Australian Tales - Setis

obliged to bush it, he heard the tramp of a horse's heels behind him, and
on looking round, to his surprise and terror, he beheld a great rough
looking fellow, well mounted, and armed, who, in a gruff voice called
upon him to “bail up,” at the same time presenting a revolver. “Bail up
there, paddy from Cork; or you'll be as dead as dog's meat in another
minute.”
“I'll bail up fast enough,” cried Micky; “so don't be after shooting me,
if you plaze, sir.”
“Hand up your swag, and turn out your pockets,” said the bushranger;
“and don't stand there staring at me and taking my measure.”
“Och hone!” whined poor Micky, “an is it me swag you mane? Shure,
thin, ye'll not be afther stripping a poor mortial intirely! Don't do that
same, good luck to yez! This bundle is all I've got belonging to me, an
that's not much to the likes uv you. An me pockets — be the same
token — are as impty as a pair of ould left-off stockings — there isn't the
price of a ha'penny pipe — — ”
“Stop that beggar's yarn, and roll up your swag inside mine,” said the
thief, at the same time he unbuckled a large bundle from his saddle
before him and threw it on the ground. “Look sharp now, do you hear? or
I'll give you a dose that will send you hopping like a French fiddler all
the days of your life.”
“Och, musha, musha!” cried Micky, writhing and twisting like a
scalded eel. “Don't, there's a good sowl; I don't want a dose of that sort of
physic. I'll give you me swag, ivery bit uv it, an' I wish yez luck wid it;
but don't murther me, whatever you do.” He then began to unroll the
bushranger's bundle, while his eyes glistened at its valuable contents.
“Troth, an' you've got a mighty fine swag uv yer own, so you have.
Two pairs of blankets, half-a-dozen bran new shirts, wid a rale
gintleman's turn out of broadcloth, an' a hape of other things besides.
Now, what for do yez want to take away my poor little swag from me,
when you've got goods enough here to start a store wid? Arrah! lave me
my swag, there's a good thief; don't rob a poor ould beggar like me.
Good luck to yez, lave me me swag.”
“Roll it up inside mine, I tell you,” roared the ruffian, “and don't give
me any more of your brogue.”
“O, crikey! what 'll I do at all, whin I'm ruined intirely?” cried poor
Mick, as he began very carefully to make up the bundle again, after he
had placed his own swag inside it. “Ye'll be laving me as miserable as a
blackfellow's dingo, so you will; and be dash'd if I know what I'll do
afther that, at all at all. I'm fear'd I'll lose all me frinds, whin I've lost me
swag.”
“Roll it up tight, and put those straps round it,” shouted the thief; “and
look sharp about it, I say, or I'll shoot you as dead as a mutton chop.”
“Och! don't do that, sir. I don't like to be shot; 'an I'm not worth the