The first introduced was a grand-looking old black horse, with a superabundance of pluck and one hip down. He was substituted for the off-side leader, who was turned over to Eachin. The alteration was effected in five minutes, and old Darkie sailed off as though he had been carefully coached since colthood. This state of affairs was obviously too good to last. Not accustomed to winkers, the veteran, catching his toe in a root, went down like a shot. Now occurred a first-class complication. ‘Total wreck, with loss of all hands,’ concludes Mr. Neuchamp. Not so. Parklands and Jim Fuller are down almost as soon as Darkie, and fasten on the horses like bull terriers in a rat-pit, while Aymer Brandon sits calmly in his place, and delivers his orders with the imperiousness of the skipper whose mainmast has gone by the board. This was the situation: when Darkie fell the team was doing ten miles an hour. The wheelers swept over him, and he was brought up by the fore-axle of the waggon. Both check-reins were carried away and the lead bars broken. The near leader dashed round the back of the coach, where he was pulled up with a round turn by the strong arm of Mr. Brandon, who was engaged, as to his whip-hand, in rib-roasting Darkie to make him ‘come out of that.’ ‘Here, Jem!’ he sang out, ‘freeze on to this brute behind while I make that three-cornered calamity come out of his earth.’ Darkie, finding his position under the waggon becoming too hot, emerged dexterously, and stood upright under the off-wheeler, raising that unsuspecting animal’s hindquarters upon his back. Having achieved which he awaited the next move, which promptly came in the shape of two terrific double-thongers. Upon this Darkie darted out, and at once commenced to feed till again wanted. ‘My dear Parklands,’ commenced Mr. Neuchamp, underrating the variety of bush expedients, ‘this is indeed unfortunate. I suppose we shall have to camp here until the harness is repaired.’ ‘Camp!’ exclaims Parklands in wild amaze, ‘we’ll be off in ten minutes. Can’t lick us.’ And in good sooth, a pair of spare bars having been rigged, and the checks spliced with bush buckles, within fifteen minutes they _were_ once more under weigh and doing their ten knots an hour comfortably. At two o’clock Toolara, a station which was the property of Mr. Parklands, and distant about seventy miles from Rainbar, was reached; there a good luncheon was secured. At four o’clock start was made to do the remaining twenty miles between them and Gregor’s shanty, where the night was to be passed. At Toolara the party was augmented by a tame dingo, belonging to Mr. Parklands. He was most appropriately named Beelzebub. For, in his own realm, the vast kingdom of this chief, he reigned unequalled.