A fire was kindled and some
fish were caught, but Philip took none home. Gleeson and McCarthy
reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's
fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise, and eaten for breakfast.
Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor
exciting, except to the temper. Sometimes an eel took the bait, and
then twisted himself round the limb of a tree at the bottom of the
river. He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the
hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips.
After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree
to woo sweet sleep. But there were mosquitos in millions, bandicoots
hopping close to the fire, and monkey-bears, night hawks, owls,
'possums and dingoes, holding a corroboree hideous enough to break
the sleep of the dead.
After breakfast the horses were saddled for home. Philip carried his
revolver in his belt, and Gleeson had a shot-gun. A kangaroo was
seen feeding about a hundred yards distant, and Gleeson dismounted
and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed. A few minutes
afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other
horsemen suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and
faced the fishermen. One was Burridge, a station manager, the other
two were his stockmen. The six men looked at one another for a few
moments without speaking.
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