CHAPTER XVII.

English Society _v._ Colonial—Music—The “new chum’s” letter—“Two’s company and three’s none”—Unpleasant reflections—Parson Tabor’s advice—Mrs. Bell shows that she has a “down” on our hero—The “Spider”—The “new chum” proves that he is “not such a fool as he looks”—Tim returns home.

The conversation at supper turned upon station matters, varied by a discussion concerning a concert which had just taken place in Sydney; and here Fulrake, who had a good knowledge of music, and who had been present at the concert, was both interesting and amusing, at all events to the ladies of the party; but he spoilt this favourable impression which he had created, a little later on by making sarcastic remarks upon the society of Sydney, this called forth a mild reproach from Parson Tabor, as he found that no one else took up the cudgels in the case of Colonial versus English society.

“I think, Mr. Fulrake,” he said, “that you have only been a few days in the colony, and whilst I fancy you have very fairly criticized the music, I hardly think so young a man as yourself would be a proper judge of _any_ society in that time.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Tabor, it’s true that I have not been very long amongst you, but I’m considered at home to be a very quick judge of characters,—as a matter of fact always keep my eyes and ears open, always on the _qui-vive_, don’t you know.”

“Oh, how nice you speak French,” cried Mrs. Bell, unable to restrain herself. “_Etes-vous_”—but at this point the squire brought his fist on the table, making the glasses ring again, as in angry tones he said,—

“For _goodness’_ sake, Mrs. B., don’t let’s have all that over again, or I’ll get Rayon back and chain him in your sitting-room.”

This threat was so dreadful, that Mrs. Bell said not another word, but afterwards whispered to Fulrake,—

“You must excuse my ’usband, but he can’t ‘abide’ French.”

After supper was ended, our new chum asked Annie if she would favour him with a song, as he had heard that all colonial ladies played and sang so well.

“I sing very little, Mr. Fulrake; another evening I will try, but to-night I promised Mat—Mr. Stanley—that I would visit my garden to see what he has been doing there. He has been weeding, and says that he is afraid that he has pulled up some of my young seedlings.”

Mat, who was standing by, on hearing this, promptly got his hat, and the two left the room together.

Mrs. Bell then turned to Fulrake, and asked him if he would play or sing.

“I play a little,” he answered, and thereupon sat down to the piano, and, first running his fingers in a critical manner over the keys, went through a difficult piece by Weber with such taste and feeling, playing it perfectly by ear, that the squire, who had stepped out to smoke a pipe with his son, said,—

“Tom, my boy, I’m not much of a judge, but I declare I do believe we have got a professor of _music_ instead of French this time. By Jove, he _can_ play!”

“So he can, governor; but I think he had better stay here with the ladies, instead of going with us to the out-station. He’ll amuse _them_, anyhow.”

When Mr. Fulrake got back to his room that night, he unpacked his writing-materials, lit a cigar, and wrote a letter to his father, which ran thus:—

“Bulinda, N.S.W., 18—, “Christmas-time, 11 p.m.

“MY DEAR DAD,—At this hour it is a little cooler, so I will write you another line. I sent you a letter from Sydney about the voyage, colonial _town_ society, &c., so I’ll say no more on that score, but bring you at once to Bulinda Creek station.

“To begin with, the only good things in my sleeping apartment—a veritable den—are the cigar I am smoking and the pen I am writing with, both of which I brought from home. Oh! but I must tell you of my light. My _lamp_, I didn’t bring _that_ out. There’s nothing very patent about it, excepting that it’s a piece of rope floating in a bowl of dirty grease. Forgive the apparent joke, but I can only say that it ‘couldn’t _hold a candle_ to a farthing dip.’ It is called a ‘fat-lamp,’ I find. But these are trifles.

“Judging from what we _hear_ at home concerning bush-life, and taking our impressions from the books we read upon the subject, all _should_ be very romantic, and free, and beautiful. But the reality, great Scot!

