of the great Duke of Wellington, and ever since that time he had made the great man the guiding star of his voyage over the ocean of life, the only saint in his calendar; and he had, as far as human infirmity would permit, modelled his conduct and demeanour in imitation of those of the immortal hero.  He spoke briefly, and in a tone of decision.  The expression of his face was fierce and defiant, his bearing erect, his stride measured with soldierly regularity.  He was not a large man, weighing probably about nine stone; but that only enhanced his dignity, as it is a great historical fact that the most famous generals have been nearly all small men.

When he came into my office, he always brought with him an odour of peppermint, which experience had taught me to associate with the proximity of brandy or whisky.  I have never heard or read that the Iron Duke took pepperment lozenges in the morning, but still it might have been his custom to do so.  The sergeant was a Londoner, and knew more about the private habits of his Grace than I did.  If he had been honoured with the command of a numerous army, he would, no doubt, have led it onward, or sent it forward to victory.  His forces, unfortunately, consisted of only one trooper, but the way in which he ordered and manoeuvred that single horseman proved what glory he would have won if he had been placed over many squadrons.  By a general order he made him parade outside the gate of the station every morning at ten o’clock.  He then marched from the front door with a majestic mien and inspected the horse, the rider, and accoutrements.  He walked slowly round, examining with eagle eye the saddle, the bridle, the bits, the girth, the sword, pistols, spurs, and buckles.  If he could find no fault with anything, he gave in brief the word of command, “Patrol the forest road,” or any other road on which an enemy might be likely to appear.  I never saw the sergeant himself on horseback.  He might have been a gay cavalier in the days of his fiery youth, but he was not one now.

As we passed the “Crook and Plaid Hotel,” on our return to the court-house, after investigating the dispute in Murray Street, I observed a stranger standing near the door, who said: 

“Hello, Hyde! is that you?”

He was evidently addressing the sergeant, but the latter merely gave him a slight glance, and went away with his noble nose in the air.

The stranger looked after him and laughed.  He said: 

“That policeman was once a shepherd of mine up in Riverina, but I see he don’t know me now—­has grown too big for his boots.  Cuts me dead, don’t he?  Ha! ha! ha!  Well I never!”

The stranger’s name was Robinson; he had been selling some cattle to a neighbouring squatter, and was now on his way home.  He explained how he had, just before the discovery of gold, hired Hyde as a shepherd, and had given him charge of a flock of sheep.