The Villain-Worshipper
Stingaree shrugged.
"We rode across him."
"And you think he perished of dust and thirst?"
Stingaree nodded. "In torment!"
"Then he got what he jolly well earned! Anything less would have been too good for him!" cried Oswald, and with a boyish, uncompromising heat which spoke to some human nature in him still.
But Stingaree frowned up the moonlit track. There was still no sign of the coach. Yet time was short, and the morbid enthusiast was not to be disgusted; indeed, he was all enthusiasm now, and a less unattractive lad than the bushranger had hoped to find him. He looked the white screw and Oswald up and down as they sat in their saddles in the moonshine: it seemed like sunlight on that beaming fool.
"And you think of commencing bushranger, do you?"
"Rather!"
"It's a hard life while it lasts, and a nasty death to top up with."
"They don't hang you for it."
"They might hang me for the man I put back in the vile dust from whence he sprung. They'd
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