Mr. Hardy’s presence on the coach--it will be remembered that the men suspected him of being a detective--had the same effect on the strikers as a red rag on a bull, and with an ungovernable fury of rage and at imminent risk of their lives they literally hurled themselves at the horses’ heads, meanwhile calling on the driver, with the vilest imprecations, to halt. By way of reply the Jehu applied the whip to his team still more vigorously, yelling at the same time at the top of his voice that anyone who dared to stop the Royal Mail would get ten years for his trouble. His threat, however, was ignored, and presently the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Mr. Hardy felt a bullet whiz past his head, missing him by inches. The shot was followed the next instant by another, and it was only the celerity with which he ducked down to avoid the bullet that saved his life. The sound of the firing caused the frightened horses to rear and kick, knocking down the men who had seized their bridles and almost stopping the coach. The check, however, was only momentary, and as the horses plunged forward again some of the more excited strikers, who, with wild curses, had endeavoured to climb the side of the coach to get at Mr. Hardy, were flung back into the roadway. The panic-stricken horses in their mad struggles had dragged the coach across the road, and nearly over the side of the bridge into the creek below, but the driver, applying his whip freely, soon had his team under control again, and, scattering the crowd to right and left, the flying coach crossed the bridge, followed by a volley of sticks, bottles, and stones. Mr. Hardy, crouching low over the seat, was struck with such violence by a brick on the left shoulder that he at first thought it was fractured, but happily he escaped further injury. With the horses maddened and excited, the coach dashed at a furious pace along the short stretch of road to Forbes, where it drew up at a small hotel. The coachman was white to the lips from the strain, and the inside passenger alighted trembling with fright, while Mr. Hardy confesses that he felt more than a little shaky. A large crowd soon collected, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement, and the hotel-keeper, when he heard the driver’s story, promptly dragged Mr. Hardy indoors, telling him, if he valued his life, to keep out of sight. The presence of the police prevented an attack being made on the place, and when things had quietened down a little our artist was able to slip out unnoticed. After another coach ride, this time a peaceful one, he made his way back by rail to Sydney. In the end the unionists gained the day at Burrowang, going back to work on their own terms, and thus virtually ending the strike throughout New South Wales. [Illustration: “THE FLYING COACH CROSSED THE BRIDGE, FOLLOWED BY A VOLLEY OF STICKS, STONES, AND BOTTLES.”] * * * * *