I flatly opposed the idea of Frank Hawden going with me.  He would make a mull of the whole thing.  It was no use arguing with grannie and impressing upon her the fact that I was not the least nervous concerning the horses.  I could take Frank with me in the buggy, ride, or stay at home.  I preferred driving.  Accordingly the fat horses were harnessed to the buggy, and with many injunctions to be careful and not forget the parcels, we set out.  Frank Hawden’s presence spoilt it all, but I determined to soon make short work of him.

There was one gate to go through, about four miles from the house.  Frank Hawden got out to open it.  I drove through, and while he was pushing it to, laid the whip on the horses and went off full tilt.  He ran after me shouting all manner of things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy.  One horse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove at a good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in the distance.  The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight.  I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden.  It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from grannie for my conduct.

It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal.  The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached.  His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never!  You’re not by yourself, are you?”

“I am.  Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once.  I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.”

He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute.

“Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness.  Something must be hurting him.  He has been kicking up all the way.”

Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: 

“It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker.  There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least.  If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive.  How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?”

“I’m not frightened,” I replied.

“I see you’re not.  You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“I can.”

“You can’t.”