“By St. George!” cried the Englishman, with warmth, “that last argument decides me.  I don’t fear a battle with bushrangers, but I should dislike to lose my prize-money.  Hurry through your suppers, men, and bring up the animals.  In fifteen minutes we start, and there will be no rest until we reach Boomerang River.”

“Come and share my supper—­there’s not much of a variety, but what there is you are welcome to,” Murden said, turning to us, after he had given his order.

“You did well,” whispered Fred, as we followed the officer to the hut; “don’t let him grow cold.”

“We’ve said enough for once; let him allude to the subject the next time, or he will suspect,” Fred rejoined, in the same low tone; and without renewing the conversation, we sat down upon the floor of the hut, and ate our beefsteak, broiled upon coals, and drank our strong coffee, with a peculiar relish.

There was no allusion to the dead robber we had just buried, and, in fact, Murden already appeared to have forgotten that there ever existed such a person.  But if his memory was so defective, mine was not, and I could hear the last words of the bushranger ringing in my ears, as he gasped for breath, and exclaimed, “Ten paces in the south—­”

The gold cross, too, which I had taken from the dead man’s neck, seemed to sear my bosom, and parch the skin, so heated did I fancy it grew when my thoughts wandered to the dying man and his buried treasure.

“What are we to do with these goods, which make such a display?” I asked of Murden, glancing around at the miscellaneous collection which surrounded us.

“Return all but the wine and provisions to the hole from whence they came, and let government send after them,” answered Murden.

“And the wine?” I asked.

“We’ll take it with us, and drink it on our way to the city.  We shall, by that means, prevent some other party from being led into temptation.”

Many hands made light work of returning the goods to the secret cell, as there was not much formality in stowing them, and then the floor boards were replaced, and we were ready to start on our long journey.

“Are we all ready?” asked our commander.

“All ready, sir,” was the answer, and a loud crack of Smith’s whip, as he touched up one of the leading oxen, which appeared too eager to start before the word was given, made us think of the time when we first left Melbourne under his guidance.

“Then forward we go!” cried Murden; and we had got some paces from the hut, when a shrill voice exclaimed,—­“O, don’t leave me—­go to thunder—­who cares for bushrangers?  Bimbo—­Bimbo—­where’s Bimbo?” “I had forgotten the parrot; what shall we do with him?” asked Murden, ordering a halt.

“Let me stop and look after him until you come back again,” cried the innocent Bimbo, raising his dirty face from the team, and gazing at us with an air of simplicity charming to behold.