“You knows very well, lieutenant, that I’ve been the best spy on this route for years, and that I always tells you all that happens, and now to think that these strangers should come here, and try and take my character away, it’s too bad, it is,” and the dirty scamp dug his filthy fingers into his eyes, and tried to force a tear, but the effort was a failure.

“How about the stolen articles in the cellar of the hut, a portion of which you were to receive for setting the gang free?” asked Fred.

“There’s none there,” whined the fellow, “so help me God, there’s none there, and there’s no use in searching.”

“Well, examine the hut at all events,” replied Fred; and bidding Bimbo walk to the house, we followed close at his heels, and threatened him with the fangs of the dog when he hesitated.

By the time we had reached the station hut, the policemen were just depositing Gulpin near the door, having brought him in a blanket from the spot where he fell.  The wretch was suffering great pain, and huge beads of perspiration were streaming down his forehead from its effects.  The men had stripped off the leg of his trousers, and revealed bones protruding near the knee.  But little blood flowed from the wound where the ball had penetrated, and I considered it, with my imperfect knowledge of surgery, as looking decidedly bad for saving the robber chief’s life.

I stooped down, and sought to examine the limb, but with horrid imprecations, the bushranger ordered me off, and swore that no one but a regular physician should attend him.

As we were over a hundred miles from Melbourne, and there was not a doctor, probably, between us and that city, I gave the man up for lost, and so I told the lieutenant, who merely shrugged his shoulders, and declared that there would be one the less to hang, and that it was always bad travelling with wounded men in company.

“Let that man be kept within musket shot,” said Murden, pointing to the guilty Bimbo, who was still snivelling, and endeavoring to excite our sympathies.

“And what shall we do with this poor wretch?” Fred asked, gazing with pity at the prostrate form of the robber chief, who, an hour before, was a model of health and strength.

“What can we do?” asked the officer, with a puzzled expression.

“I am no surgeon,” replied Fred, “but I will, if the poor wretch is willing, attempt to amputate the limb, and it may be the means of saving his life.”

“Save it for a halter, hey?” asked Gulpin, opening his eyes; and for a moment they were lighted up with a fierce fire, that showed the bitter hatred which the man entertained against his captors.

“That is not for me to judge,” replied Fred; “I offer to save your life, if possible, and you must depend upon the courts of Melbourne whether it is continued.”

The outlaw shook his head, and after wetting his parched lips with water exclaimed,—­