And he went on to amplify his first lie like a man.

But when the bags were really back in the coach, piled roof-high on
those of the downward mail, then it was worse fun for Guy Kentish
outside than even he had anticipated. Question followed question,
compliment capped compliment, and a certain unsteady undercurrent of
incredulity by no means lessened his embarrassment. Had he but told the
truth, he felt he could have borne the praise, and indeed enjoyed it,
for he had done far better than anybody was likely to suppose, and
already it was irritating to have to keep that circumstance a secret.
Yet one thing he was able to say from his soul before the coach drew up
at the next stage.

"You should have a spell here," the driver had suggested, "and let me
pick you up again on my way back. You'd soon lay hands on the bird
himself, if you can put salt on his tail as you've done. And no one else
can--we want a few more chums like you."

"I dare say!"

And the new chum's tone bore its own significance.

"You don't mean," cried the driver, "to go and tell me you'll hurry home
after this?"

"Only by the first steamer!" said Guy Kentish.

And he kept that word as well.

The Taking of Stingaree

Stingaree had crossed the Murray, and all Victoria was agog with the
news. It was not his first descent upon that Colony, nor likely to be
his last, unless Sub-Inspector Kilbride and his mounted myrmidons did
much better than they had done before. There is no stimulus, however,
like a trembling reputation. Within four-and-twenty hours Kilbride
himself was on the track of the invader, whose heels he had never seen,
much less his face. And he rode alone.

It was not merely his reputation that was at stake, though nothing could
restore that more effectually than the single-handed capture of so
notorious a desperado as Stingaree. The dashing officer was not
unnaturally actuated by the sum of three hundred pounds now set upon the
outlaw's person, alive or dead. That would be a little windfall for one
man, but not much to divide among five or six; on the other hand, and
with all his faults, Sub-Inspector Kilbride had courage enough to
furnish forth a squadron. He was a black-bearded, high-cheeked
Irish-Australian, keen and over-eager to a disease, restless,
irascible, but full of the fire and dash that make as dangerous an enemy
as another good fighter need desire. And as a fine fighter in an
infamous cause, Stingaree had