A few minutes revealed to our gaze three or four men and two women, seated near a wagon, that looked as though it had made many journeys between Ballarat and Melbourne, before the roads were in good order. A brisk fire was burning, and on that fire we could see a coffee-pot and a kettle. A short distance from the camp were two skeleton horses, with just life enough left to be able to graze upon the prairie, and who seemed to have been fed on thistles during the last few years of their life. With no suspicion that our appearance was against us, we rode boldly on until we were brought to a halt by a couple of presented muskets, held in the hands of their trembling owners.
"Don't ye come here, ye divils!" shouted one of the men in goodly strong brogue.
"If he does, it's cowld lead ye'll get!" cried another.
"But, my good friends," Mr. Brown said, blandly.
"Away wid ye, at once, and the divil take care of ye. We know ye."
"If you know us, you should not fear us," my friend said, in the insinuating argumentative style so peculiar to him.
"O! better not stand then; blarneying, but go away wid ye!" yelled out one of the women, with demonstrative indications of throwing hot water or potatoes at us.
"Why, who do you think we are?" I asked, Mr. Brown having retired from the conversational portion of his duty in deep disgust at the idea of having his gentlemanly address taken for blarney.
"We think ye are thaves! may the divil confound ye," replied one of the heathen.
"But we are not thieves," I continued.