Australian Tales - Setis

whined Micky; “and I hope you won't catch anything else belonging to
me, or you'll wish yourself scratched to death wid a bush-full of native
cats, I'm thinking.”
“Hold your blatherin' tongue,” vociferated the bushranger, as he fired
two shots over Micky's head, and then rode off at full gallop, leaving his
bundle lying on the road.
Chapter II.
MICKY fell flat on his back with affright, and there he lay for some
time, wondering whether he was dead, and hoping if he were so, that the
troopers would soon be up to bury him dacintly, and to catch the
murtherin thief who had shot him. Bye and bye he began to feel his head
for bullet-holes, then his body and legs; but finding no wounds or
fractures, he by degrees felt assured that he was not kilt at all; but that he
was Micky Mahoney still, with his skin as sound as a pair of new saddlebags,
and his swag twice as heavy, and thrice as valuable as it was when
he left the station in the morning.
“Och philleloo!” shouted Micky, jumping up and dancing a little
corroborree round the bushranger's bundle. “This is a whacking day's
work to begin wid and no mishtake. There's the work of twelve month's
wages in that fellow's swag, anyhow, an it's all mine, as honest as if I'd
bought it an paid ready money for it, every bit, for shure I arnt it wid me
brains. Denis Whacduffy, its thrue for ye, that a man can make more by
his wits thin by his work, for haven't I proved it this lucky day? Sorra a
bit av the diggins 'll I dig; I'll set up shop and make a fortin; thin I'll go
back to owld Ireland and buy a whisky-still, a hogshead av tobaky, and a
cart-load av pipes, and I'll spind the rist av me days in pace and
quietness. Yes, that's jist what I'll do, an may be I'll git a wife too. Ha!
ha! ha! he! he! he! whack row de dow!” roared Mick, while he capered
about as nimbly as if a fiddler were sitting on the stump beside him,
playing “Donnybrook Fair,” or “St. Patrick's Day in the Morning.” “Och,
I'm delighted, so I am! Long life to yez, Doctor Dux! yer pill-box has
done me more good nor all the physic I've swallowed iver since I was a
bald-headed babby. An this swag's mortal heavy too,” continued Mick,
lifting it on his back, then throwing it off again, and dancing round it
until he was almost out of breath. “Ho! ho! ho! what a lark! I wish Joe
Griddle could see me jist now; he'd grin like an owld monkey cracking a
hot nut. Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he! Be dash'd if I ain't a lucky dog to-day.”
“Bail up there!” roared a terrible voice just then, close behind him,
which stopped Micky's merriment in a moment; and on turning round,
with his face as pale as a white bullock's, he beheld the bushranger again,
with a revolver in his hand.
“Hilloa, old scurvy bones! I've been watching your heathenish