"I'm silent as a corpse," cried the undertaker.
"I'll spake no more this night," continued Mike.
"See that you don't," answered our host.
"Divil a bit, till I see a bushranger, and then I'll give him a taste of my spear."
"That you may do, and you shall have a glass of grog for every one that you kill," answered Mr. Wright.
"Holy St. Patrick! you don't say so. Don't any one go near 'em but me. I'll fight the thaves and vagabonds every one, single handed and alone, like a Killarney man that I am."
For twenty minutes we continued on our course, expecting to strike the creek every moment,—yet the night was so dark that it was impossible to tell whether we were on the trail, or wading over the pasturage of the farm.
Even Kala was at fault, and glanced towards the trees, and examined them to discover if we were in the proper locality, but apparently without much success, and I began to think that our expedition was a failure, when the native uttered a grunt.
"Well, Kala, what now?" asked Mr. Wright