Still did she prick it,
    And "Bee-ba" she cried,
Come down, devout mistress,
    And still your own child.

Oh! still my child, Orange,
    Still him with a bell.
I can't still him, ladie,
    Till you come down yersell, &c.

Tom's song was "caviare to the general;"
but, from that day, many a pleasant talk had
George and Adam with the shepherd of
Todstead, while the ship rushed through the
waters of the tropics, and with the long
summer days came long memories of mountain,
wave, and stream in the Northern dales.
Many a long, silent meditation had George
Widdrington, as he glanced over the ship's
side, where sad regrets and deep mortifications
mingled with fondest thoughts of those
he left behind.

But now the ship was at land. The two
friends stepped on shore in wonder. Where,
seventeen years before, spread a green forest,
peopled only by kangaroos and houseless
natives, a great metropolis and a countless
throng of busy people met their eyes. Ships were
crowded at the quays; piles of merchandise
lay on the shore; and thousands of people—
all eager in quest of gain—all hurrying to
and fro, intent on their own thoughts and
affairs, and on nought beside—waded along it
knee-deep in mud, amid the din and confusion of
drays, shouting drivers, mobs of horses,
omnibuses and droshkies, bearing uncouth freights
of hairy-faced men and flaunting women.

They hurried as fast as they could out of
the town, having put into the care of a trusty
Northumbrian merchant, letters from home,
and a good remittance from Adam to his
mother and sister. Still more extraordinary
were the scenes on the road, if road that
could be called, which was one ghastly
reiteration of frightful bogs, ploughed yards-
deep by incessant wheels; yawning gullies,
and rocks and hills. The whole of this
Tartarean track was thronged by huge drays,
heavily laden, and dragged along by enormous
teams of bullocks. Carts, drays,
bullocks, horses, lay in ruins and in death along
the whole line, and still the wondrous stream
of life and labour dragged, rolled, and
tumbled along, amid a deafening din of oaths
and curses, amid smash and crashes; vehicles
stuck fast in hopeless morasses, or dashed over
hedges and precipitous gullies; people
confounded by their difficulties, or brought to
a stand by a tremendous break-down.

Still our travellers marched on in wonder,
but in comparative ease, carrying only their
rugs and damper at their backs, with the
indispensable panikin, quart-pot, and revolver
at their girdles. In about a week from leaving
Melbourn, they found themselves at Sawpit
Gully only four miles short of Forest
Creek. They had halted for the night,
stretched their little blanket-tent over a cord
fastened to two trees, kindled a fire in front,
and were preparing for tea. Adam was
arranging a couple of beefsteaks on two
pointed sticks, at the fire, and George was
returning from the creek with the quart-pots
full of water, when up came three men
dressed as diggers, but armed with guns.
One of them stayed with Adam at the fire, and
the other two confronted George at some
little distance. They presented their gun-
muzzles simultaneously at his head, and
said, "Quick, mates! Shell out!"

George took a glance at them, and set
them down for two of the most strong-built
and brutal vagabonds that he had ever
beheld. They had bushes of black hair
about their faces, and a genuine devil's
expression. But they did not leave him
much time for criticising them. They
repeated the word "Quick!" and backed it
by a fierce oath. George, who was not only
courageous but most adroitly expert in his
movements, stooped as to set down his water,
and rose with his revolver in his hand.
With his left arm he knocked up the gun-
muzzle of one of the villains, discharged
one of his barrels at his head, and, with the
rapidity of lightning, seized the gun of
the other, and repeated his fire. This time
the ball went through the fellow's hat, but
not through his head, and he darted away
through the bush. The other lay dead on
the ground. George was in the act of sending
a second bullet after the flying thief, when he
beheld his friend Adam struggling on the
ground, and a large fellow kneeling on his
chest, busily plundering him. George sprang
towards him, when he rose and made off also.
A shot was sent after him, and the fellow gave
a leap, clapped his hand on his right shoulder,
but continued his flight.

George Widdrington had no time to pursue
him. For, looking at poor Adam, he beheld
him stretched on his back, his face and hands
covered with blood, and no sign of life but
a heavy groaning which escaped him.

"Adam! my dear fellow, Adam! can you
speak?" cried George frantically. There was
no reply, but another deep groan. "Oh God!
he is killed," cried George," and what shall I
do?" He sprung up, looked wildly around as
for assistance; but, seeing no one on the road,
he darted away to the quart pots, and finding
one still with its contents in it, he came, and
kneeling down, washed away the blood from
Adam's face.

It was a horrible sight. The nose
appeared actually smashed. There was a deep
wound on the cheek, and the whole face
appeared bruised and crushed. The hands
were bloody with a wound; the finger on
which his friend had worn a handsome
ring, was stripped of skin: the wretch
having evidently taken the finger in his
mouth and torn off the ring with his teeth.
The poor fellow's gold watch still lay by
his side, having been left in the hurry of
retreat.