“I’ll say nothing of the offensive independence of the so-called labouring classes, which I met with from the time I landed to my arrival here. You may say that my colonial experience has only lasted a few hours. True, oh, worthy dad! but, let me tell you, I don’t think it will last _very_ many hours _more_, at all events in these parts; for, unless matters change very much, the probability is that the next time I shall write to you it will be from some partly-civilized district, or maybe I shall start home straight.

“I won’t bother you any more about myself; but first I must tell you, as a matter of fact, that there is little comfort and no furniture in the place, and the food is of the coarsest.

“Now for _society_. Well, you know old Bell; but, by gad, sir! you don’t know his wife. Vulgar aint the word to describe her; ’tisn’t _in it_; so, to use her own expression, ‘let her abide.’

“Next we come to a plump daughter, rich colour as to hair, good eyes, head well set on, good temper. I may have more to say about Miss Annie, as I intend to ‘cultivate’ her, please the pigs!

“Her brother Tom, a regular boor, who eyes one heavily, yet sits and says nothing excepting joining in in a ponderous way if the conversation turns upon horses,—or ‘scrubbers,’ he seemed to call the ones _he_ referred to. By the way, there’s very little scrubbing done here, either to man or beast.

“There is a parson, named Tabor. He _looks_ a Christian, and undoubtedly _is_ a gentleman, and, I should say, is a good sort.

“And then there’s a man named Stanley. Every one in Sydney was talking of a sort of escaped gipsy of that name, who had been living with the blacks or wounded by bushrangers—all that sort of thing, you know,—and no doubt this is the same individual whom Bell has caught again. He’s a dark, good-looking man, and fairly-well cultivated I should fancy. But the most extraordinary thing is, perhaps, not so much that the whole family—daughter and all—call him by his Christian name and have him in to supper, but that they let him take evening rambles alone with Annie—that’s the daughter, you perceive.

“Listen! On this, my first evening, I gave the family some music. Now, I don’t play very badly, and I wanted the daughter to listen. But no; colonial manners step in. This is the signal for her to rise; and, under the pretence of weeding some garden or other, she retires out of doors to star-gaze with the hanger-on Stanley!

“I did _not_ like to suggest that, in the absence of a moon, it was a case of gardening under difficulties, as, to speak honestly, my mother’s one ewe lamb didn’t want to get his sucking-teeth knocked out—and this gipsy is a big ’un, very. The balance of the family seemed to like my efforts on the piano; at all events, Mrs. Bell asked for another ‘toon,’ but I don’t care about throwing my pearls before those who can’t possibly appreciate them, so I shut up—anyhow, shut the piano up, a good one, by the way. The whole thing smacks, to my mind, of the opening of a three-volume novel; only I say at once that I don’t much fancy the hero, and I _do_ rather like the heroine, as far as I’ve got, if, indeed, they do represent these two characters, ‘which I hopes it isn’t.’ At all events, I shall tell you if the plot thickens, as it will be some amusement to watch events.

“Give my love to my mother, and tell her that I must now retire to my couch of sticks and rotten bags—for of such does my bed appear to be composed, as viewed by that brilliant meteor, the ‘fat-lamp.’

“From your affectionate son, “LIONEL B. FULRAKE.”

The next occasion on which our new chum saw Annie was one afternoon shortly after the evening on which he had written the letter to his father.

He lay stretched on the seat under the poinciania-tree, lazily rolling a cigarette, when Annie passed him with a basket of flowers in her hand.

Daintily dressed in a white gossamer material, the graceful and pretty girl—and our heroine looked especially winning on this occasion as she came tripping by—caused the usually collected Fulrake to start with surprise, and murmuring to himself, “how _sweetly_ ‘_crisp_,’” sprang off his seat, and taking off his hat said,—

“Miss Bell, may I see your garden?”

“Certainly, Mr. Fulrake, I will show it you; but I expect that you will not think much of it after the well-kept old-country greenhouses.”

As they wended their way laughingly towards the little grove, Mat followed at some distance behind with two buckets of water; but finding that they passed through the garden gate without apparently taking any notice of him, he deposited the buckets outside and walked away to the stockyard.

