Many hands made light work of returning the goods to the secret cell, as there was not much formality in stowing them, and then the floor boards were replaced, and we were ready to start on our long journey.
"Are we all ready?" asked our commander.
"All ready, sir," was the answer, and a loud crack of Smith's whip, as he touched up one of the leading oxen, which appeared too eager to start before the word was given, made us think of the time when we first left Melbourne under his guidance.
"Then forward we go!" cried Murden; and we had got some paces from the hut, when a shrill voice exclaimed,—"O, don't leave me—go to thunder—who cares for bushrangers? Bimbo—Bimbo—where's Bimbo?" "I had forgotten the parrot; what shall we do with him?" asked Murden, ordering a halt.
"Let me stop and look after him until you come back again," cried the innocent Bimbo, raising his dirty face from the team, and gazing at us with an air of simplicity charming to behold.
"Silence, you miserable traitor!" shouted the exasperated officer, "or I shall be tempted to beat you with my whip."
"I don't see what this cove has done, that he should be snatched up and lugged off this way. P'aps Mr. Sherman, who owns this stock-house, won't scold when he comes to hear of it. He won't say nothing, and swear to think that his cattle is all running wild, 'cos nobody takes care of 'um."
"Lend me your whip, Smith," Murden said, as the fellow raised his voice in a sort of howl, at the thought of being carried away from the hut which had sheltered and screened his rascalities for so many years.
Smith handed the short-handled instrument of torture to the officer, who waved it over his head with a scientific flourish, like one accustomed to its use, and in another instant Bimbo would have had something to cry for, but the cunning rogue ducked his head just in time to escape punishment. The long lash passed over his body, and cracked like the report of a pistol; and while the officer was drawing back his arm for another attempt, the impudent, dirty face of the rogue was raised, and a leer of contemptuous pity expressed upon it.
Neither Fred nor myself could prevent laughing at the fellow's coolness, and our mirth extended to Murden, who began to be aware that he was making a ridiculous exhibition of his temper, and tossed the stockman's whip to the owner, exclaiming,—