The Honor of the Road
distress. Sergeant Cameron sat down on the other side of the oval table with the faded cloth; the younger constable had left the room when Hardcastle called him back.
"Don't go, Tyler," said he. "You may as well both hear what I've got to say. It's—it's Stingaree!"
The name was echoed in incredulous undertones.
"But he's down in Vic," urged the sergeant. "He's been giving our chaps a devil of a time down there!"
"He's come back. I've seen him with my own eyes. But I'm beginning at the wrong end first," said the squatter, taking another sip and then sitting back to survey his hearers. "You know old Duncan, my overseer?"
The sergeant nodded.
"Of course you know him," the other continued, "and so does the whole back-country, and did even before he won this fortune in the Melbourne Cup sweep. I suppose you've heard how he took the news? He was fuddling himself from his own bottle on Sunday afternoon when the mail came; the first I knew of it was when I saw him sitting with his letter in one hand and throwing out the rest of his grog with the other. Then he told us
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