As soon as they were inside the garden Fulrake turned to Annie with,—

“Who is that man Stanley that seemed to watch _you and I_ into this place, and then disappeared? I suppose what you would call in this country a sort of educated ‘Wood and Water Joe’?”

“What!” answered Annie, her temper beginning to rise at these remarks, “Mr. Stanley; where is he? I don’t see him. I wanted him here with the water, and expected to find him.”

“Well, I saw him ‘slam’ his buckets down and disappear over that rise.”

“Then I hope that he will be back soon,” answered Annie warmly. “Mr. Stanley is a very old friend of ours; we knew him in the old country; and if he is not a gentleman bred and born, he is one by nature. _And_, Mr. Fulrake, I will thank you not to couple _you and I_ together again in the familiar manner you did just now. You may fetch the water if you like, or I will get it myself.”

Fulrake fetched the water, and depositing the pails, said to Annie, in a tone which seemed to her to have a perceptible sneer in it,—

“I’m sure I beg your pardon; I had no idea he was a friend of _yours_.”

“I said a friend of _ours_,” replied Annie, who was now rather amused by noticing the peculiar way in which the little man carried his two heavy buckets.

“Yes, but by the way you fired up I think I must have trod on some soft place.”

“You are treading _in_ one now,” retorted Annie, with a laugh, “spilling all the water about like that; why, you will quite spoil your dandy shoes; they must be wet through.”

“Very well. Shall I call _Mr._ Stanley, then?” said Fulrake, who felt that he was getting the worst of it.

“Yes, if you like; he is not so clumsy. And then you can go in and change your shoes.”

This last was a crusher to our new chum, who was not accustomed to be snubbed or talked to in this way. However, determined to take himself off decently, with his front to the fair foe, he was stepping backwards; but forgetting, in his retreat, that one of the buckets of water was behind him, he came against it, overturned it, and found himself partly sitting in the bucket and wholly in a pool of water.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” cried Annie, scarcely able to prevent herself from going into fits of laughter.

“Don’t mention it, Miss Bell,” called back Fulrake, who was now walking rapidly away, as he muttered the following lecture to himself:—

“You did _not_ quite score there, Lionel, my boy. Always _will_ rush your fences with the fair sex; yes, and very often come an awful cropper. What a fool you must have looked with your ‘pins’ in the air. How glad you must have been that the gipsy wasn’t there. You’ll hardly look for him _now_; no, you will see him _somewhere_ first.”

And so, having blown himself severely up, Fulrake gained his room, changed his things, and rolling a cigarette, soon forgot his intention of “cultivating” Annie in a new novel which he found in his bag.

Meantime, where was Mat? Poor Mat! he had walked up to the stockyard, and finding the place deserted, he placed his arms on one of the rails and thus addressed the fence around him.—

“I knew how ’twould be when that swell came with the dancing-shoes. Of course she’d prefer his genteel manners to my rough ones. He’s ‘The Honourable;’ well, so am I—at least, I always try to be. I’ll break his head,—no, I won’t, that _wouldn’t_ be honourable; besides, they’d kick me off the place if I did, and rightly, too, and _she_ would be no longer kind. No, I’ll go home—home to the Forest; yes, with Tim. And yet, the other day I said I’d stop. Why, I _must_ stop; I’ve signed articles for partnership. Hardly know what to do; wish some one would tell me. Wonder whether the parson would. I’ll ask _him_.”

Mat! Mat; heretofore your strongest point amongst men—amongst dangers by flood and field—has been self-reliance and presence of mind; _now_ you do not even seem to _know_ your own mind. Have patience! Try to live these thoughts, these trifles, down, as you have before overcome great and serious troubles.

Annie had watered her plants, and returning homewards, thought that she would leave her empty pails outside Mat’s door; but when she arrived there, late in the evening, she found the door wide open, papers and accounts being blown about by the wind, whilst a candle was dimly burning in a sheltered corner of the room.

