k his arms akimbo in a way that he had
in his most aggressive moments.

"And what were _you_ doing?" he demanded fiercely of the chaplain.

"It was I who stuck him up," answered the _soi-disant_ chaplain,
whipping a single glass into his eye to meet the double ones. "My name
is Stingaree!"

And in the instant's hush which followed he plucked a revolver from his
breast, while the hands of the sham bishop shot out from behind his
back, with one in each.

The scene of the instant after that defies ordinary description. It was
made the more hideous by the frightful imprecations of Carmichael, and
the short, sharp threat of Stingaree to shoot him dead unless he
instantly sat down. Carmichael bade him do so with a gallant oath, at
which the men immediately behind him joined with his two companions in
pulling him back into his chair and there holding him by main force.
Thereafter the manager appeared to realize the futility of resistance,
and was unhanded on his undertaking to sit quiet, which he did with the
exception of one speech to those behind.

"If any of you happen to be armed," he shouted over his shoulder, "shoot
him down like a dog. But if you're all as fairly had as I am, let's hear
what the beggar's got to say."

"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael," said the bushranger, still from the far
side of the table, as a comparative silence fell at last. "You are a man
after my own heart, sir, and I would as lief have you on my side as the
simple ruffian on my right. Not a bad bishop to look at," continued
Stingaree, with a jerk of the head toward his mate with the two
revolvers. "But if I had let him open his mouth! Now, if I'd had you,
Mr. Carmichael--but I have my doubts about your vocabulary, too!"

The point appealed to all present, and there was a laugh, in which,
however, Carmichael did not join.

"I suppose you didn't come here simply to give us a funny
entertainment," said he. "I happen to be the boss, or have been
hitherto, and if you will condescend to tell me what you want I shall
consider whether it is worth while to supply you or to be shot by you. I
shall be sorry to meet my death at the hands of a thieving blackguard,
but one can't pick and choose in that matter. Before it comes to
choosing, however, is it any good asking what you've done with the real
bishop and the real chaplain? If you've murdered them, as I----"

Stingaree had listened thus far with more than patience, in fact with
something akin to a