t dripped like melted gold; and in the fine
warp and woof of high light and sharp shadow the bushranger's horses
stood lashing at the flies with their long tails. The bushranger himself
was nowhere to be seen. But at last Kentish descried a white-and-brown
litter on either side of the thickest trunk in sight, from whose further
side floated intermittent puffs of thin blue smoke. Kentish looked and
looked again before advancing. But the tall pine threw such a shadow as
should easily swallow his own. And in another minute he was peeping
round the hole.

The litter on either side was, of course, the shower of miscellaneous
postal matter from the mail-bags; and in its midst sat Stingaree against
the tree, enjoying his pipe and a copy of _Punch_, of which the wrapper
lay upon his knees. Kentish peered for torn envelopes and gaping
packets; there were no more. The bushranger had evidently started with
_Punch_, and was still curiously absorbed in its contents. The notorious
eye-glass dangled against that kindred vanity, the spotless white jacket
which he affected in summer-time; the brown, attentive face, even as
Kentish saw it in less than profile, was thus purged of the sinister
aspect which such an appendage can impart to the most innocent; and a
somewhat passive amusement was its unmistakable note. Nevertheless, the
long revolver which had once more done its nefarious work still lay
ready to his hand; indeed, the Hon. Guy could have stooped and whipped
it up, had he been so minded.

He was absorbed, however, in the absorption of Stingaree; and as he
peered audaciously over the other's shoulder he put himself in the
outlaw's place. An old friend would have lurked in every cut, a friend
whom it might well be a painful pleasure to meet again. There were the
oval face and the short upper lip of one imperishable type; on the next
page one of _Punch's_ Fancy Portraits, with lines underneath which set
Stingaree incongruously humming a stave from _H.M.S. Pinafore_. Mr.
Kentish smiled without surprise. The common folk in the omnibus opposite
were the common folk of an inveterate master; there was matter for a
homesick sigh in his hint of streaming streets--and Kentish thought he
heard one as he held his breath. The page after that detained the reader
some minutes. The illustrations proclaimed it an article on the new
Savoy opera, and Stingaree confirmed the impression by humming more
_Pinafore_ when he came to the end. Kentish lef