“Come, awaken, old fellow, and let us have the best quarter of beef you possess, for we are all hungry, and I’ll warrant that Jim Gulpin and his gang—­”

“So help me, God, lieutenant,” cried Bimbo, hurriedly, “I don’t know him or his men, and I don’t see what right—­”

“Why, what is the matter with the man?” laughed Murden.  “I didn’t say that you knew him.  I meant that he and his gang, or what remained of them, are my prisoners, and in less than a week their necks will be stretched a few inches longer.  There’s news for you, Bimbo.”

“Gulpin and his band prisoners,” I heard the fellow say, in an undertone, as though he could scarcely comprehend the news, and then an expression stole over his face, that for a moment was frightful to contemplate.

“Ah, here they come at last,” Murden said, pointing to the cart, which was slowly creeping along, and had been screened from view by the house.

“You don’t mean to say you and your men took the bushrangers without, any ’sistance from others, do you?” Bimbo asked.

“Why, these two Americans lent their valuable aid,” replied the officer, pointing to Fred and myself.

“P’raps it would have been as well if they staid in their own country and looked after robbers, instead of coming to Australia,” replied the dirty scamp, with an aside glance at us that spoke murder as plainly as if he had a knife at our throats.

“Cease your grumbling,” shouted Murden, angrily, “or I’ll lay my bridle over your shoulders until they ache.  Why, you miserable dog, have you not complained to me a dozen times that you feared your life was in danger from these same prowling gangs, and that they stole your cattle in spite of all you could do?  Another word, and I’ll give you cause for muttering.  Away with you.  Start a fire, and then I’ll set one of my men to cook breakfast.  You are too dirty to be intrusted with food.”

Bimbo must have exercised a strong control over his emotions, for in spite of the dirt and grease with which his face was smeared, I saw it flush angrily; but no other sign of passion was displayed.  He thrust his hands into his pockets, and with a slouching gait, as though too indolent to move without strong inducement, sauntered towards the shed and began kindling a fire.

“A grumbling cur,” muttered Murden, looking after him; “I have half a mind to tie him up and scar his back, and see if it will not make him a little more energetic.”  But with all of the bluster of the officer, I saw that he did not suspect the man’s honesty, and I was glad that he did not.

By the time Smith had joined us with his cart and prisoners, Bimbo had started a fire, and produced a hind quarter of a young bullock, killed the day before, and which had been rubbed over with fine salt to protect it from the millions of insects which infest the air of Australia.  The fellow made an offer to cut the meat for us, but a look at his hands was sufficient to deter us from accepting the proposition.