"See ye hanged first, and then I von't," repeated the voice in the tree.
"Then we shall have to send another bullet into the tree to start you."
"If ye don't cut hout of these diggins, yer'll wish that ye had," replied our defiant acquaintance.
"Once for all, will you surrender?" was demanded.
"See ye blasted fust," was returned, in a dogmatical manner.
Fred let fly another bullet into the tree, and this time with remarkable success; for suddenly a singular-looking genius, with wonderful long legs, and those dressed in untanned skins of the kangaroo, hair side out, tumbled from the tree, feet foremost, and with bounds which I thought no human being capable of, sprang over the bushes and attempted to escape, which he no doubt would have done, as we were too much surprised to think of checking his career with a bullet, had not the hound, with a yell of satisfaction, followed in pursuit.
We started as fast as possible for the purpose of preventing the dog from killing the man outright, as we feared he would, but our alarm was groundless; for after a smart run of a quarter of a mile, we found the hound standing over his victim, and exhibiting a wicked set of grinders at every motion which his prisoner made to escape.
"Vot is the meanin' of this 'ere kind of a go?" demanded our prisoner, as we gravely took seats upon fallen trees, and regarded him with great interest.
The fellow was a curiosity, and I have often laughed at the ridiculous appearance which he made upon our first meeting in the woods of Australia.
His long legs and feet were encased in the skins of kangaroos, which accounted for the ease with which he passed through the bushes and left no scent but of the animal, for Rover to follow, and as I had often punished him for chasing kangaroos without permission, it sufficiently explained why the poor dog was so puzzled.