‘Off again, and I kept on steady at first, trusting to six miles an hour to do it in, and something to spare; but every now and again I kept thinking, thinking, suppose he goes lame all of a sudden! suppose he jacks up! suppose he falls, put his foot into a hole, or anything—rolls over me and gallops off, all the men in the world wouldn’t catch him! suppose I’m stopped by bushrangers—Red Cap’s out, you know;—why don’t they hang every scoundrel that turns out the moment he hoists his flag?’ ‘Because they might reform, John,’ mildly interposed Mr. Neuchamp. ‘No fear—that is, mostly, sir,’ continued Jack apologetically; ‘but they wouldn’t have had the heart to stop me; and besides, I expect I could have dusted any of ’em with Ben. ‘Well, bushrangers or not, I got within twenty miles of Boree; and then my head got so full of fancies, that I settled to make a call on Ben Bolt, and do it in two hours. Suppose the coach was earlier than usual! No passengers, or only some young squatter, who wanted to go faster and to stop nowhere—and tipped the driver! I’ve seen these things done before now. ‘So I took the old horse by the head, gave him a hustle and a pull, and, by George, if you’ll believe me, sir, he went away with his mouth open, as if he hadn’t only been out to the Back Lake. The sun was down then, and the night air was coolish. But I knew the track well, and as we sailed along, Ben Bolt giving a kind of snort every now and then, same as he used to do when he didn’t know the place he was going to, I felt that I had the field beat, and the race as good as won. I thought I could see Carry a-beckonin’ to me at the winning-post. I hardly think I pulled up three times, I felt that eager, and bound to win or die, before I saw the light of the Boree Inn, and the coach stables across the plain. ‘“Has the coach from down the river come in yet, Joe?” says I to the ostler, trembling all over. ‘“No, nor won’t be this hours yet; you needn’t have rode so fast.” ‘“I couldn’t afford to be late,” says I. “Lend us a rug while I cool my old horse a bit. He’s carried me well this day, if he never does another.” ‘Ben didn’t look beat—nor yet half beat. My belief is he could have done another twenty or thirty miles without cracking up. But a hundred miles is a hundred miles, and no foolish ride, even in this country where horses are as plenty as wallabies, such as they are, so I did my best for him. I let him rinse his mouth, and then I walked him up and down, with the rug on, for a solid hour. Of course he broke out at first, but he gradually dried and come all right. Before the coach started with me on board, he was doing nicely for the night, littered down (for we foraged some straw out of the bottled ale casks) and eating his feed just as he would after a longish day’s muster out back at Rainbar.’