‘So long, you fellows,’ he said.

‘Why, where yer goin’?’ grunted Jacker Mack.

‘’Cross to Harry Hardy.  He’s down by that ole white gum.’

‘Gosh! so he is.  I say, we’ll all go.’

‘No, you won’t.  Youse go an’ see ’bout them cherries.  Harry Hardy don’t want a crowd round.’

‘How d’yer know he wants you?’

’Find out.  Me ‘n him’s mates.’

‘Yo-ow?’ This in derision.

‘’Sides, I got somethin’ privit to say to him—­somethin’ privit ’n important, see.’

This was more convincing, but it excited curiosity.

‘’Bout Tin ribs?’ queried Peterson.

’Likely I’d tell you.  Clear out, go on.  You can be captain of the band if you like, Jacker; ‘n mind you don’t give it away.’

Dick gained his point, as usual, and prepared for a quite casual descent upon Harry, who had not yet seen the boys.  The plan brought Dicky, ‘shanghai’ in hand, under the tree where Hardy sat.  The boy was apparently oblivious of everything but the parrots up aloft, and it was not till after he had had his shot that he returned the young man’s salutation.  Then he took a seat astride the log and offered some commonplace information about a nest of joeys in a neighboring tree and a tame magpie that had escaped, and was teaching all the other magpies in Wilson’s paddocks to whistle a jig and curse like a drover.  But he got down to his point rather suddenly after all.

‘Say, Harry, was you goin’ to lambaste Tinribs?’

Tinribs?

‘Yes, old Shine—­this mornin’, you know.’

Harry looked into the boy’s eye and lied, but Dick was not deceived.

‘’Twould a-served him good,’ he said thoughtfully; ’but you oughter get on to him when Miss Shine ain’t about.  She’s terrible good an’ all that—­better ‘n Miss Keeley, don’t you think?’

Miss Keeley was a golden-haired, high-complexioned, and frivolous young lady who had enjoyed a brief but brilliant career as barmaid at the Drovers’ Arms.  Harry had never seen her, but expressed an opinion entirely in favour of Christina Shine.

‘But her father,’ continued Dick, with an eloquent grimace, ’he’s dicky!

‘What’ve you got against him?’

‘I do’ know.  Look here, ’tain’t the clean pertater, is it, for a superintendent t’ lay into a chap at Sunday School for things what he done outside?  S’pose I float Tinribs’s puddlin’ tub down the creek by accident, with Doon’s baby in it when I ain’t thinkin’, is it square fer him to nab me in Sunday School, an’ whack me fer it, pretendin’ all the time it’s ‘cause I stuck a mouse in the harmonium?’

Dick’s contempt for the man who could so misuse his high office was very fine indeed.

‘That’s the sorter thing Tinribs does,’ said the boy.  ’If I yell after him on a Saturdee, he gammons t’ catch me doin’ somethin’ in school on Sundee, an’ comes down on me with the corner of his bible, ’r screws me ear.’