Chapter XIII.



Ubi Caro, Ibi Vultures.


One morning, I woke all on a sudden.--What's up? A troop of horse galloping
exactly towards my tent, and I could hear the tramping of a band of traps.
I got out of the stretcher, and hastened out of my tent. All the neighbours,
in night-caps and unmentionables, were groping round the tents, to inquire
what was the matter. It was not yet day-light. There was a sly-grog seller
at the top of the hill; close to his store he had a small tent, crammed with
brandy cases and other grog, newly come up from town. There must have been
a spy, who had scented such valuable game.

The Commissioner asked the storekeeper, who by this time was at the door
of his store: "Whose tent is that?" indicating the small one in question.

"I don't know," was the answer.

"Who lives in it? who owns it? is anybody in?" asked the Commissioner.

"An old man owns it, but he is gone to town on business, and left it
to the care of his mate who is on the nightshift," replied the storekeeper.

"I won't peck up that chaff of yours, sir. Halloo! who is in? Open the tent;"
shouted the Commissioner.