Seeing that the apartment was unoccupied, she stepped in to blow out the candle, when her eye lit upon the old book, “Robinson Crusoe,” which Mat had once before shown her, and, taking it up, she made out on the fly-leaf, written in barely legible round-hand, “From Miss Bell to M. S.,” then the word “Forest;” but all the rest was nearly obliterated. Pinned on to the same page was a fresh sprig of stephanotis.

She was still examining the old volume when an approaching step caused her to shut it hastily, and blow out the candle, so that she might escape unseen; when, turning to leave the room, she found herself seized and held by a strong pair of arms.

“Let me go! Who are you?” she cried, on finding herself thus suddenly captured.

“Oh! Miss Annie, I beg you ten thousand pardons!” said the deep voice of Mat. “I thought I had caught some one pilfering in my room.”

“_You_, Mat! Oh, how relieved I am! I thought I was being carried off again by bushrangers. Yes, I _was_ pilfering, or, rather, looking at your old books; but I went in to blow out the light. You have no business to leave a candle burning in such a dangerous position.”

“I’m very sorry, Miss Annie; but I was star-gazing—and—thinking—and forgot.”

“Well, and what were you thinking of so deeply, when the whole place might have been in a blaze through your carelessness?”

“I—I cannot tell you.”

“But you _must_, and you _shall_, Mat. Come! I know. You thought that Mr. Fulrake should have taken _his_ turn carrying the water for me.”

“Oh, _no_! _no_! Let _me_ always wait upon you! I want no help. And oh! won’t you take _my_ arm, instead of his, next time in going up the steps, or anywhere. Indeed, I’ll take you safely.”

“Why, Mat, what _has_ come over you? Mr. Fulrake merely repeated the formality of taking me in to dinner, and that was only once. I’m sure I would always rather you _did_ come with me and carry my buckets, for Mr. Fulrake was dreadfully clumsy, upsetting the water everywhere, and quite rude when I laughed at him; and—”

“Was he?” broke in Mat, with sudden anger; “then I’ll have him out, and—”

“_Stop_, Mat! Where are you going?”

“Going? Why, any one that is rude to you—” and Mat was making off when Annie seized him by the arm.

“Listen to me! Mr. Fulrake was not insultingly rude. I merely meant that he answered me rather shortly when I laughed at his wetting his grand shoes.”

Mat, who was secretly pleased to find that Fulrake had been sent to the rightabout by Annie, now said,—

“That is different. I will tell you what I was thinking of. Of going back to the old country.”

“What! Leaving us, after you said you would stay? Leaving all your friends?”

“Would you be very sorry if I did go, Miss Annie?”

“Yes, I should be _very sorry indeed_.”

“Then forgive me for appearing so shifty. I expect that I got rather stupid trying to understand accounts and figures, and such things, in those papers;” and Mat pointed to a pile of documents which littered one of the tables near him, and which he had attempted to study after his visit to the stockyard, but had given up the attempt, and strolled into the night air to think of Annie.

“And now,” said Annie, with a smile, “I must go in, so you may give me an arm up the verandah steps.”

One conclusion which Mat arrived at after the foregoing conversation was that he would still consult the parson on the morrow. The clergyman had on more than one occasion given him good, hearty advice, and he therefore again sought him.

Parson Tabor was engaged writing when Mat walked into his room, but he got up with a smile of welcome and motioned him to a seat, saying, “You look rather fagged, Mat; not slept well?”

“No, I have not, Mr. Tabor, and I have come to you, as I have come before, when I am bothered, and want to do the right thing. I will tell you straight. Yesterday—last night—I made up my mind to go home, and never come out here again; but, after that I met Miss Bell, and she said she would be sorry if I went home—and—and—”

“I see it all,” gently interrupted Tabor, “and I _have_ seen it all for some time. But before any more is said, I’ll tell you what is right—to go _and talk to the squire_—I know that you have not said anything to him—and Mrs. Bell, and _then_, if you like, you can come to me; but I will _not_ be the first to interfere in these affairs.”

“But I do not know what to say to them. I _daren’t_ say it, Mr. Tabor; that’s why I have come to you.”

“Mat, you are not a nervous man; go!” And with gentle force Tabor pushed him out of the door.

