard-table. What a wonderful uphill game he could play! It is just possible he might have got off; but Merlin fished up additional evidence which fixed him, in the eyes of the jury, I think—-the groom at the inn, who swore he saw a small parcel covered with a gray rug on his saddle, as he returned from the direction of Running Creek, which he had not when he passed up. You ought to have seen him and Merlin look at each other when Merlin asked the Crown prosecutor to have Carl Anderson called. It was a ‘duel with eyes.’ But, even without that, I don’t see how he could have accounted for the notes.

I happened to be in Medhurst the day he was to be turned off. I received a message that he wanted to see me, so I went to the gaol. I knew the sheriff well. They showed me into his cell at once.

When I got in, Greffham nearly had finished dressing, and had only to put on his frock-coat to be better turned out, if possible, than he was for the lawn party Branksome gave when the Governor came up. He happened to be cleaning his teeth—you remember how white and even they were—as I came through the door.

‘Sit down, old man,’ he said, just as usual, shying his toothbrush into the corner of the cell. ‘I daresay they’ll do; and I suppose I shan’t want that any more. What should you say? ’Pon my soul, there isn’t a chair to offer you; devilish close about furniture, aren’t they now? But it’s very kind of you, Bright, to come and see a fellow, when he’s—well—peculiarly situated, eh?’

Here he laughed quite naturally, I give you my word—not forced at all. He certainly was the coolest hand I ever saw; and he died as he lived.

‘What I wanted to see you for, Bright, was this’—here his voice shook and he did appear to show a little feeling—‘you’ll take these two letters for me, like a good fellow; one I want you to send to —— after I am gone; the other you can open then. Make what use you like of the contents. I shan’t care then; say nothing now to gratify curiosity. As to what I may have done, or not done, I hold myself the best judge of my reasons. You know what my life has been. Open and straightforward, if somewhat reckless. My cards have always been on the table. I have risked all that man holds dear on a throw before. This time I have lost. I pay the stakes; there is no more to be said. Lionel Greffham is not the man to say “I repent.” He is what he is, and will die as he has lived. My time on earth has not been spun out much, but, measured by enjoyment, with a front seat mostly at life’s opera, it adds up fairly. Give me a Havannah from your case. You will see me pretty “fit” for the stage when they ring in the leading performer. By the way, I told them to give you my revolver; and while I think of it, just remember this, if you want to make very close shooting at any time, only put in three parts of the powder in the cartridge.‘

I really believe these were his last words, except to the —— hang-man.

He finished his cigar, and lounged up to the gallows, where he died in the face of a tremendous crowd, calmly and scornfully, just as he was accustomed to bear himself to them in life. Jack Ketch was a new hand, and nervous. I heard Greffham say, just as if he was rowing a fellow for awkwardness in saddling his horse, ‘You clumsy idiot, what are you trembling for? Hang me, if I can see what there is to make a fuss about! I’ll bet you a pound I tuck you up in ten minutes without any baggling. Now, you’re right. Am I standing quite square?’

‘You’re all right, sir,’ the man said respectfully. The drop fell, and poor Greffham (I can’t help saying it, although he was a precious scoundrel) died without the least contrition. Showed perfectly good taste to the last. Deuced rum people one meets on a goldfield, don’t you, now?

I suppose you’re not likely to come this way again. We’re not quite so jolly as we were. The Colonel has gone back to India. Old De Bracy has got a good Government appointment, for which he looks more suited than market-gardening, though he was hard to beat at that, or anything he tackled. I hear you’ve made pots of money. Parklands was here the other day, and told me. I have a deuced good mind to turn squatter myself. My regards to old Frankston, and ask him if he remembers the last story I told him. Ha, ha!—Yours sincerely,

John Wilder Bright.

Now the great muster and delivery at Mildool was over and everyday life at Rainbar had again to be faced, Ernest began to feel like one Alexander, sometimes called Great, who had conquered his way into the kingdom of Ennui. He was the possessor of a fortune and of a bride, both above his utmost hopes, his loftiest aspirations; but he began to fear that he had lost that which leaves life very destitute of savour—he feared with a new and terrible dread that he had lost his Occupation!