All preliminaries were arranged during the afternoon:  in the evening, just before night fell, Dick and Peterson, hidden with their trusty steeds amongst the saplings about three hundred yards beyond the toll-bar, awaited the coming of their companions in crime.  They had not long to wait; in a few minutes Jacker Mack, Ted, and Phil Doon came riding up the dusty track on their brave billies.  They were accompanied by a pedestrian, an interloper, who lurked behind and evidently did not anticipate a friendly reception.  It was Gable.

‘He saw us comin’ an’ he would foller,’ explained Jacker.

‘Yah!’ cried Dick in disgust; ‘why didn’t you boot him?’

‘So I did.  Fat lot o’ good that done.  He otl’y bellered like a bullock, an’ kep’ on follerin’.  We pretended we wasn’t goin’ nowhere, but he just hung round an’ couldn’t be fooled.’

Dick approached the old man threateningly.

‘Clear out!’ he said.

Gable put up a defensive elbow and backed away, knuckling his eye piteously the while.

‘Are you goin’?’ cried Dick, and kicked Gable just as he would have kicked any inconvenient and mutinous youngster in the same case.

‘You look out whatcher doin’,’ muttered the old man, skipping about to avoid the second kick.  I’ll get someone what’ll show you,’ he added darkly.

Dick ran at him with a big stick, but Gable only retreated a few yards.  He threw stones, knocking up the dust about the old man’s feet, and Gable hopped and skipped with the agility of a kid; but after each attack he returned humbly to the heels of the party like a too faithful dog.

‘Better let him come, I s’pose,’ said Dick at last.  ’Come on, nuisance!

Gamble jigged up, radiant, and grinning all over his face.

Red Hand selected a suitable clump of saplings about half a mile from the toll-bar, and the gang secreted themselves and made preparation for the first attack.  They carried their ‘cartridges’ loose in small bags hung from their belts, in which were thrust three or four of the bone-barrelled pistols.  Black masks were donned, Fork Lightning was stationed on a stump near by to give warning of the approach of a victim, and the others took up suitable positions, while Dick fitted Gable with a mask so that his appearance might not discredit the gang.

‘There,’ said Dick. ‘you’re a bushranger now, re member.’

‘Crickey!’ cried the old man, delighted.

‘An’; you’ll be hanged if you’re caught.’

‘Oh, crickey!’ Gable was more delighted still, and danced up and down, clapping his hands.

Suddenly there was a warning whistle from Fork Lightning, and that black scoundrel crept stealthily in amongst his mates.

‘Someone’s comin’,’ he said.

‘To horse!’ cried Red Hand.  ’When I give the word, gallop into the road an’ cut off their retreat.  Don’t fire till I give orders, an’, mind, spare the women an’ children.’