‘After the cellar racket Randal had the sense to stay away at Monaro and work at our station there for months. He could work when he liked, and a smarter man among stock never handled a slip-rail. But he had to come home at last. The governor talked to him most polite. Hoped he’d stay to dinner. He drank fair; they were well into the fourth bottle when the row began. He told us afterwards that the old man, instead of flying into a rage, as usual, was bitter and cool, played with him a bit, but finished up by saying that “though it was the worst day’s work he ever did to come to this accursed country, he hardly expected his eldest son would turn out a burglar and a thief.”
‘Randal was off his head by this time—been ‘a bit on’ before he came—swore he wouldn’t stand that from any man, not even his own father. The old man glared at him like a tiger, and fetching out the loaded duelling pistols, which people always had handy in those days, gave him one, and they stood up at different ends of the long room.
‘We heard the shots and rushed in. There was Randal holding on by the wall, swaying about, and, pointing to the ceiling, saying, as well as he could, “Fired in the air! by ——! fired in—the—air!” Sure enough, there was the mark of his bullet in the ceiling, but the other one had hit the wall, barely an inch from Randal’s head.’
‘What an awful affair! How your father must have rejoiced that he was spared the guilt of such a crime.’
‘I don’t know about that; all he said next day was, that his hand must have been shaky, or he would have rid the world of an infernal scoundrel, who had disgraced his family and was no son of his. He never spoke to him again.’
‘Miserable father—lost son! What became of your brothers, may I ask, since you have told me so much?’
‘Randal was in a vessel coming back from Adelaide with an exploring party. He’d been lushing pretty heavy, and they thought he must have gone overboard one night in a fit of the horrors. Anyhow, he was never seen alive afterwards. Poor Clem—he wasn’t half as bad as Randal, only easy led—died at the Big River: was shepherding when we last heard of him. I’m all that’s left of the Warleighs. Some fine day you’ll hear of me being drowned crossing a river, or killed by the blacks, or broke my neck off a horse; and a good job too. I must be off now. It’s years since I’ve said as much to any one.’
‘But why—why not stay and commence a happier career? Scores of men have done so, years after your age. You will have encouragement from every member of my family.’
‘Family!’ answered the outcast, with a bitter smile. ‘Am I fit to associate with ladies? Why, even while I’m speaking to you I can hardly open my mouth without an oath or a rough word. No! It might have been once; it’s years too late now. But I thank you all the same; and if ever a chance comes in my way of doing your people a good turn, you may depend your life on Gyp Warleigh. Good-bye, sir!’
As he rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders and towering to the full height of his stature, Mr. Effingham instinctively held out his hand. Closing his own upon it for one moment in an iron grasp, the wanderer strode forth upon his path, and was lost behind a turn in the timber.