Bony, as he insisted on being called, was the citadel within which warred the native Australian and the pioneering, thrustingBritisher. He could not resist the compelling urge of thewanderlust any more than he could resist studying a philosophical treatise, a revealing autobiography, or a ponderous history. He was a modern product of the limitless bush, perhaps a little superior to the general run of men in that in him were combined most of the virtues of both races and extraordinarily few of the vices.
He was seated on his swag fastidiously rolling a cigarette when Sergeant Morris, of the New South Wales police, came into view round a bend of the track. Hearing the hoof-thuds, Bony looked up, saw the sergeant’s approach, smiled gently, and then completed his task. When the match that lit the cigarette had been tossed aside, the sergeant was opposite the half-caste, and was examining him from his motionless horse.
“Day!” he snapped.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant!” replied Bony politely.
“Where you heading?” the policeman demanded crisply.
“Windee”-in a pleasant drawl.
It must not be assumed from Sergeant Morris’s brusqueness that he was a martinet. He was a dog who growled much and bit seldom, and over his domain, which was half as large as England, he was respected and liked. He questioned Bony, not because he was suspicious of a stranger, but because he had ridden many miles and had fifteen more to ride to his home and office at Mount Lion. Bony presented an excuse for a smoke.
“Name?” he almost snarled.
“Bony,” suavely replied the half-caste.
“Bony? Bony what?”
“Baptized by the worthy missionary attached to a northern Queensland mission station with the names of Napoleon Bonaparte. You see, as a very small child, the matron found me eating Abbott’s life of that famous man, and she, alas, was a practical joker.”
Bony now was not smiling. The sergeant’s abruptness vanished. For a second his grey eyes were veiled, and then he was off his horse and standing directly facing the half-caste, who had risen to his feet.