(which was too big to go in his pocket) on top of it, got through the fence,
and was now walking back at an angle across the line

in the direction of the fencing party, who had worked up on the other side,
a little more than opposite the culvert.

Dave took in the lay of the country at a glance and thought rapidly.
"Gimme an iron-bark chip!" he said suddenly.

Bentley, who was quick-witted when the track was shown him,
as is a kangaroo dog (Jack ran by sight, not scent),

glanced in the line of Dave's eyes, jumped up, and got a chip
about the same size as that which the inspector had taken.

Now the "lay of the country" sloped generally to the line from both sides,
and the angle between the inspector's horse, the fencing party,

and the culvert was well within a clear concave space;
but a couple of hundred yards back from the line and parallel to it

(on the side on which Dave's party worked their timber)
a fringe of scrub ran to within a few yards of a point

which would be about in line with a single tree on the cleared slope,
the horse, and the fencing party.

Dave took the iron-bark chip, ran along the bed of the water-course
into the scrub, raced up the siding behind the bushes, got safely,

though without breathing, across the exposed space, and brought the tree
into line between him and the inspector, who was talking to the fencers.

Then he began to work quickly down the slope towards the tree
(which was a thin one), keeping it in line, his arms close to his sides,

and working, as it were, down the trunk of the tree, as if the fencing party
were kangaroos and Dave was trying to get a shot at them.

The inspector, by-the-bye, had a habit of glancing now and then
in the direction of his horse, as though under the impression

that it was flighty and restless and inclined to bolt on opportunity.
It was an anxious moment for all parties concerned -- except the inspector.

They didn't want HIM to be perturbed. And, just as Dave
reached the foot of the tree, the inspector finished what he had to say

to the fencers, turned, and started to walk briskly back to his horse.
There was a thunderstorm coming. Now was the critical moment --

there were certain prearranged signals between Dave's party and the fencers
which might have interested the inspector, but none to meet a case like this.

Jack Bentley gasped, and started forward with an idea
of intercepting the inspector and holding him for a few minutes

in bogus conversation. Inspirations come to one at a critical moment,
and it flashed on Jack's mind to send Andy instead. Andy looked

as innocent and guileless as he was, but was uncomfortable
in the vicinity of "funny business", and must have an honest excuse.

"Not that that mattered," commented Jack afterwards; "it would have
taken the inspector ten minutes to get at what Andy was driving at,

whatever it was."
"Run, Andy! Tell him there's a heavy thunderstorm coming and he'd better stay

in our humpy till it's over. Run! Don't stand staring like a blanky fool.
He'll be gone!"

Andy started. But just then, as luck would have it, one of the fencers
started after the inspector, hailing him as "Hi, mister!"

He wanted to be set right about the survey or something
-- or to pretend to want to be set right -- from motives of policy

which I haven't time to explain here.
That fencer explained afterwards to Dave's party that he "seen what you coves

was up to," and that's why he called the inspector back.
But he told them that after they had told their yarn -- which was a mistake.

"Come back, Andy!" cried Jack Bentley.
Dave Regan slipped round the tree, down on his hands and knees,

and made quick time through the grass which, luckily, grew pretty tall
on the thirty or forty yards of slope between the tree and the horse.

Close to the horse, a thought struck Dave that pulled him up,
and sent a shiver along his spine and a hungry feeling under it.

The horse would break away and bolt! But the case was desperate.
Dave ventured an interrogatory "Cope, cope, cope?" The horse

turned its head wearily and regarded him with a mild eye,
as if he'd expected him to come, and come on all fours,

and wondered what had kept him so long; then he went on thinking.
Dave reached the foot of the post; the horse obligingly leaning over

on the other leg. Dave reared head and shoulders cautiously behind the post,
like a snake; his hand went up twice, swiftly -- the first time

he grabbed the inspector's chip, and the second time he put the iron-bark one
in its place. He drew down and back, and scuttled off for the tree

like a gigantic tailless "goanna".
A few minutes later he walked up to the culvert from along the creek,

smoking hard to settle his nerves.
The sky seemed to darken suddenly; the first great drops of the thunderstorm

came pelting down. The inspectorhurried to his horse, and cantered off
along the line in the direction of the fettlers' camp.

He had forgotten all about the chip, and left it on top of the post!
Dave Regan sat down on the beam in the rain and swore comprehensively.

"Middleton's Peter"
I.

The First Born
The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as

the "struggling farmer". The Australian squatter is not always
the mighty wool king that English and American authors and other

uninformed people apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best,
is but a game of chance. It depends mainly on the weather,

and that, in New South Wales at least, depends on nothing.
Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance

to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary "new chum".
His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square,

and his stock was limited in portion" target="_blank" title="n.比率 vt.使成比例">proportion. The hands on Joe's run
consisted of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only

as "Middleton's Peter" (who had been in the service of the Middleton family
ever since Joe Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd,

with his gin and two boys.
It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married

a very ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes
she was an angel. He really worshipped her.

One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands,
with the exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about

the homestead door, and it was evident from their solemn faces
that something unusual was the matter. They appeared

to be watching for something or someone across the flat,
and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently with bent head,

suddenly straightened himself up and cried:
"I can hear the cart. I can see it!"

You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the gibberish
with which they are credited by story writers.

It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken
that the white -- or, rather, the brown -- portion of the party

could see or even hear the approaching vehicle. At last,
far out through the trunks of the native apple-trees,

the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer it was evident that
it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses cantering all the way,

while the motion of the cart, as first one wheel and then the other
sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking resemblance

to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart.
One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did

the duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother.
The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of speed,

and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling
on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down,

and, as soon as she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary
into the bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying,

looking very pale and frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly
had not done blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast.

It contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small farm