"Ah, a sort of ghost, I suppose you mean," I answered.
"Precisely," replied the stockman, mechanically taking the bottle from my hand and again applying it to his lips; "ghosts are the fellows—they do every thing without being seen; and why should not the spirit of Gulpin hover around this spot, and repel all attempts to get at his money?"
"I know of but two reasons," I replied, gently taking the bottle from my friend's hands, for fear that my share of its contents would be very meagre; "in the first place, ghosts usually don't care about money, as they have no use for it in the country in which they spend a large portion of their time."
"That's true," replied the man, making a dive to get the bottle in his possession, but I prevented this, by applying it to my own lips.
"In the next place," I continued, pausing to take breath, "fire, but not fire-arms is furnished to refractory spirits; and if I am any judge of worldly matters, it was a piece of lead that whizzed past my head half an hour ago."
"Then you don't believe that the sound which we considered the report of a gun was produced by evil spirits, who are set here to guard the treasure of Gulpin?"
"It is more likely a bushranger was secreted in the bushes, or behind the trees, and that when he aimed, he intended to make short work of one of us, in hope of frightening the remainder."
"Then give me another drink, and if the scamp wants a muss he can have one, for I'm not going to remain here, broiling under the hot sun, all day."
The old man snatched the flask from my hand, and before I could stop him, had nearly drained it of its contents. I discovered, for the first time, that day, that the stockman was no longer under self-control when he had tasted liquor, and from that period until our acquaintance ceased I never again offered it to him.
I sought to restrain him, but in vain; with a fanatical yell he plunged into the clearing, and waving his long gun over his head, he dared spirit, ghost, or bushranger to meet him on even ground.