We forded the river, the waters of which were not more than twelve inches deep, and with many flourishes of his immense whip, Smith drew up his cattle directly under the shade of a friendly tree growing near the bank.

Before the cattle were turned loose, we were surrounded by anxious inquirers desirous of asking a dozen questions regarding the safety of the country, and what the men whom we had ironed had been guilty of.

Murden, who was both cross and hungry by his night’s ride, attempted to satisfy their curiosity by replying; but he might just as well have attempted to dam a river with a sieve; and the few words which he spoke were almost lost in the confusion.

“We shall never get any breakfast or rest at this rate,” he whispered to Fred and me, “so lend us a hand to clear the ground, and then I’ll keep them at a distance, or break their necks.”

We mounted our horses, and telling the stockmen, miners, adventurers like ourselves, speculators, and two or three fat old fellows, who were visiting their cattle-raising districts to see how their stock thrived, that we feared some of them were in league with bushrangers, and that we would have no one that did not belong to our force inside of the lines at present, drove them back until we had cleared a sufficient space for our convenience, and then the men stretched a rope from two posts, and inside of that barrier no one dared to venture without permission.

“Hullo, you feller with the blue flannel shirt,” cried one of the rough-looking outsiders, addressing Fred, “did you do any thing towards grabbing them ere chaps?” alluding to our prisoners.

“Them ere two fellers is hextry policemen, I suppose,” cried a newly arrived cockney, with great staring eyes, watching our movements as eagerly as though we were wild animals confined for his especial amusement.

“I wonder if the stealings are good in that department?” asked another.

“Do you hear, Murden?” Fred inquired, with a laugh, and a thought how appropriate the question was under the circumstances.

“Curse the fellow’s impudence,” muttered the lieutenant; “but I’ll learn him a lesson that he’ll remember for a few days,” he continued; and then turning to Maurice who was unsaddling his horse, he said,—­

“Take a man with you and arrest that blackguard.  I suspect him to be a bushranger in disguise.”

The policeman abandoned his horse on the instant, grasped his carbine, spoke a word to a companion, and before the inquisitive genius, who wished to know whether the stealings in the police force were good, had a chance to think of his unfortunate remark, he was in custody, and threatened with instant death if he even made a movement towards resistance.  He was hustled before the commander of the corps, and with an indignant look and blustering voice, wanted to know for what he was seized.

“You think that I don’t know you,” said Murden, in a tone of pretended sternness, “but you are mistaken.  You are Sam Firefly, the leader of a gang of bushrangers.  I knew you the instant that I got sight of your face.”