things."

But, turning the corner of the cow-yard, he gave a sigh of relief as
he saw old Fosbery's horse tied up. They were up, and the big kitchen
lighted; he caught a glimpse of a shock of white hair and bushy white
eyebrows that could have belonged to no one except old Break-the-News.
They were sitting at the table, the tearful wife pouring out tea, and
by the tokens Ben knew that old Fosbery had been very successful. He
rode quietly to the lower sliprails, let them down softly, led his
horse carefully over them, put them up cautiously, and stood in a main
road again. He paused to think, leaning one arm on his saddle and
tickling the nape of his neck with his little finger; his jaw dropped,
reflecting and grief forgotten in the business on hand, and the horse
"gave" to him, thinking he was about to mount. He was tired--weary
with that strange energetic weariness that cannot rest. It was five
miles from Mudgee and the news was known there and must have spread a
bit already; but the bulk of the Gulgong and Gulgong Road race-goers
had passed here before the accident. Anyway, he thought he might as
well go over and tell old Buckolts, of the big vineyard, across the
creek, who was a great admirer of Jack Denver and had been drinking
with him at the races that day. Old Buckolts was a man of weight in
the district, and was always referred to by all from his old wife
down, as "der boss," and by no other term. The old slab farmhouse
and skillions and out-houses, and the new square brick house built in
front, were all asleep in the moonlight. The dogs woke the old man
first (as was generally the case), as Ben opened the big white home
gate and passed through without dismounting.

"Who's dat? Who voss die [there]?" shouted the old man as the
horse's hoofs crunched on the white creek-bed gravel between the two