“Stand back, or I’ll let daylight into you,” shouted the fellow, drawing a long knife, and acting upon the defensive, and the way he handled the reaper showed that he was in earnest.

We both hesitated for a moment, for the purpose of better addressing the person who was so peremptory in his threats, but first I took the precaution of possessing myself of a long smooth-bore gun which was lying near him, and which he had forgotten to seize upon being surprised.

The man before us was about six feet high, (when he appeared in the character of a ghost, we thought he would measure nine,) with long hair, and beard of fiery red, which seemed as though it had not felt the touch of comb or scissors for months.  Two little eyes almost concealed, and overhanging eyebrows, glanced suspiciously at us, and watched our movements, with an evident impression that we intended mischief, and that if such was the case their owner was to be counted in for a fight.

Upon the back and person of the red-haired man were sheepskins, made to fit his body, with the wool outside.  These we had imagined were grave-clothes, and had nearly broken our necks to escape from the wearer.  We could not refrain from indulging in a hearty laugh at our late flight and the occasion of it, but our mirth made no impression upon the mysterious being before us.

“No ye don’t,” he shouted, brandishing his knife before our eyes as though we intended to entrap him into some snare.  “You mustn’t think that ye is goin’ to fool an honest man who is digging for roots by the full of the moon.”

“You dig rather deep for roots,” said Mr. Brown, stepping to the edge of the excavation, and looking down in spite of the threatening appearance of the red-haired individual.

“I’ll dig as deep as I please,” he answered quickly.

“Of course I would,” returned Mr. Brown.  “Who knows but you may find a buried treasure there if you keep on digging?”

“Is that what you coveys was arter?” demanded the red head, with a degree of interest which he had not shown before.  “I ’spected it when I seed you yesterday crossing the Lodden, and I determined to watch.”

“What are you doing in this part of the country?” asked Mr. Brown, rather sternly, “as a recollection of the loss of his bottle of liquor the night before began to dawn upon his mind.

“You have no right to question me any more than I have you,” was the sulky response.

“Who are you then?” the other asked, somewhat impatiently.

“That’s for you to find out the best way you can.  If confidence is wanted, why, tell me who you are,” and the red-haired genius seated himself on the edge of the excavation, as though awaiting an answer, although he still kept in sight his long and dangerous looking knife.

“I know who you are,” my friend said, at a venture; “you are a shepherd on the Hawkswood estate.  We are officers of the law from Ballarat.”