nees, collecting the
letters into heaps and shovelling them into the bags. Even the copy of
_Punch_ and the loose wrapper went in with the rest.

"You can't carry them," said he, when none remained outside. "I'll take
them for you and dump them on the track."

"I have to pass the time till midnight. I can manage them in two
journeys."

But Stingaree insisted, and presently stood ready to mount his mare.

"You give me your word, Kentish?"

"My word of honor."

"It is something to have one to give! I shall not come back this way; we
shall have the Clear Corner police on our tracks by moonlight, and the
more they have to choose from the better. So I must go. You have given
me your word; you wouldn't care to give me----"

But his hand went out a little as he spoke, and Kentish's met it
seven-eights of the way.

"Give this up, man! It's a poor game, when all's said; do give it up!"
urged the man of the world with the warmth of a lad. "Come back to
England and----"

But the hand he had detained was wrenched from his, and, in the pink
sunset sifted through the pines, Stingaree vaulted into his saddle with
an oath.

"With a price on my skin!" he cried, and galloped from the gully with a
bitter laugh.

And in the moonlight sure enough came bobbing horsemen, with fluttering
pugarees and short tunics with silver buttons; but they saw nothing of
the missing passenger, who had carried the bags some distance down the
road, and had found them quite a comfortable couch in a certain
box-clump commanding a sufficient view of the road. Nevertheless, when
the little coach came swaying on its leathern springs, its scarlet
enamel stained black as ink in the moonshine, he was on the spot to stop
it with uplifted arms.

"Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'm the passenger you put down this
afternoon." And the driver nearly tumbled from his perch.

"What about my mail-bags?" he recovered himself enough to ask: for it
was perfectly plain that the pretentiously intrepid passenger had been
skulking all day in the scrub, scared by the terrors of the road.

"They're in that clump," replied Mr. Kentish. "And you can get them
yourself, or send someone else for them, for I have carried them far
enough."

"That be blowed for a yarn!" cried the driver, forgetting his benefits
in the virtuous indignation of the moment.

"I don't wonder at your thinking it one," returned the other, mildly;
"for I never had such absolute luck in all my life!"