“It’s a shame,” cried Fred, indignantly, “to torture poor animals that way.”

“Would you have them plunge down the banks of the stream, over-turn the cart, spoil my cargo of goods, and perhaps lose two or three animals by strangulation?” demanded the convict, with the first symptoms of irritation that we had witnessed during our journey.

“No, I would not certainly desire to witness any thing of the kind; but I still think that it is a harsh way of treating animals,” cried Fred dogmatically.

“I used to think so, and perhaps am of the same opinion still; but I have too much confided to my charge to suffer loss for the want of a few applications of the whip.  After you have been in the country a few years, you will not feel so tenderly for the sufferings of others.”

“God grant that I may never be insensible to others’ woes,” cried Fred, with a genuine burst of feeling.

“Spoken like a man,” exclaimed the convict, enthusiastically.  “Here,” he continued, extending his hand, “is a palm soiled by the commission of crime; but I have lived long enough to repent of the errors of which I have been guilty, and at times think of a mother’s prayers when I was a boy.  Your words have recalled the days when I used to sit upon her knee and listen to her words, and promise that when I grew old I’d imitate the virtues of my father, and be a comfort to her in her declining years.  If my hand,” he said, looking at it, “is soiled, my heart is not, and I offer it to you as a pledge of friendship.”

“And if your hand were stained I would accept it,” returned Fred, shaking his palm warmly.  “I look upon you in the light of a friend, and the folly of other days weighs not the weight of a feather towards warping my judgment in considering your good and bad qualities.”

The two men shook hands, and looked into each other’s eyes as though they had just found out one another’s worth; and when the convict had squeezed Fred’s palm, he bestowed the same favor upon myself.

“Come,” cried the convict, who appeared to be inspired with new life, “let us get a bit of dinner, and then I will take you to the old cattle station, where I once lived a solitary life, and where I harbored Black Darnley.”

“Is it far from here?” I asked, casting an anxious glance towards the shadow of a tree, and thinking how pleasantly I could pass away a portion of the afternoon by sleeping.

“Scarce a quarter of a mile, and I’ll warrant that you will feel amply repaid, tempting as the shadow of yonder tree looks,” Smith said, having guessed my weakness for repose.

“Then I will go,” I replied.

“I will show you after we pass the bend of the stream,” the convict continued while on his hands and knees trying to ignite a fire with prairie chips, “a flock of sheep that are counted by thousands.  They stretch over the land for miles in extent; even the owner does not know how many he possesses, and has never visited his stockman, but trusts all to an agent.  Of course the latter has full authority to act as he pleases, and sometimes, by some mysterious process, the agent gets richer than the owner, and often buys his property, although where the money comes from, I leave you to guess.”