hundred above the dull din of a
scuffling and scuttling as of a myriad mice heard through a microphone.
And the dusty fleeces disappeared on one side of the cloud to reappear
on the other until all were through.

"And seventy-two!" concluded Rigden hoarsely. "How many, Ives?"

"Two thousand one hundred and seventy-two," replied the jackeroo
promptly.

"Sure?"

"Certain, sir."

"And so am I," said Moya, riding forward, "for I kept tally too. Yes,
the hundreds are all right; but nothing will convince me that they were
hundreds; you might as well count the falling drops in a shower!"

Rigden smiled as he wiped the yellow deposit from his scarlet face.

"I may be one per cent. out," said he; "but if I'm more I deserve the
sack."

So Moya allowed that it was the most marvellous performance her own eyes
had ever seen; and these were full of an unconscious admiration for
Rigden and his prowess; but Rigden was conscious of it, and his chin
lifted, and his jaw set, and his burnt face glowed again.

Two of the musterers were told off to take the sheep to their new tank,
for their own dust had set them bleating for a drink; the rest lit their
pipes and turned their horses' heads for home; but Ives was instructed
to stop at the rabbiter's camp and tell him whom to expect.

"It would be unfair to spring you on the poor chap," said Rigden to
Moya.

Ives also had a last word to say to her, though he had to say it before
the boss.

"That was something to see, wasn't it, Miss Bethune? Doesn't it make you
keener than ever on the bush? Or isn't that possible?"

And he took off his wideawake as he shot ahead; but Rigden and Moya rode
on together without speaking.

IX

PAX IN BELLO

In happier circumstances the rabbiter's camp would have had less charm
for Moya. Its strings of rabbit-skins would have offended two senses,
and she would have objected openly to its nondescript dogs. The tent
among the trees would never have struck Moya as a covetable asylum,
while the rabbiter himself, on his haunches over the fire, could not
have failed to impress her as a horrid old man and nothing else. He was
certainly very ragged, and dirty, and hot; and he never said "sir," or
"miss," or "glad to see you." Yet he could cook a chop to the fraction
of a turn; and Moya could eat it off his own tin platter, and drink tea
by the pint out of a battered pannikin, with no milk in it, but more
brown sugar than enough. The tea, indeed