hind, there sat Cairns in his shirt-sleeves, filling the niche his
body made in the actual green bush, a swollen wet water-bag at his feet,
his revolver across his knees. There was an ominous click even as
Stingaree screwed round where he lay.

"Give me a drink!" he cried at sight of the humid canvas bag.

"Why should I?" asked the Superintendent, smoking on.

"Because I haven't had one since we started--because I'm parched with
thirst."

"Parch away!" cried the creature of suspicion. "You can't help yourself,
and I can't help you with this baby to nurse."

And he fondled the cocked revolver in his hands.

"Very well! Don't give me one!" exclaimed Stingaree, and dealt the moist
bag a kick that sent a jet of cold water spurting over his foot. He
expected to be kicked himself for that; he was only cursed, the bag
snatched out of his reach, and deeply drained before his eyes.

"I was going to give you some," said Cairns, smacking his lips. "Now
your tongue may hang out before I do."

Stingaree left the last word with the foe: it was part of his
preconceived policy. He still regretted his solitary retort, but not for
a moment the more petulant act which he had just committed. His boots
had been removed after his fall; one of his socks was now wet through,
and he spent the next few minutes in taking it off with the other foot.
The lengthy process seemed to afford his mind a certain pensive
entertainment. It was a shapely and delicate white foot that lay
stripped at last--a foot that its owner, with nothing better to do,
could contemplate with legitimate satisfaction. But Superintendent
Cairns, noting his prisoner's every look, and putting his own confident
interpretation on them all, cursed him afresh for a conceited pig, and
filled another pipe, with the revolver for an instant by his side.

Stingaree took no interest in his proceedings; the revolver he
especially ignored, and lay stretched before his captor, one sock off
and one sock on, one arm in splints and sling and the other bound to his
ribs, a model prisoner whose last thought was of escape. His legs,
indeed, were free; but a man who could not sit on a horse was not the
man to run away. And then there was the relentless Superintendent
sitting over him, pipe in mouth, but revolver again in hand, and a
crooked finger very near the trigger.

The fiery wilderness still lay breathless in the great heat, but the
lengthening shadow of the hop-bush was now a thin