face for a moment with an
expression of meek reproof, then let them slide back to his boots again,
but answered nothing. The enmity of the two was well known in Waddy.
Rogers was a worldly man who drank and swore, and who loved a fight as
other men loved a good meal; and Shine, as the superintendent, must
withhold his countenance from so grievous a sinner. Besides, there was a
belief that at some time or another the faceman had thrashed Shine, who
was searcher at the Stream in his week-day capacity, and for that reason
was despised by the miners, and regarded as a creature apart. Ephraim, it
was remarked, was always particularly careful in searching Rogers when he
came off shift, in the hope, as the men believed, of one day finding a
secreted nugget, and getting even with his enemy by gaoling him for a few
years.

As Ephraim passed out from the bar he again allowed his eyes to roll up
and meet those of his enemy from the dark shadow of his thick brows.

'Don't forget the little widow was sweet on Frank Hardy before you jugged
him, Tinribs,' said the miner.

Tinribs was a name bestowed upon the superintendent by the youth of
Waddy, and called after him by irreverent small boys from convenient
cover or under the shelter of darkness. He found the Widow Haddon at
home. She it was who answered his knock.

'I have come from the School Committee, ma'am,' he said, still intent
upon his boots.

'About Dickie, is it? Come in.'

Mrs. Haddon was dressmaker-in-ordinary to the township, and her otherwise
carefully tended kitchen was littered with clippings and bits of
material. She resumed her task by the lamp a soon as the delegate of the
School Committee was comfortably seated.

'Has Richard come home, ma'am?' Ephraim was an orator, and prided himself
on his command of language.

The widow shook her head. 'No,' she said composedly. 'I don't think he
will come home to-night.'

'We have had a committee meeting, missus,' said Ephraim, examining the
toe of his left boot reproach fully, 'an' it's understood we've got to
catch these boys.'

'What!' cried Mrs. Haddon, dropping her work into her lap. 'You silly men
are going to make a hunt of it? Then, let me tell you, you will not get
that boy of mine to-morrow, nor this week, nor next. Was ever such a pack
of fools! Let Dickie think he is being hunted, and he'll be a bushranger,
or a brigand chief, or a pirate, or something desperately wicked in that
amazin' head of his, and