“Of bushrangers?” roared Poll, who seemed to be undecided how to class the ladies of our party, never having seen a woman in that part of the country.

“The tea shall be prepared, and by the time you have changed your clothes supper will be ready.  Jackson, give me a candle, and I will show the ladies into the west room, where they can be as secluded as though in their own house;” and it was admirable to see the hearty farmer bow, and precede the females up the wide, hard wood stairs, displaying as much gallantry and care for their comfort as though he was to marry one of them next day.

“Good night, master,” shrieked the mischievous bird, bringing a red flush to Mr. Wright’s face.

“I’m coming back to punish you for your impudence, sir,” our host said, shaking his finger at the bird.

“Don’t hurry yourself.  D——­n bushrangers—­where’s the d——­n bushrangers?” and as Mr. Wright disappeared from view, the bird turned its attention to other topics, and after surveying us with commendable attention, croaked out,—­

“Give me bread; Poll’s hungry.”

“And so am I,” Mr. Brown answered, making an attempt to stroke the bird’s head, but the familiarity was rebuked by a vigorous peck, that almost started the skin.

“You little devil, what do you mean?” my friend said, almost angry.

“That’s right; swear and d——­n!  Where’s the women?  I love women!  I should like to hug one.”

“You vulgar little brute!  Where did you learn your bad manners?” I asked.

“Mike, Mike, Mike.”

“Well, Mike might be in better business.  You have got some queer crotchets in your head that are hardly suitable for a ladies boudoir, especially if she expected gentlemen visitors,” and Mr. Brown surveyed the talented bird with considerable admiration, although he kept at a respectful distance.

Jackson now made his appearance, and began to lay the dishes for supper, first driving the laborers into their own sitting room, where they surrounded the bushrangers, and, I am sorry to say, did not treat them exactly as prisoners should have been used.

Left together, Mr. Brown and myself superintended Jackson, and wished for supper, so that we could get a few hours’ sleep before daylight.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

PUNISHING THE BULLY.

There are moments when the hardest hearts are softened with a feeling akin to pity for criminals; and although I thought that I had got pretty well toughened to all sentiments of the kind, yet I must confess that while I looked at the imprisoned bushrangers.  I wished them upon the very summit of Mount Tarrengower, and compelled to remain there amid snow and storm, until all their wickedness was washed away, and their past sins were forgiven.

I was more inclined to feel as I did from the fact that the farm hands were encircling the poor devils, and criticising and abusing them without mercy.  I hate to see a fallen enemy ill treated.  I always thought that it was more noble to treat a fallen foe with some slight show of respect, but that standard was not thought of by the laborers.