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y, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour being nine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o'clock, Mike's place was still empty. "I've had a letter from MacPherson," said Mr. Jackson. MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to in a previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep. "He seems very satisfied with Mike's friend Wyatt. At the moment of writing Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in the shoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems to make things fairly lively wherever he is. I don't wonder he found a public school too restricted a sphere for his energies." "Has he been fighting a duel?" asked Marjory, interested. "Bushrangers," said Phyllis. "There aren't any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres," said Ella. "How do you know?" said Phyllis clinchingly. "Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray," began Gladys Maud, conversationally, through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off. "He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike's plate supplies them. I see it comes from Buenos Ayres." "I wish Mike would come and open it," said Marjory. "Shall I go and hurry him up?" The missing member of the family entered as she spoke. "Buck up, Mike," she shouted. "There's a letter from Wyatt. He's been wounded in a duel." "With a bushranger," added Phyllis. "Bush-ray," explained Gladys Maud. "Is there?" said Mike. "Sorry I'm late." He opened the letter and began to read. "What does he say?" inquired Marjory. "Who was the duel with?" "How many bushrangers were there?" asked Phyllis. Mike read on. "Good old Wyatt! He's shot a man." "Killed him?" asked Marjory excitedly. "No. Only potted him in the leg. This is what he says. First page is mostly about the Ripton match and so on. Here you are. 'I'm dictating this to a sportsman of the name of Danvers, a good chap who can't help being ugly, so excuse bad writing. The fact is we've been having a bust-up here, and I've come out of it with a bullet in the shoulder, which has crocked me for the time being. It happened like this. An ass of a Gaucho had gone into the town and got jolly tight, and coming back, he wanted to ride through our place. The old woman who keeps the lodge wouldn't have it at any price. Gave him the absolute miss-in-baulk. So this rotter, instead of shifting off, proceeded to cut the fence, and go through that way. All the farms out her
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