miles off; and at the rate we could travel with our baggage-horse, we did not expect to reach it for three or four days.
Observing how ill the stranger looked I suggested that we should at once look out a good spot for camping.
“I can help you, as I know the country,” said the stranger. “A short distance further on there is a water-hole in what during the rainy season is sometimes a torrent; we can there obtain all the requisites for a camp.”
I now insisted that he should mount my horse, and we set out.
Pushing forward, we soon reached the spot he spoke of. Our new companion, after examining the ground, told us that the bushrangers had been there, and after watering their horses had ridden on, as he supposed they would, and that we need have no apprehensions of an attack from them.
We soon hobbled the horses in the usual fashion, fastening their legs together with leathern straps in such a way as to make it impossible for them to move beyond a slow walk, so that if they were inclined to stray they could not go far.
Toby quickly lighted a fire, while the stranger by our advice rested near it. Guy and I taking our guns went out in different directions in search of game, which is usually to be found near a water-hole in Australia. We soon came back, Guy with a brace of pigeons and I with three parrots, so that we had ample food for all hands. As we had damper and tea, we enjoyed a satisfactory meal which greatly revived our new friend. While we were seated round the fire—Toby watching the horses—the stranger inquired if we were related to Mr Strong. This led us to give him a brief sketch of our history.
“May I ask your name?” he said. “Mine is Norman Bracewell.”
“And ours is Thurston,” said my brother. “What! Guy Thurston?” exclaimed Bracewell, leaning forward and grasping Guy’s hand; “I thought from the first that I knew your features. We were at school together. ‘Little Guy’ we used to call you, and you haven’t forgotten me?”
“No indeed!” said Guy warmly, “you always stood my friend when the big fellows tried to bully me, and I have a perfect recollection of your countenance. I have often wished to know what had become of you, but could only hear that you had gone abroad.”