"There's something up, right enough," said Jim Bentley.
Later on, about daybreak, Andy was sitting obstinately on guard, with the gun across his knees and the others dozing on the bunks (and waking now and then with jerks), when Constable Mahoney rode up to the door and knocked a business knock that brought them all to their feet.
Andy asked him to come in, and placed a stool for him, but he didn't see it. He looked round the hut.
"Whose fowlin' piece is that?" he asked.
"It's—it's mine," said Andy.
Mahoney took the gun up and examined it.
"Is this fowlin' piece loaded?" he asked.
"Yes," said Andy, "it is."
"Now, listen to me, boys," said the constable. "Was the fowlin' piece discharged last night?"
"Yes," said Andy, "it was."
"What's up? What have we done?" asked Jim Bentley, desperately.
"Done?" shouted Mahoney. "Done? Why, you've filled old Foley's legs with kangaroo shot. That's what you've done! Do you know what that is?"
"No," said Jack Jones. He was thinking hard.
"It's manslaughter!" roared Mahoney. "That's the meanin' of it!"
They explained what had happened as far as they were able. Now, Mahoney had a weakness for the boys, and a keen sense of humour—outside himself.
"Best come along with me," he said.
Andy had a stiff Sunday sac suit, of chocolate
