"You think that I don't know you," said Murden, in a tone of pretended sternness, "but you are mistaken. You are Sam Firefly, the leader of a gang of bushrangers. I knew you the instant that I got sight of your face."
"So help me God, I'm not—I don't know the gentleman you speak of. I'm a stranger here—I only arrived in Australia week before last;—for God's sake let me go, and I won't do any thing but what you wish me to;" and the fellow wrung his hands, and looked the very picture of woe and fright.
"I think I'd better order you to be shot, for if I should let you off, and find that you are Sam after all, I should always regret it," the lieutenant said, with mock gravity.
"Don't shoot me; please don't—I never hurt anyone in my life. I'm only in the country to make my fortune, and when I get it I'll leave. I swear that I will."
"On those conditions, then, I will let you go—but remember, I shall have an eye on you hereafter."
The fellow expressed his thanks in a confused manner, and darted from the enclosure, and during the remainder of our stay at the stream we did not hear an impudent remark concerning our blue flannel shirts or the perquisites of Australian policemen. The heterogeneous maps were suddenly struck with Murden's display of authority, backed as it was by about a dozen men, well armed and ready to do his bidding without a question or murmur.
Fires were lighted and kettles soon boiling, and the smell of burning meat, as it crackled on the coals, made not only the hound but the weary guard look with eager eyes for the call to breakfast.