He spoke with the drawling intonation peculiar to the natives of New South Wales, more especially those reared in the country towns of the interior. His features were regular, his eyes grey and apparently unobservant, though, like those of other races remote from cities and the haunts of men, there were few objects, or incidents, which were not quickly and comprehensively revealed to their vision. The countenance was impassive, as of a man who was not desirous of imparting his thoughts to chance comrades, and at the same time too little interested in the minor matters of life to furnish conversation about them. His hair and beard, of a fair or light brown hue, were streaked with grey. Verging upon middle age, he was probably a few years older, though the activity which he showed when roused to exertion forbade the idea. Indifferent and careless as to surroundings as he appeared to the ordinary observer, there was a hint of calm watchfulness about his air and lounging pose which, as of a hunter in ‘Injun country,’ conveyed the idea that it would be difficult to take him by surprise.
The Commissioner looked fixedly at him. The man returned his gaze with a quiet steadiness, at once remote from fear or defiance, yet as one ready for the next movement, whether hostile or pacific.
‘I see you know me, sir,’ said the man; ‘it’s a good few years since we met last. You won’t give me away?’—and here the expression changed to that of a hunted creature, which, driven into the last stronghold, has yet the defiant courage of the wolf quarry amid the baying hounds.
‘My good fellow, you don’t suppose I bother myself about likenesses for all the people I’ve met during the last twenty years. I may have seen you, or some one like you, before; but I’m a mine-owner now, and I don’t know that I could swear to you positively. But _if_ you’ve done anything in another colony, under another name, that has brought you into trouble with the police, don’t get into any scrapes here; and if ever you’re arrested again, it won’t be through me, mind that.’
‘God bless you, sir!’ said the man. ‘You’ve not changed. If I’m “copped” again, it won’t matter, for I’ll be a dead man.’
Mr. Banneret walked away—rather hastily, as though he could not trust himself to say more. ‘Poor devil!’ he said to himself—almost audibly—‘I wonder how he will end? The odds are a hundred to one against him; that’s a good paying claim, I hear, and he may—only _may_—save up his share. He’s afraid to drink for fear of letting out secrets—there’s a price on his head too—a big reward—which some of his own “friends” wouldn’t mind handling. Well, there’s the last of the lawless lot. “’Tis pity of him too,” as the Douglas said.’ It was rather past the hour of the mid-day meal when he regained Pilot Mount, and his face still wore an expression of doubt, almost of anxiety, as he entered the tent, where Mr. Newstead’s lively chatter, and Southwater’s more serious observations about business matters, and the probable month’s ‘clean up,’ chased the cloud from his brow.