“O! better not stand then; blarneying, but go away wid ye!” yelled out one of the women, with demonstrative indications of throwing hot water or potatoes at us.

“Why, who do you think we are?” I asked, Mr. Brown having retired from the conversational portion of his duty in deep disgust at the idea of having his gentlemanly address taken for blarney.

“We think ye are thaves! may the divil confound ye,” replied one of the heathen.

“But we are not thieves,” I continued.

“Thin yer looks belies ye wonderfully.  Go on yer ways, and don’t stop here thinking that we’ve money, or any stuff to stale, for we ain’t.”

“Why, you d——­n fools!” yelled Mr. Brown, “we have more money in our pockets than the carcasses of yourselves, wives, and horses would bring.”

This announcement produced a sensation, and we were happy to see the fellows whisper together, as though they had made a mistake, and were willing to rectify it.

“Have ye whiskey?” at length one of them asked.

I shook a bottle in their faces, but made no reply.

“Is it the rale poteen?” he demanded.

“Irish all over,” I answered.

“Thin glory to God, come along and welcome.”

The muskets were lowered, the hostile attitude ceased, and we rode into the camp like conquerors, and were received with every mark of respect, which I attributed more to the influence of the black bottle that I held in my hand, than to our dignified personal appearance.  Even the women condescended to welcome us with looks of encouragement, and one of them spanked her baby when it cried, because the wee thing was frightened at strangers.

CHAPTER LXXX.

JOURNEY BACK TO BALLARAT.

“You are, no doubt, strangers in the country?” said Mr. Brown, after we had removed the saddles from our horses’ backs, and suffered the animals to roam a short distance from the camp for food.

“Faith, ye may well say that,” cried the leading Hibernian, with a good-natured smile.

“Where did you come from?” my friend continued.

“Ireland, sir,” was the prompt reply.

“I know that without your telling me.  I mean what part of this country.  Sydney or Melbourne?”

“Faith, how did ye know we come from Ireland?” queried Pat, with innocent simplicity.

“By your brogue, to be sure,” was Mr. Brown’s prompt answer.

“Bedad, I never thought of that,” grunted the Celt.

“We came from Melbourne, sir,” one of the men said, answering Mr. Brown’s question, and casting wishful eyes towards the black bottle.  “We’ve been four days on the road, and it’s little progress we make at all, bad luck to the horses that won’t draw when we want ’em to.  It’s out of whiskey we got the first day, owing to the swilling of Ned Mulloon, who was drunk as a baste when we left town.”