Our forester knew, at all events, that he had received good advice, and he acted upon it there and then. Knocking at the door of Bell’s study-smoking-room, a cheery voice bade him enter, and he found the squire at his accounts.

“Just in good time, Mat,” he said, looking up for an instant, “to go through the ‘muster’ book. Here, partner, sit down,” he added, with a laugh, “roll up your sleeves, light a pipe, and to work.”

“Squire, I’ll smoke afterwards, but I want to talk seriously first.”

“What’s up now, Mat. Drive on. Must be very bad, you look so solemn.”

“And ’tis very bad, Squire; and I feel very bad about it. I’m—I’m in love with your daughter, and I can’t help it. _There_, it’s out!”

“Mat, you surprise me,” said Bell, turning round in his chair; “but say on.”

Now that the ice was broken our hero took courage, and made quite a speech, for him; telling Bell that he had liked his daughter when she was a little girl in the Forest, that he had never forgotten her during his long years of wild life in the north, and that now that he had met her again as a grown-up woman he _loved_ her.

“Men say in books that I have read, squire,” continued our forester, “‘I am not worthy of her.’ And _I_ say truly that _I_ am not, neither by birth, manners, nor education.”

“Has my daughter given you any encouragement?”

“No,” replied Mat; “but I do not think that Miss Annie dislikes me.”

The squire mused.

“I will talk to Mrs. Bell about it,” he at length said. “I will give no opinion now; but this must not prevent your helping me in the station-books, so sit down.”

But when the squire afterwards sought his wife and made her acquainted with Mat’s feelings, she expressed herself as being highly indignant at the very idea.

“Look,” she said, “at the grand chances all through this season that Annie will have of making a really good match. You know how she has been admired at every ball, party, and picnic that she has been to. Why, quite lately there’s that young Lord Roulette, who ’asn’t been out long in the colonies; he seeks out Annie at every reception she goes to; and I know he’ll be a millionaire. Then there’s the Governor’s nephew. See how well she might do with any of these eligible ‘parrties.’”

Mrs. Bell took care to keep inside the English language whilst pronouncing this word, but she could not forbear a slight roll with her tongue on the r’s.

“On the other hand, my dear, though Stanley is a fine fellow, and has saved Annie’s life, we _must_ think of her future. Fancy being introduced to Mat’s people; to their tents and caravans. When _you_ mixed with those people—”

But Bell stopped his wife; he knew of old that this was only the commencement of a long, wordy harangue, which would develop into a lecture upon his own many supposed shortcomings and slights, from which she had suffered in former times. Thus the argument would become purely personal; so he said shortly,—

“Enough. It’s no good further discussing the question until Annie gives us a bit of _her_ mind; so we’ll drop it.”

Bell walked away, and thought, weakly enough, that he had had the last word. But his wife called after him,—

“I _forbid_ Mat to speak on the subject to Annie.”

The next time the squire saw Mat he told him of the interview that he had had with Mrs. Bell, and of her reasons for opposing an engagement between Mat and his daughter.

“She says she forbids you to speak on the subject to Annie. But one thing I’ll tell you, my boy,” said Bell, in conclusion, “I have generally noticed that these things right themselves; so keep up a good heart.”

Mat replied, “I have often thought of what Mrs. Bell has now mentioned, and as I expected that that would be her argument, I have been thinking the matter over deeply since I spoke to you. I would not for the world stand in the way of Miss Annie’s future prospects, therefore, I propose this: Dromoora and Terebare have told me several times lately that they would like to return to their country. I will take them there, and return here. The journey there and back will take weeks—months. During that time Miss Annie will have opportunities of seeing a great number of families and people in Sydney, and will have a lot of gaiety and pleasure, which she deserves. I will not say a word on the subject to her now, but when I _return_, why perhaps I may.”

“Mat, my lad,” said the squire, “your sentiments are noble ones, and worthy of your nature. We will now let events work themselves out.”

