'I hold a directly opposite conviction,' said Jack Freshland. 'So do all the men who, like me, have seen order produced from chaos in California. "Scum of the universe" was a complimentary description of her population. "Hell upon earth" was a weak metaphor explanatory of her social state. Look at her now—self-regenerate, orderly, honestly progressive in every phase of industry. I don't say that you run no chance of being shot; accidents will happen when fellows' belts and coat pockets are full of loaded revolvers, whisky being cheap. But you run far less chance of being robbed than in London or Paris. When I came away you might leave your valuables scattered about your tent for days. No one dared to touch them. I don't know whether we shall come to ear-marking pilferers and hanging horse-stealers, but this is an Anglo-Saxon population, and in some way, I will stake my existence, order will be preserved.'
'Talking of horse-stealers, I found Fred Charbett's "Grey Surrey" the other day,' said Moore O'Donnell, 'in rather queer company.'
'That's the horse he won the Ladies' Bag at the Port Western Races with,' I cried out eagerly, 'a tremendous mile horse, but no stayer. Had he a large D brand?'
'He had then; and a large S—if that stands for sore back—that ye could see a mile off.'
'He is a flat-ribbed horse,' I explained, 'and any one with a bad saddle might give him a back in a day that a week couldn't cure. How glad old Fred will be to see him again! Who is the ruffian that has him now?'
'One Moore O'Donnell. Maybe ye wouldn't mind putting your interrogation in another form, Mr. Boldrewood, if it's agreeable to ye?'
'A thousand pardons, really—but I didn't understand that you had taken possession of him.'
We all laughed at this, and Jack Freshland said, 'Come, Moore, you old humbug, tell us how you stole the poor fellow's horse. It's all very well for Boldrewood to back you up with his alphabetical evidence. I don't believe half of it. You'll be up before the beak if you don't mind.'
'Give me the laste drop of that whisky,' said O'Donnell, stretching his long legs, 'and I'll tell you all how I compounded a felony, for there is the laste flavour of _that_ about the transaction. I was mooning about looking for old "Paleface," when, after a great walk, I came upon the villain in company with a strange grey, also in hobbles. You know what a hot brute mine is: the stranger was about the same. Neither would dream of allowing me to catch him. So, after a long chase, I arrived at home, exhausted and demoralised, with just sufficient strength left to put them into the bullock yard. I refreshed myself from the whisky-jar, and after lunch and a smoke, feeling better, I strolled out to look at the grey. I thought we had been introduced. Of course, there he was, the great Surrey, no less. The last time we met, I had seen a sheet pulled off with pride by a neat groom, just before Fred took him down to the races. Here he was, dog-poor, rough-coated, and with a back fit to make one sick; D on the shoulder, 2B under the mane. Identification complete. "Such is life," thought I. "Just as one's in fine hard condition, with all the world before you, and lots of money and friends, you get stolen, or come to grief, grass-feeding, and an incurable sore back!"'