“Perhaps you will explain before it suits your convenience,” the little man said, ironically; “I heard of the quarrel and the duel which one of you has been engaged in, and while investigating, I took occasion to look at the horses which you rode.  You will imagine that I was surprised to discover that each animal had upon his hind quarter the private mark of the police of Melbourne.  I repeat, sir, that the authorities of that city are not in the habit of selling horses to adventurers.”

The little man spoke confidently, and glanced around the crowd to see if his words were having an effect upon his audience.  Thinking that he would complete our humiliation, he continued:—­

“Our worthy miners here at Ballarat, have sometimes been put to great trouble by losing the dust which they have sent to the cities, and I think that I am right in demanding, in their name, a strict account of all suspicious people who visit us.”

This was a shrewd bit of acting on the part of the little man, for he instantly carried all the miners with him.  Hardly one present but had suffered at the hands of the bushrangers, and was anxious to avenge his loss.

“Let the fellers show who they is,” the crowd began to murmur; and even our former friend, Charley, I observed, joined in the cry, while Ben remained silent, and drank two more glasses of whiskey during the tumult.

“It is evident that you suspect us of being bushrangers,” observed Fred, coolly.

“I certainly think that you are,” returned the little man, bluntly; “and it is a matter of surprise to me that I see you in the company of a man who has, during his trading at the mines, borne a good character.”

This was a hard dig at Smith, and he sought to explain, but Fred checked him.

“If we should prove to you that we are honest men, I suppose that you would be willing to make an ample apology for the manner in which you have addressed us?” Fred said.

The little man smiled sarcastically, and intimated that he should be most happy.

“Then,” Fred exclaimed, drawing a paper from his pocket and handing it to the little man, “you will please to read that, and see if you are acquainted with the signatures.”

The stranger called for a candle, for it was nearly dark, and by its light began perusing the document.

“What is this?” he muttered; “a bill of sale of two horses, formerly owned by the police of Melbourne, to Messrs. Frank ——­ and James ——­, signed by Hansen, the captain of police, and Murden, lieutenant.  Can it be possible?  Yes, it must be; I understand it all.”

The little man threw himself upon us, grasped each of our hands, and to the intense astonishment of all present, began shaking them as though he was working a pump.

“How could I be so mistaken?” he asked.  “I really thought; but, pshaw, my suspicions were so absurd.”

“What’s the row?” demanded big Ben, who began to feel the effects of the chemical whiskey.