mokes adrift, and turn everything out of the wagon." [Pg 14] The man Pound rose sulkily, with a curious last look at the young Englishman's throat, and hell-fire in his little eyes. "Ben, watch this cove," the chief went on, pointing to Flint, "and watch him with the shooter. I'll see to the youngster myself. Come here, my friend." The speaker was plainly no other than the rascal who called himself Sundown; the hawkers heard the sobriquet on the lips of the other masked man, and their glances met. He was wrapped in a cloak that hid him from head to heels, stooped as he walked, and was amply masked. What struck Flint—who was sufficiently cool to remain an attentive observer—was the absence of vulgar bluster about this fellow; he addressed confederates and captives alike in the same quiet, decisive tones, without either raising his voice to a shout or filling the air with oaths. It appeared that Ned Kelly had not been the last of the real bushrangers, after all. "You come along with me," said he, quietly; and drew Dick aside, pointing at him the rifle, which he grasped across the breech, with a finger still upon the trigger. "Now," continued Sundown, when they had withdrawn a few yards into the scrub, "turn out that [Pg 15] pocket." He tapped Edmonstone on the chest with the muzzle of the rifle. [Pg 15] Dick folded his arms and took a short step backward. "Shoot me!" he exclaimed, looking the robber full in the face. "Why did you save me a minute ago? I prefer to die. Shoot me, and have done with it." "Open your coat," said the bushranger. Edmonstone tore open not only his coat, but his shirt as well, thus baring his chest. "There. Shoot!" he repeated hoarsely. Sundown stared at the boy with a moment's curiosity, but paid no heed to his words. "Empty that pocket." Dick took out the pocket-book that contained all the funds of the firm.
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