Our forester occupied himself for the next day or two in getting Tim’s traps packed and settling his brother’s affairs and his own generally with the squire. The wound in his brother’s side had healed outwardly, though he could feel the bullet within him every now and then. Still, he was able to get about now unassisted, and was anxious to be off, in a ship which sailed shortly.

And how had our new chum, the Honourable Lionel, been “shaping”?

He certainly showed no aptitude for bush-life or work, and said as much. The solitude of the station did not suit him, and, though he accompanied the others on horseback once or twice on the run, and proved a good rider, yet he never could be induced to take any active part in station matters. As Tom said,—

“He shot a kangaroo one day, and that’s all he’s done, and all he wants to.”

So it was with a feeling of relief to Fulrake that Tom asked him one day whether he would like to go to Sydney with him. He gladly accepted the proposal, adding,—

“Yes, and I have heard of a good kangaroo hound there I would like to buy.”

An event occurred during this visit to the town which greatly raised him in Tom’s estimation.

After Tom had transacted his business in Sydney, and Fulrake had purchased his hound, the two young men were crossing a ferry in the harbour, when the man who was rowing them made a rough remark to Fulrake, and asked him what he was going to pay for the cur he had with him, for that he interfered with the balance of his boat.

Fulrake, who was dressed with his usual care, and was lying back in the stern-sheets, smoking, blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, and languidly raising himself half up, shifted his big hound, and then resumed his former position, without troubling himself even to look at the abusive rower. The calm disdain with which he was treated seemed to put the man into a fury, as with many oaths he recommenced his abuse, saying,—

“Just like you blank loafing new-chum swells, don’t want to _pay_ for him, I suppose? I’ve half a mind to pitch yer cur overboard.”

“If you do,” replied Fulrake, with a quiet wink at Tom, “I should most certainly pitch you after him my man!”

This answer considerably astonished the ferryman as well as Tom, as they glanced at the small, spare figure of the new chum. And yet the man did not seem to have any intention of putting his threat into execution. He seemed to forget the dog; but, staring rudely at Fulrake, and rowing with all his might, he thundered,—

“Wait till I get ashore, my young bloke!”

“Exactly what I’m going to do,” replied Fulrake, with a calm smile, as he blew a huge cloud of tobacco out of his nostrils.

The ferryman made one mistake; for when the boat reached land he jumped out to fasten her to her usual moorings—a tree some way up the bank. This gave Fulrake the opportunity he had foreseen. All his apparent languor disappeared as he sprang ashore with the ability of a cat, and before the rower had completed the fastening of the boat, he had given Tom the hound to hold, and taken off a pair of well-fitting kid gloves. He then addressed the ferryman in a tone that sounded almost tender, and certainly was quite touching in its plaintiveness,—

“You told me just now, in a rough and uncivil manner, that the dog was interfering with the balance of your boat. I caused the animal to shift his position. You then called me a blank new chum, and applied the same epithet to the _cur_. I think I shall presently show you which is the real cur; but, _firstly_, perhaps you think that that vulgar word which your low class use on every possible occasion is an oath: it is merely the corruption of an old expression.”

The man he was addressing had never been appealed to in this kind and gentle manner before, and stood listening with open mouth, which, however, he closed as Fulrake continued,—

“_Secondly_, and what was more important, you called me new chum. As a matter of fact, this is true; but at all events, I paid my passage out, and, judging by your dirty scrub of a head, I should unhesitatingly put you down as a blackguard of a remarkably low type; what you are pleased to call out here a ‘lag’—an old hand—but which I prefer to put into new chum language as a _convict_, sent out at the expense of the country, and I should judge, in your especial case, for kicking some defenceless creature to death. I have no doubt, if you _ever_ fought, you would fight like the _cur that you are_.”

The ruffian before him evidently could not get the meaning of Fulrake’s calmly delivered sermon into his thick head at first, but towards the end of it a full sense of the words dawned on his heavy mind, and when he heard the concluding words, coupled with immoderate laughter of Tom, he broke out into a volley of furious oaths, and seizing a huge stone which lay at his feet, hurled it with terrific force at Fulrake’s head. The latter, quite prepared for this, never shifted his ground, but simply throwing his head to one side with a professional movement, the well-aimed missile flew harmlessly by.

