A Bushranger at Bay
"I alter myself from time to time," said Stingaree, as he struck a light.
"It must be a wonderful life!"
But Stingaree lit up without a word, and Kentish had the wit to do the same. They smoked in silence for some minutes. A gray ash had grown on each cigar before Kentish demanded an opinion of the brand.
"To tell you the truth," said Stingaree, "I have smoked strong trash so many years that I can scarcely taste it."
And he peered rather pathetically through his glass.
"Didn't the same apply to Punch?"
"No; I have always read the papers when I could," said Stingaree, and suddenly he was smiling. "That's one reason why I make a specialty of sticking up the mail," he explained.
Mr. Kentish was not to be drawn into a second deliverance on the bushranging career. "Is it a good number?" he asked, nodding toward the copy of Punch. The bushranger picked it up.
"Good enough for me."
"What date?"
"Ninth of December."
"Nearly three months ago. I was in London then," remarked Kentish, in a reflective tone.
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