“The mane scamp,” began the doctor, when Murden checked him.

“What, is the cause of the gathering, and why do I find an officer of her majesty, lying on the ground wounded and insensible?”

“Why, the fact of it is, Mr. Officer,” Merriam began, but apparently afraid of the consequences, he stopped and looked hard towards the doctor, as though asking him to take up the answer and carry it through in the best manner possible.

“O, the divils,” roared the doctor, rising from his seat, much to the relief of the driver, who apparently thanked God that he was rid of such an incumbrance.

“O, the spalpeens,” continued O’Haraty, shaking his fist at an imaginary enemy a long distance off.  “O, if there is law to be had in the land we’ll pursue ye wid not only the police force, but the whole army, and then we’ll see if ye are so bold.”

“What is the matter, doctor?” asked Murden, who I thought suspected what had taken place, and was disposed to overlook it, yet not a word of recognition had he bestowed upon Fred and myself, so we kept in the background.

“Matter?” yelled the doctor, apparently desperately angry; “why, here’s me friends and myself out for a bit of a walk and to kill a kangaroo or two, when a party of sneaking bushrangers ups and fires at us, and down tumbles Wattles, shot in the arm quite nately.  It’s chase we gave to the villains, but run they did, and when we came back we found that this scamp was disposed to escape to Melbourne and lave us to foot it back to the city.”

“Indeed!  Pray which way did they go?” asked Murden, not moving a muscle of his face.

“Over the hill, there.  Ride quick, and I think it’s prisoners they’ll be in no time,” cried the doctor.

“Did you count how many there were?” asked the police officer.

“Count them?  How the divil could we, there were so many?” replied O’Haraty.

“O, then if the bushrangers were in such force, it’s surprising they should run from only six men.  I thought better of their courage,” and a sarcastic smile stole over Murden’s face as he watched the doctor’s companion.

“Well, well,” stammered O’Haraty, “if ye had heard us shout, ye would have thought we could have frightened the divil himself.”

“Well, whether Wattles was wounded by a bushranger or a companion, it will do him no good to remain here in the hot sun.  Place him carefully into the carriage and drive to the barracks.  I’ll follow shortly, and continue my investigation of this mysterious affair.”

Murden spoke like one accustomed to be obeyed.  The driver of the carriage, who hardly moved two steps without keeping his eyes on the dog—­the animal appearing to have some strong antipathy against him—­readily lent his aid, and with Smith’s assistance the wounded lieutenant was propped up on a seat, and the doctor stowed his corpulent person alongside of him.

“Why did you not tell me of this yesterday?” asked Murden, beckoning to me, and whispering in a low tone.