“Well,” asked Gleeson, “is anything the matter?”

“I dinna ken yet,” said Burridge.  “Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?”

“Yes, I fired at a kangaroo.”

“A kangaroo, eh?  Are you sure it was a kangaroo?”

“Yes, it was a kangaroo.  What of that?  Oh, I see, you think we are after shooting your cattle.  Is that it?  Speak out like a man.”

“Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I’d like to find out who does it.”

“Oh, indeed! you’d like to know who does it, would you?  I can tell you, anyway, who is the biggest cattle duffer round here, if you’d like to know!” Gleeson touched one flank of his horse with his heel, and rode close up to Burridge with the gun in his right hand.  “His name is Burridge, and that’s yourself.  Everybody knows you, you old Scotch hound.  You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on them as your master has.  There is not a bigger cattle thief than old Burridge within a hundred miles, and you’ll be taken off the run in irons yet.  Get out of my way, or I’ll be tempted to send you to blazes before your time.”

Burridge did not go off the run in irons; he left it honourably for another run which he took up, and stocked with cattle bearing no brand but his own.  Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove that Burridge ever broke the law.

One fishing excursion to the bend was enough for Philip, but a pig hunt was organised, and he joined it.  The party consisted of Gleeson, McCarthy, Bill the Butcher, Bob Atkins, and George Brown the Liar, who brought a rope-net and a cart in which all the game caught was to be carried home.  Five dogs accompanied the party, viz., Lion and Tiger, crossbred bull and mastiffs, experienced pig fighters, Sam as a reserve, and three mongrels as light skirmishers.

The first animal met with was a huge old boar, the hero of a hundred fights, the great-grandfather of pigs.  He stood at bay among the tussocks, the dogs barking furiously around him.  Bill the Butcher said, “Keep back, you men, or he’ll rip the guts out of your horses.  I know him well.  He has only one tusk, but it’s a boomer.  Look out sharp till the dogs tackle him, he might make a rush at some of us.”

The boar was a frightful-looking beast, long, tall, and slab-sided, in perfect condition for fight, all bone, muscle, and bristles, with not an ounce of lard in his lean body.  He stood still and stiff as a rock watching the dogs, his one white tusk, long and keen sticking out above his upper lip.  The loss of the other tusk left him at a disadvantage, as he could only strike effectively on one side.  Lion and Tiger had fought him before, and he had earned their respect.  They were wary and cautious, and with good reason.  Their best hold was by the ears, and these had been chewed away in former wars, till nothing was left of them but the ragged roots.  Bill the Butcher dismounted, dropped his bridle, and cheered on the dogs at a prudent distance, “Good dogs; seek him Lion; hold him Tiger.”