“From the several flattering portraits of me that are about, eh? I wonder you do recognise me from them, that’s a fact. If ever I catch that blackguard of a photographer who has so abominably burlesqued me in those pictures, I engage to make it lively for him!” It was generally understood that personal vanity was one of Gardiner’s weaknesses, and remembering this, I could not help smiling a little at the speaker’s words. “You may smile, Mr Editor; but no public man likes to have such a vile caricature of himself scattered broadcast over the country; you know that well enough, and you wouldn’t care about it yourself.” “Perhaps not; but I haven’t yet attained enough distinction to be very well able to judge how I should feel,” I answered. “Yes; I daresay that makes a difference.—But to come to business. You’re wondering, I suppose, why you’ve been brought here in this somewhat unceremonious fashion?” “I am a little puzzled.” “But not afraid, I hope. You don’t look that way much.” “No; not now. I was just a little startled at first, I must confess. But I am not aware of any wrong I have ever done you, Frank Gardiner.” “That’s it, my boy—that’s it. On the contrary, it has been all the other way; and that’s why I wanted to have a word with you personally. I wanted to make the nearer acquaintance of my editor, you know.—How do you think they read? I mean those letters. Not so bad for a young aspirant in literature, eh? I’m positively thinking of getting them reprinted in a small book, if I can get any of those Sydney publishing sharps to undertake it. _Epistles of a Bushranger._ Taking title, eh?—a fortune in the very name. Would fetch the public no end, don’t you think?—But I beg your pardon for keeping you standing all the time, Mr Editor. Just bring yourself to anchor; and have a drink, will you?—Young Hall, hand the editor your flask.” A young man, considerably the youngest-looking of the party, handed me his flask, which I put to my lips, merely touching the liquor. “You drink mighty shallow, Mr Fellgate. One finger’s about your mark, I judge. Well, please yourself.—Now, look here. There’s a cool two thousand set on my head; you know all about that. Well, there’s a carbine by your side, as pretty a piece as you’ll find this side the range. Now’s your chance. Take up the gun, and you can hardly miss me, if you were to try.” Of course such a thing was totally out of the question, for more reasons than one. But even if it had been possible for me to do as the highwayman suggested, I should have been a fool to have attempted his life under the existing and peculiar circumstances. “Just try the weapon, Mr Fellgate. Put it to your shoulder, and see how it lies as prettily in rest as a baby asleep. Let it off overhead there.”