“That was smart of Jim,” remarks the police officer.
“Oh, the young ’un has got his head screwed on level. But to continue: Jim ran the tracks back, and then sent for Bogie—the best tracker we have—to have a look at them. Bogie spotted where three niggers had come out of the scrub.”
“Ah!” interrupts Morth, with a laugh, “I’m glad I waited.”
“Bogie,” continues Mr. Browne, “knows every black’s track around, and he swears that one of those which Jim found is that of a nigger who cleared out from Murdaro lately; what was his name now? Never mind that, however.”
“Oh, you mean that boy of Dyesart’s,” observes the sub-inspector.
“No, I don’t mean Billy—that was the name of Dyesart’s boy.” The manager suddenly stops speaking, and smacks the palms of his hands together,—an impromptu manifestation of delight, for a new idea strikes him that satisfactorily clears up a mystery contained in his brother’s note. “Why, _that_ explains it!”
“Why, don’t you see, what puzzled me was how this explorer got hold of a Myall. They are pretty shy of whites. But I guess this Billy, that you’ve just reminded me of, has been camped with some lot of blacks about here, and has joined this party. Won’t Giles and Puttis be mad; they’ve been raising Hades to get him. And he’s been camped close by all the while! Ha!” Mr. Browne laughs out loud, and then informs his friend how he has long suspected that there must be a camp of runaway niggers in the direction where Jim has found the tracks.
“You’d like me to take the ‘boys’ up there then, I suppose, before I go on,” observes the police officer. “The clouds on the hills this evening looked like rain. Nothing like a wet night for stalking a camp, so many noises going on in the scrub.”
“No, old man, my idea’s this,” rejoins the manager, taking Morth’s arm, and walking him back towards the house. “I’ll put Jim up to letting Bogie and another good tracker we’ve got watch for these blacks coming back into cover,—that they won’t go far with the exploring expedition I’m pretty certain. I’ll arrange, in the meantime, for the Bulla Bulla and Murdaro people to be ready to join us, and we’ll clear all this end range; I’ve often intended to do it.”
“Turn out?” exclaims Mr. Browne; “he’s the most energetic old cock I ever came across where a nigger’s concerned. Besides, one of these is a runaway of his. Oh, he’ll come fast enough!”