Thus equipped, the ruffian—­for we could see that he was a ruffian in every movement and in every line of his animal face—­swaggered towards us, nodded to Smith in a patronizing manner, and after a broad stare of half-defiance and half-wonder at Fred and myself,—­an act of impertinence of which we took no notice,—­he began examining the animals as though he was a connoisseur in horseflesh.

We apparently paid no attention to his movements, and continued discussing our private affairs, and sipping our coffee.  Rover, who was sharing our meal, once or twice showed his teeth, and manifested a disposition to commence hostilities; but we silenced him, and thought that we would let the fellow operate for a few moments without remonstrance.

“Who is he?” we asked of Smith.

“The worst man in Ballarat.  He is called the bully of the mines, and it is as much as a man’s life is worth to anger him.  His real name is Pete Burley; he served out his time for breaking a man’s head and then robbing him, in London.  Say nothing to him, but if he speaks, answer him civilly.”

This was all spoken in a tone not above a whisper, and we began to think that the fellow was indeed dangerous, if a man like Smith displayed signs of fear in his presence.

After Mr. Pete had satisfied himself which horse possessed the best bottom, he turned towards us, and condescended to honor us with his attention.

“Is them hosses yourn?” he inquired, with a growl, as though the effort of asking a question was painful.

Fred intimated that they belonged to us, and that he considered them, confidentially, fine animals.

“I want to use this ere one, to-night; where’s the saddle and fixins?”

“Let him have the animal,” whispered Smith, without raising his eyes; “it’s better than having trouble with him.”

The advice was intended for our benefit, but the Yankee blood which coursed through Fred’s veins was opposed to such an inglorious acquiescence.

“You don’t intend to take the animal without asking our consent, do you?” inquired Fred, mildly.

The ruffian actually looked astonished, and for a moment did not reply, so bewildered did he seem.

“Have you told them fellers who I is?” asked Pete, appealing to Smith.

“I don’t think that I have,” replied Smith, hurriedly; “it’s all right, Pete; you can have the horse, if you want him.”

“If it’s all right, I’ve no more to say; but if it’s not all right, I can make it right, d——­d quick,” the ruffian said, still looking towards us, as though he should like to see a little opposition, just for the sake of showing us who he really was.

“My friend, here,” said Fred, pointing to Smith, “is slightly mistaken in what he says.  I own the horse you have selected for a ride, and I have objections against loaning him to strangers.  You can’t have him.”

Fred was as cool as ever I saw him in my life.  He reached over to the coffee-pot while he was speaking, and deliberately helped himself to coffee, sweetened it to his fancy, and then drank it, without showing the least agitation.