As they were nearing the gate of the home-paddock, they encountered Wilfred Effingham, accompanied by his old stock-rider, bringing in a draft of cattle. They amused themselves watching the efficient aid rendered by the dog, and remarked incidentally the fiery impatience and clever horsemanship of old Tom, who, roused by the difficulty of driving some of the outlying younger cattle, was flying round the drove upon old Boney at a terrific pace.
‘How well that old vagabond rides!’ said Fred Churbett, as Tom came racing down the range after a perverse heifer, forcing her along at the very top of her speed, with Boney’s opened mouth just at her quarter, at which, with ears laid back and menacing teeth, he reached over from time to time, the old man’s whip meanwhile rattling over her in a succession of pistol-cracks, while he audibly devoted her to the infernal deities.
‘There, thin, may the divil take ye for a cross-grained, contrairy, brindle-hided baste of a scrubber; may I niver if I don’t have ye in the cask the first time yer bones is dacently covered!’ he wrathfully ejaculated, as Boney stopped dead at the rear of the drove, into which the alarmed heifer shot with the velocity of a shell.
As they rode up to Wilfred and his man, Major Glendinning addressed the old stock-rider:
‘By the way, Tom, do you happen to know any one of your own name in this part of the country—or elsewhere in the colony, as you have been such a traveller?’
‘The divil a know I know,’ replied Tom (who was in one of his worst humours, and at such times had little control over himself), ‘of any man but Parson Glendinning that lives on the Hunter River, and he’s a Scotchman and never seen “the black North” at all. But what raison have ye to ask me? I’m Tom Stewart Glendinning, the stock-rider, and barrin’ that I was “lagged” and was a fool to myself all my life long, I’ve no call to be ashamed of my name, more than another man.’
As he spoke the old man raised himself in his saddle and looked steadily, even fiercely, into the eyes of his interlocutor, who in turn, half astonished, half irritated at the old man’s manner, frowned as he returned the gaze with military sternness of rebuke.
Wilfred came up with the intention of rating his follower for his acerbity, but as he marked the fixed expression of the two men, something prevented him interposing. A similar feeling took possession of the others, as they stopped speaking and unconsciously constituted themselves an audience during this peculiar colloquy. Did a shadow of doubt, a half-acknowledged idea cross the minds of the spectators, as they watched the two men whose paths in life lay so wide apart? Was it the fire which burned with sudden glow, at that moment, in the eyes of both speakers, as they confronted each other, the chance similarity of their aquiline features, closely compressd lips, and knitted brows? Whatever the unseen influence, it was simultaneous, as it awed to silence men, at no time easy to control, and placed them in a position of mesmeric domination.
The Major rapidly, but with strangely husky intonation, then said:
‘Under that name did you send to Simon Glendinning, in the county of Derry, certain sums of money?’