‘Now Lorton, having finished his work at the camp, turned to walk back to breakfast. He had not gone a dozen paces when a crushing blow fell on the back of his head. He staggered forward, and turning received another, which laid open his head, and dropped him in his tracks. As he fell he saw Hutkeeper leap at him with upraised tomahawk. ‘What saved his life was this. Two or three blacks still in camp, having a wholesome fear of tribal expiation at the hands of the native troopers, seized the infuriated savage, and diverted the blows of his tomahawk. In the meanwhile Will Lorton, only temporarily “kilt,” rose dizzily to his feet, and catching the foe a straight blow behind the ear, laid out that gentleman as neatly as if he had been dropped with his own weapon. He then threw himself upon the prostrate chieftain and wrested his arms from him. Before he could seize him, however, the slippery savage, eluding his grasp, was bounding through the trees, and soon after passed out of sight. Poor Will reached the home station covered with blood, and looking particularly faint. ‘An angry man, ye may opine, Was he, the proud Count Palatine, which means that I, Aymer Brandon, was wroth exceedingly at this deed of blood (literally, indeed, the bright Norman blood of which Master Will was depleted on the occasion made a very pretty pool, artistically considered, on the earthen floor of his room). So “boot and saddle” was the order of the day.’ ‘Now we’re coming to it,’ exclaimed Mr. Parklands, in a tone of deep satisfaction. ‘This is the sort of literature I go in for―incident, old man―lots of incident―eh, Mr. Neuchamp, isn’t that your style? Now, why couldn’t you have given us that first, old man, like this: “One fine morning, on the Paroo, Will Lorton went to the blacks’ camp, didn’t look behind him, and fell against a nulla, which happened to be up at the time.”’ ‘You have no sentiment, Sparks, as I have always reminded you. What little humour you possess has been prematurely wasted on barmaids. You would enjoy a story about that old blue stag that nearly deprived you of a purchaser, just as much as Browning’s last poem―more, in fact. But I have commenced this yarn, and you _must_ and shall have it, if we sit up till daylight.’ ‘Only too happy, my dear f’ler,’ murmured Sparks somnolently. ‘Don’t shoot me instead of that nigger. You seem to have been a rum lot out there, and old “Hutbuilder,” as you call him, rather more of a gentleman than any of you. His manners rendered him unpopular, I suppose; and you trumped up this cock-and-bull story about Will just to suit the case for the Crown. Ah, Neuchamp, my boy, you have no idea how these benighted back-country squatters go on, when you and I are not there, and there is no one to check their violence.’