Nickie the Kid had awakened from his slumber under the bridge, had partaken further of the whisky, then divesting himself of his overcoat and replacing the mask and head-gear of Mahdi the man-monkey, had gone forth into the bush to proclaim his kingship to the trees, and awaken the echoes of the hills with Bacchic song.  He was enjoying a song and dance near the spot where Reynolds came upon him, when the hunters discovered him.  The sight filled them with proper awe and great discretion.

Mahdi looked a truly formidable brute, capering there in the shadow of the gums, and his cries, stifled and made animal-like by the mask, added to the qualms of the Party.

Nickie saw the hunters on the chock-and-log fence ready to retire precipitately should he advance with homicidal intentions, and a vague idea that he was performing professionally before an attentive audience took possession of his bleary mind.  He capered fantastically, and made a foolish attempt to climb a tree.  Then he jumped up and down like a monkey on a stick, throwing out his long arms, and growling ominously.

“By cripes, he’s er dangerous beggar,” said Scott.  “He’d tear yer limb from limb.  Better cripple him.  I think.”

Scott raised his gun and fired.  Fortunately, Scott was nervous, and missed, but the miss was a narrow thing, and Nickie heard the ping of the bullet and the plunk as it buried it in the bark of the tree behind him.

Suddenly a spasm of comprehension came to Nickie, despite the whisky, and he made a leap the gum-butt, and hastily entrenched himself.  He was being fired at, and it was neither pleasant nor healthy to be fired at, that much he realised.  He peered, monkey-like, from behind the tree, and made an effort to grasp the situation.  Scott was taking aim again.

“No no,” said Watkins, “we mustn’t kill him unless it’s necessary.  He’s very valuable.  The Professor says he’s worth a matter o’ four thousand pounds.  Let’s scatter an’ surround him, come up on him from all points, an’ knock him out with the sticks.  Scott and Peters holdin’ their guns ready t’ pot him if he gets hold of anyone.”

This plan was adopted after some argument, and the party of hunters scattered, and commenced to close in towards Mahdi, the man-monkey, going very warily.  Nickie had forgotten everything by this, however, and sitting with his back to the tree was drowsing, and faintly asserting that he was a king, the most mighty and dazzling’ of all monarchs known to man, when the valiant hunters fell upon him.

The rush came suddenly, and in a twinkling half-a-dozen clubs were battering at Mahdi’s unhappy head and thumping on his unfortunate ribs.  Every man wanted to get a lick at the monster, and every man got it.  Luckily, Nickie’s skull was thick, and the Mahdi head-dress offered it some protection, otherwise there would have been an instantaneous and fatal termination to the artistic career of Nicholas Crips.