"The worst man in Ballarat. He is called the bully of the mines, and it is as much as a man's life is worth to anger him. His real name is Pete Burley; he served out his time for breaking a man's head and then robbing him, in London. Say nothing to him, but if he speaks, answer him civilly."
This was all spoken in a tone not above a whisper, and we began to think that the fellow was indeed dangerous, if a man like Smith displayed signs of fear in his presence.
After Mr. Pete had satisfied himself which horse possessed the best bottom, he turned towards us, and condescended to honor us with his attention.
"Is them hosses yourn?" he inquired, with a growl, as though the effort of asking a question was painful.
Fred intimated that they belonged to us, and that he considered them, confidentially, fine animals.
"I want to use this ere one, to-night; where's the saddle and fixins?"
"Let him have the animal," whispered Smith, without raising his eyes; "it's better than having trouble with him."
The advice was intended for our benefit, but the Yankee blood which coursed through Fred's veins was opposed to such an inglorious acquiescence.
"You don't intend to take the animal without asking our consent, do you?" inquired Fred, mildly.
The ruffian actually looked astonished, and for a moment did not reply, so bewildered did he seem.