“I thought so,” said our new chum, “you’re too big a coward even to fight fair. Who is the cur now?”

This last taunt brought on his adversary, livid with rage, and, sparring with both arms in the air, he tried to deliver a round-handed blow on the new chum’s head. If that blow had got home, the little white-haired man would have gone down, probably never to rise again.

But the boatman did not know that he had to deal with the “Spider,” for such was the name that his insignificant-looking antagonist went by in London, and in his own county, where he was well known to both friends and foes by his extreme agility, clever defence, and the punishing power of his fists, _and_ by the cool and indomitable pluck he showed when facing heavy odds.

The round-hander that was intended to smash our Spider, went, like its forerunner the rock, harmlessly over his head, fended off and upwards by his left arm, whilst with his right he countered his man full in the mouth, sending him down with a crash which would have had a stunning effect had not the oarsman lit in the ooze which lined the bank.

This gave the Spider time to get his wind, which, owing to his want of exercise of late, was none of the best, as he remarked to Tom,—

“Bit breezy inside, long sea voyage against training; but we’re getting on, eh?”

“My word you are,” was Tom’s answer; “you _did_ get on; gave him fits.”

“Round two,” cried the Spider, as the boatman, after rinsing his mouth in the salt water, prepared to renew the combat.

This time the ferryman, looking more nasty than ever, and covered with blood, came at Fulrake literally like a bull, as with head down he tried to butt the little man off his legs.

The Spider met this charge with a terrific left-hander, which he intended for his adversary’s face, but which, owing to the man’s dropping his head so low, struck on the top of his skull; this he followed with a smart delivery from his right, which landed on the ferryman’s jaw as he staggered from the first blow, and down he went again, this time rolling under the bows of his own boat; and there he lay still.

But Tom thought it time to interfere, so stepped up to the man and asked him if he had had enough.

The boatman looked up in a dazed way, hardly able to articulate, his mouth being full of ooze and blood.

“Enough!” he said; “I’ve got _too_ much! Is he gone? All my front teeth are driven in, and I believe my jaw is broken!” Then, getting slowly up, he approached his lips close to Tom, and said, in a confidential whisper, “That young’un hits like a kick from a bullock!”

Thereupon Tom told his friend that the man had had enough of it.

“As a matter of fact,” replied the Spider, “so have I.” At the same time showing Tom his left hand. “I’m not used to hitting my fists against the top of a thick skull like that. It has, I think, driven one of the knuckles in.” Saying which, the Spider lit another cigarette, went up to his late antagonist, and putting a sovereign into his hand, said, “There, my man, that will pay the boat and help to straighten you up; only don’t do it again, don’t you know.”

“No, I won’t,” said the fellow, “leastways, I won’t fight with _you_ again, if that’s what you mean.” Then, as he spit on the gold in his hand, he added, “You’re a gentleman, though you be a new chum.”

“Well, you _have_ a nerve,” said Tom, as they walked away; “and how you kept your temper in the boat I can’t understand.”

“Very simple to understand, Tom: if there had been a row in the boat, she might have capsized, and _I can’t swim_. I guessed rightly he wouldn’t chuck the dog overboard; I’d have had him as he seized it.”

But to station life Fulrake never _would_ take. As Tom said to the squire a few days after the fight just recorded,—

“The little chap has tremendous pluck and nerve, but he _is_ such a lazy fellow, and so full of fads about his grub and everything.”

And Fulrake, alias the “Spider,” soon after quitted the country, taking passage in the same ship with Tim and Jumper, for the old dog was getting very feeble, and his master was much delighted when the captain of the ship told him that he might take him with him.

Tim arrived in the New Forest in due course, and wrote a letter to his brother, which reached him many months afterwards, telling him of their parents, who though much aged were still hearty; of their sister (who had long been married, as they were aware); and he ended a long letter of Forest news by saying that Fulrake had tended him during the voyage like his own brother, and had looked after the old dog too.

And so the “Spider” disappears from the scene of our story.