It was a morning in the middle of September. The Jacksons were breakfasting. Mr. Jackson was reading letters. The rest, including Gladys Maud, whose finely chiselled features were gradually disappearing behind a mask of bread-and-milk, had settled down to serious work. The usual catch-as-catch-can contest between Marjory and Phyllis for the jam (referee and time-keeper, Mrs. Jackson) had resulted, after both combatants had been cautioned by the referee, in a victory for Marjory, who had duly secured the stakes. The hour being nine-fifteen, and the official time for breakfast nine o’clock, Mike’s place was still empty. “I’ve had a letter from MacPherson,” said Mr. Jackson. MacPherson was the vigorous and persevering gentleman, referred to in a previous chapter, who kept a fatherly eye on the Buenos Ayres sheep. “He seems very satisfied with Mike’s friend Wyatt. At the moment of writing Wyatt is apparently incapacitated owing to a bullet in the shoulder, but expects to be fit again shortly. That young man seems to make things fairly lively wherever he is. I don’t wonder he found a public school too restricted a sphere for his energies.” “Has he been fighting a duel?” asked Marjory, interested. “Bushrangers,” said Phyllis. “There aren’t any bushrangers in Buenos Ayres,” said Ella. “How do you know?” said Phyllis clinchingly. “Bush-ray, bush-ray, bush-ray,” began Gladys Maud, conversationally, through the bread-and-milk; but was headed off. “He gives no details. Perhaps that letter on Mike’s plate supplies them. I see it comes from Buenos Ayres.” “I wish Mike would come and open it,” said Marjory. “Shall I go and hurry him up?” The missing member of the family entered as she spoke. “Buck up, Mike,” she shouted. “There’s a letter from Wyatt. He’s been wounded in a duel.” “With a bushranger,” added Phyllis. “Bush-ray,” explained Gladys Maud. “Is there?” said Mike. “Sorry I’m late.” He opened the letter and began to read. “What does he say?” inquired Marjory. “Who was the duel with?” “How many bushrangers were there?” asked Phyllis. Mike read on. “Good old Wyatt! He’s shot a man.” “Killed him?” asked Marjory excitedly.