e cut on his face had been sewn up by a digger known as "Pat
O'Shea," who, ten years before, had had on his brass door-plate in
Merrion Square, Dublin, the inscription, "Mr Vernon O'Shea, M.R.C.S."

"Take care of yourself, boss," cried Vale, as Gerrard swung himself up
into the saddle, and made a grimace intended for a smile as he waved his
hand to the assembled diggers, and trotted off, followed by his black
boy, a short, wiry-framed aboriginal from the Burdekin River country,
who was much attached to his master, and eyed his bound-up face with
much concern. He, like Gerrard, carried a revolver at his saddle-bow,
and a Snider carbine in a becket--Native Police fashion. Gerrard, in
addition to his revolver, had a 44 deg. Winchester carbine slung across his
shoulder.

"Well, Tommy, here we are off home again. How do you feel? Drunk last
night?"

"Yes, boss. Last night and night before, too. Mine had it fine time
longa Hansen's."

Gerrard laughed, and began to fill his pipe, though smoking just then
gave him as much pain as pleasure. Then he and Tommy rode on in silence
for many hours, until they came to where the beaten track ended at a
lagoon, known as Leichhardt Ponds. Here they noticed that a party had
been camped the previous night, and had evidently been shooting and
eating duck, for the ground was strewn with feathers.

From Leichhardt Ponds there was not even a blazed tree line, but both
he and the black boy kept steadily on, their bushmen's knowledge guiding
them in a bee line for the particular part of the coast they wished to
reach.

As they rode along, Tommy's eyes scanned the ground, which was strewn
with a thick carpet of dead leaves and bark from the forest gum trees.

"Four fellow men been come along here yesterday, boss," he said, as he
pulled up and pointed downward.

Gerrard bent over in his saddle, and looked at the tracks indicated by
Tommy.

"Some fellow stray horse perhaps, Tommy?"

The black boy grunted a disapproval of the suggestion. No horses would
stray so far from Hansen's, where there was good grass country, into
"stunted ironbark" country where there was none. And presently to prove
his contention, he pulled up and pointed to a small white object on the
ground.

"Look, boss. Some fellow been light pipe and throw away match."

In an instant Gerrard's suspicions were aroused. What could a party
of four men be doing so far away from Hansen's--and making towards
the coast? Vale h