‘You had better stay, Fred, and go with me to Yass,’ suggested Argyll. ‘I am going there next week, and I daresay you have some business there.’
‘I believe I have; indeed, I know that I have been putting off something old Billy Rockley blew me up about last month, and I’ll go in with you and get it over. But I won’t stay now. I’ll go to-morrow, or my stock-rider will think I’m lost and take to embezzling my bullocks, instead of stealing my neighbour’s calves, which is his duty to do. One must keep up discipline.’
After lunch Wilfred mounted his ancient charger and departed along the track to Warbrok, Mr. Churbett volunteering to show him the way past divers snares for the unwary, yclept ‘turn-off’ roads.
‘These two fellows,’ said he, ‘have no end of what they call duties to perform before nightfall, and can’t be spared of course; but I can spare myself easily, and give Duellist exercise besides.’
Presently Mr. Churbett, who was a very neat figure, having assumed breeches and boots, appeared mounted upon a magnificent bay horse, the finest hackney, in appearance, which Wilfred had yet seen. A bright bay with black points, showing no white but a star in the centre of his broad forehead; he stood at least fifteen hands three inches in height, with all the appearance of high caste and courage. As they started he showed signs of impatience, and then, arching his neck, set off at a remarkably fast walk, which caused Barragon’s stock-horse jog to appear slow and ungraceful.
‘What a glorious hackney!’ said Wilfred, half enviously. ‘Did you breed him?’
‘No, don’t breed horses; too much expense and bother. Fools breed—that is, enthusiasts—and wise men buy. He’s a Wanderer, bred by Rowan of Pechelbah. Got him rather cheap about six months ago; gave five-and-twenty pounds for him. The man that did breed him, of course, couldn’t afford to ride him; thought he had others as good at home, which I take leave to doubt.’
‘I should think so! What a price for a horse of his figure—five years old, you say, and clean thoroughbred. A gift! Is he fast?’
‘Pretty well. I shall run him for the Maiden Plate at Yass Races. And now, do you see that turn-off road? Well, don’t turn off; by and by you will come to another; follow it, and you will have no further chance of losing your way. I’ll say good-afternoon.’
His amusing friend turned, and as Duellist’s hoofs died away in the distance, Wilfred took the old horse by the head and sent him along at a hand-gallop, only halting occasionally until, just as the dusk was impending, the far-gleaming waters of the lake came into view. Dick had arrived hours before, and had all his charge secured in the now creditable stock-yard. The absentee was welcomed with enthusiasm by the whole family, who appeared to think he had been away for months, to judge by the warmth of their greetings.