“Silence, you miserable traitor!” shouted the exasperated officer, “or I shall be tempted to beat you with my whip.”

“I don’t see what this cove has done, that he should be snatched up and lugged off this way.  P’aps Mr. Sherman, who owns this stock-house, won’t scold when he comes to hear of it.  He won’t say nothing, and swear to think that his cattle is all running wild, ’cos nobody takes care of ’um.”

“Lend me your whip, Smith,” Murden said, as the fellow raised his voice in a sort of howl, at the thought of being carried away from the hut which had sheltered and screened his rascalities for so many years.

Smith handed the short-handled instrument of torture to the officer, who waved it over his head with a scientific flourish, like one accustomed to its use, and in another instant Bimbo would have had something to cry for, but the cunning rogue ducked his head just in time to escape punishment.  The long lash passed over his body, and cracked like the report of a pistol; and while the officer was drawing back his arm for another attempt, the impudent, dirty face of the rogue was raised, and a leer of contemptuous pity expressed upon it.

Neither Fred nor myself could prevent laughing at the fellow’s coolness, and our mirth extended to Murden, who began to be aware that he was making a ridiculous exhibition of his temper, and tossed the stockman’s whip to the owner, exclaiming,—­

“I was foolish to allow the fellow to provoke me, and am glad that I did not touch him with the lash; although if he had not been as quick as lightning, I’d have taken a good piece of his hide.”

“But what are we to do with the parrot?  Remember we are losing time,” I said.

“Yes, what’s to be done with me—­where’s Bimbo?” shrieked the bird.

“Put the cage into the cart—­he will excite curiosity when we reach Melbourne, and perhaps bring a round sum.”

The order was obeyed, and with shrill screams of delight the bird and his cage were stowed among the prisoners, and long after dark we could hear the talkative parrot ask the bushrangers how they felt, and when they were going to die?  Questions of great significance to them at the time.  After a while he dozed off to sleep, but during the night awoke about once every half hour, and with a shout of,—­

“Where’s Bimbo—­darn Bimbo—­lazy Bimbo!” and then would drop off to sleep again.

At about nine o’clock we reached “Boomerang stream,” the same place where we had witnessed the natives of Australia gorge themselves with kangaroo meat until stuffed to repletion.  The place was alive with oxen and stockmen, and carts filled with stores on their way to the mines.  Many of the drivers had just arrived, having been on the road from Melbourne all night, and were turning their cattle loose, intending to pass the day by the side of the stream, for the purpose of recruiting, and avoiding the heat of the noonday sun.