[Illustration: Started back to Atlanta, pursued for half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings. (Page 194.)] But the last straw was ‘The Universal Biography of Eminent Men—Dead and Alive,’ with splendid portraits. When they discovered that the notices they had been led to expect of their own ‘Boss,’ ‘Hungry’ Parkes of Humpalong, the Mayor of Atlanta, etc., etc., were absent, and their places filled by paragraphs and woodcuts relating to Nelson, Julius Cæsar, Pompey, Scipio Africanus, and such-like characters, they one and all bucked, and refused to pay on delivery. Then they were hauled to Quarter Sessions, confronted with their signatures, and made to pay. In vain they swore that the thing had never been ordered; that it wasn’t up to specification; that their handwriting was a palpable forgery. In vain they related how they had never touched it, but had left their copies lying on verandahs, stockyard posts, in mud, in dust, wherever, in fact, the agent had chanced to bail them up. All in vain; they had to pay—costs and all. Therefore was it that Barracaboo had forsworn literature by sample, or in uncertain instalments, and vowed vengeance upon all shabby men with indelible pencils, and printed agreements with a space left for signature. More especially had they a ‘down’ on people who wore goatees and snuffled when they talked. ‘If you see one of ’em at the station,’ said the manager—a rough, tough old customer, and disappointed at being ousted by Julius Cæsar—‘set the dogs on him. I’ll pay damages. If he don’t take that hint, touch him up with stockwhips. It’ll only be justifiable homicide at the worst. I know the law: an’ I don’t mind a fiver in such a case!’ ‘Let us only get a chance, sorr,’ said the sheep-overseer, ‘an’ we’ll learn ’em betther manners wid our whups. Doggin’s too good for the thrash!’ This state of affairs was pretty well known at Atlanta, the neighbouring township; and book-fiends, warned, generally gave Barracaboo a wide berth. Once, certainly, a new hand at the game, and one who fancied himself too much to bother about collecting local information, came boldly into the station-yard just as the bell was ringing for dinner, and produced the advance sheets of a sweet and lively work, entitled, ‘Hermits, Ancient and Modern: Illustrated with Forty-seven Choice Engravings.’ He had got to ‘Now, gentlemen,’ when, hearing the howl of execration that went up, he suddenly took in the situation and started back to Atlanta, pursued for half the distance with thunderous whip-crackings by the sheep-overseer and the butcher, who were the only two who happened to have their horses ready. Chancing to have a capital mount, he distanced them and galloped into town, and up the main street, reins on his horse’s neck, and trousers over his knees, half dead with fright, only to be promptly summoned and fined for furious riding within the municipality.