“Valentine Blount.”
The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and ascertained that all correspondence—his own included—which were addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps good time—better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”
The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.
He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full directions would be forwarded by his agent.
The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel chef, an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to abandon “la belle France.” So he said, amid the confessions, indirect or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he had been chef at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case, and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one else could have complained of the banquet.
Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant, however, completely eclipsed the other convives by a choice experience drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see him home” at the conclusion of the repast.
This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite like spring weather.”
Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”
“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”
“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning, you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”