Matters were well advanced for the road. The thousand-and-one trifles that are so easily forgotten before the commencement of a long journey, and so sorely missed afterwards, were nearly completed under the tireless tendance of Dick Evans. The three young men were chatting in the verandah, after a long day’s drafting, when a strange horseman came ‘up from the under world.’
‘I wonder who it is,’ said Guy. ‘Not any of the Benmohr people, for they have no time to spare until they come to say good-bye. I should say all the other fellows were too hard at work. It’s a chance if Churbett and the D’Oyleys will be ready for a fortnight. He looks like a gentleman. It must be a stranger.’
‘It is a gentleman, as you say,’ replied Hubert Warleigh, ‘and not long from home, by the cut of his jib.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Wilfred. ‘He is a tall man and has a gun, certainly, which last favours your theory.’
‘I see,’ said Hubert, ‘a valise strapped to the back of his saddle; holsters for pistols, and top-boots. He is a “new chum,” safe enough; besides, when he got to the slip-rails, he took the top one down first.’
‘You must be right,’ said Wilfred, smiling. ‘I used to disgrace myself with the slip-rail business. Who in the world can it be? He has come at the wrong time for being shown round, unless he wants an exploring tour.’
The horseman rode up in a leisurely and deliberate fashion; a tall, fresh-complexioned man, whose blue eyes and dark hair reminded Wilfred of many things, and a half-forgotten clime. The lower part of the stranger’s face was concealed by a thick but not fully-grown beard; and as he advanced, with a look of great solemnity, and inquired whether he had the honour to see Mr. Wilfred Effingham, that gentleman, for the life of him, could not remember where he had set eyes upon him before.
‘That is my name,’ said Wilfred. ‘Will you allow us to take your horse, and to say that we are very glad to see you? Guy, take this gentleman’s horse to the stable.’
‘I thank you kindly. I believe that I have a letter of introduction somewhere to you, sir, from an acquaintance of mine in Ireland—a dissipated, good-for-nothing fellow, one Gerald O’More. I thought it might be as useful in Australia as the writing of a better man.’
‘Gerald O’More was a friend of mine,’ said Wilfred coldly, with a frown unseen by the stranger, busily engaged in unfastening his multifarious straps and buckles. ‘There must be some mistake about the reputation.’