Robbery Under Arms - Rolf Boldrewood (most important books of all time .TXT) 📗

says Mr. Knightley. “I’ll let you have him for fifty and allow you ten pounds for your screw. You can add it on to your I.O.U., and pay it in with the other.”

We all laughed at this, and Moran said if he was dealing with Mr. Knightley he’d get him a pound or two cheaper. But Starlight said, very serious-like, that the arrangement would suit him very well. So he had his saddle shifted, and the groom led back the bay and turned him loose in the paddock.

We mounted then, and it looked as if we were all matched for a race to the Black Stump. Moran had a good horse, and when he set him going in the first bit of thick timber we came to, it took a man, I tell you, to keep him in sight. Starlight made the black horse hit out in a way that must have been a trifle strange to him unless he’d been in training lately. As for Mr. Knightley, he took it easy and sailed away on one side with Joe Wall and me. He played it out cool to the last, and wasn’t going to hurry himself for anybody.

Half-an-hour before sundown we rode up to the Black Stump. It was a rum-looking spot, but everybody knew it for miles round. There was nothing like it anywhere handy. It was within a reasonable distance of Bathurst, and not so far from a place we could make to, where there was good shelter and hiding too, if we were pushed.

There were two or three roads led up to it, and crossed there⁠—one from Bathurst, one to Turon, and another straight into the forest country, which led range by range to Nulla Mountain. We could see on a good way ahead, and, though there was no one at the tree when we came, a single horseman was riding along the road for Bathurst. We all drew rein round the stump. It had been a tremendous big old ironbark tree⁠—nobody knew how old, but it had had its top blown off in a thunderstorm, and the carriers had lighted so many fires against the roots of it that it had been killed at last, and the sides were as black as a steamer’s funnel. After a bit we could make out the doctor’s short-tailed, mousy mare and him powdering along at a sort of hand gallop.

When he came up close, he took off his hat and made a bow. “Chentlemen of the roat, I salude you,” he says. “You haf kebt your bromise to the letter, and you will fint that Albert von Schiller has kept his. Hauptman!” says he to Starlight, “I delifer to you the ransom of dies wothy chentleman and his most excellend and hoch-besahltes laty, who has much recovered from her fadigues, and I demant his freetom.”

“Well done, most trust-repaying and not-ever-to-be-entirely-forgotten herald,” says Starlight. “I hand over to these worthy free companions the frank-geld; isn’t that the term?⁠—and when they have counted it (for they won’t take your word or mine), the Graf here⁠—most highborn and high-beseeming, but uncommonly-near-ending his glorious career magnate⁠—will be restored to you. Very pleasant company we’ve found him. I should like to have my revenge at picquet, that’s all.”

While this was going on Starlight had collared the bundle of notes from the doctor, and chucked it over quite careless-like to Moran. “There it is for you,” says he. “You can divide it between you. Dick and I stand out this time; and you can’t say you’ve done badly.”

Moran didn’t say anything, but he and Wall got off their horses and sat down on their heels⁠—native fashion. Then they turned to, counting out the notes one by one. They were all fivers⁠—so it took some time⁠—as they neither of ’em weren’t very smart at figures, and after they’d got out twenty or thirty they’d get boxed, like a new hand counting sheep, and have to begin all over again. It must have been aggravating to Mr. Knightley, and he was waiting to be let go, in a manner of speaking. He never showed it, but kept smoking and yarning with Starlight, pointing out how grand the sun was just a-setting on the Bulga Mountains⁠—just for all the world as if he’d given a picnic, and was making himself pleasant to the people that stayed longest.

At long last they’d got to the end of the conning, and divided the notes. Moran tied his up in a bunch, and rolled ’em in his poncho; but Wall crammed his into his pocket and made ’em all stick out like a boy that’s been stealing apples. When they mounted their horses, Mr. Knightley shook hands with me and Starlight. Then he turns round to Moran and Wall⁠—“We’re parting good friends after all’s said and done,” he says. “Just as well matters have been settled this way. Come, now, in cool blood, ain’t you rather glad, Moran?”

“Dashed if I know,” growls he. “All I know is, you’re deuced well out of it; your luck mayn’t be so good another time.”

“Nor yours either, my friend,” says Mr. Knightley, drawing up his bridle-rein. “I had only a snap shot at you when that bullet went through your poncho, or you’d be lying alongside of Daly. However, I needn’t waste my breath talking to that brute,” he says to Starlight. “I know well all I owe to you and Dick Marston here. Some day I may repay it.”

“You mean what I owe you,” says Starlight, turning it off with a laugh. “Never fear, you’ll find that paid to your credit in the bank. We have agents in all sorts of places. Goodbye, and a safe ride home. My respectful compliments to Mrs. Knightley. Perhaps you’d better follow the doctor now.” The old gentleman had got tired waiting, and ridden on slow and easy.

Two or three weeks after, Starlight and I were taking a ride towards the Bogan Road, not that we was on for anything particular, but just having