“About a mile further, gentlemen,” and we felt thankful for the information, for a more disagreeable night’s tramp, so far, I had never experienced.  Still, the thoughts of the two suffering women enabled me to keep my spirits up, and to press forward with eagerness to the point at which we expected to relieve them.

There was no cessation to the rain, and the lightning was as vivid as ever, but the thunder was rolling away to the southward, and muttering and growling as though sorry at having relinquished the battle without more of a struggle.

“If I was only as wet within as I’m without, it’s in fighting trim I’d be,” Mike said, addressing the shepherd, who was tugging along with the most stoical indifference as to the fulling rain and bad road.

“I can fight, wet or dry,” was the answer.

“And can’t I do the same?” asked Mike, inclined to take umbrage at the remark.

“Show me a thing that an Irishman can’t do as well as an Englishman,” cried Mike.

“Can you play the ghost like me?” demanded the shepherd.

“And why not?”

“Because, who ever heard of a ghost speaking with the brogue?” asked the stockman, triumphantly.

“Bedad, I didn’t think of that,” Mike muttered, completely crushed by this new evidence of his companion’s superiority.

“If you two grumblers don’t stop your wrangling I’ll choke you,” Mr. Wright exclaimed, angrily.

“I’m dumb,” Mike said.

“I’m silent as a corpse,” cried the undertaker.

“I’ll spake no more this night,” continued Mike.

“See that you don’t,” answered our host.

“Divil a bit, till I see a bushranger, and then I’ll give him a taste of my spear.”

“That you may do, and you shall have a glass of grog for every one that you kill,” answered Mr. Wright.

“Holy St. Patrick! you don’t say so.  Don’t any one go near ’em but me.  I’ll fight the thaves and vagabonds every one, single handed and alone, like a Killarney man that I am.”

For twenty minutes we continued on our course, expecting to strike the creek every moment,—­yet the night was so dark that it was impossible to tell whether we were on the trail, or wading over the pasturage of the farm.

Even Kala was at fault, and glanced towards the trees, and examined them to discover if we were in the proper locality, but apparently without much success, and I began to think that our expedition was a failure, when the native uttered a grunt.

“Well, Kala, what now?” asked Mr. Wright

“There be creek,” he said, and by the aid of a flash of lightning we could see his thin black arm pointing to a line of trees on our right.

“And the trail?” suggested our host.

“We reach it by and by.  Come now, and don’t talk.”

We followed the native, with the renewed hope of soon terminating an adventure, and as we gained the edge of the gum trees, which were convincing proof that we were near the water, the Australians bent themselves to the task of finding the trail, or the place where the bushrangers were expected to ford.  On their hands and knees they crawled about from place to place, aided occasionally by a flash of lightning, but still they were unsuccessful, though not discouraged.  Their natures were too patient for that.