Both Gleeson and McCarthy had the
Tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long.
"Well," asked Gleeson, "is anything the matter?"
"I dinna ken yet," said Burridge. "Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?"
"Yes, I fired at a kangaroo."
"A kangaroo, eh? Are you sure it was a kangaroo?"
"Yes, it was a kangaroo. What of that? Oh, I see, you think we are
after shooting your cattle. Is that it? Speak out like a man."
"Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I'd like to find out who
does it."
"Oh, indeed! you'd like to know who does it, would you? I can tell
you, anyway, who is the biggest cattle duffer round here, if you'd
like to know!" Gleeson touched one flank of his horse with his heel,
and rode close up to Burridge with the gun in his right hand. "His
name is Burridge, and that's yourself. Everybody knows you, you old
Scotch hound. You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on
them as your master has. There is not a bigger cattle thief than old
Burridge within a hundred miles, and you'll be taken off the run in
irons yet. Get out of my way, or I'll be tempted to send you to
blazes before your time."
Burridge did not go off the run in irons; he left it honourably for
another run which he took up, and stocked with cattle bearing no
brand but his own. Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove
that Burridge ever broke the law.
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