Harry Heathcote of Gangoil

which, as he knew well, had been cultivated and was covered with sugarcanes. Where he stood he was not distant above a quarter of a mile from the river, and the field before him ran down to the banks. This was the selected land of Giles Medlicot⁠—two years since a portion of his own run, which had now been purchased from the government⁠—for the loss of which he had received and was entitled to receive no compensation. And the matter was made worse for him by the fact that the interloper had come between him and the river. But he was not standing here near midnight merely to exercise his wrath by straining his eyes through the darkness at his neighbour’s crops. He put his finger into his mouth to wet it, and then held it up that he might discover which way the light breath of wind was coming. There was still the low moan to be heard continually through the forest, and yet not a leaf seemed to be moved.

After a while he thought he caught a sound, and put his ear down to the ground. He distinctly heard a footstep, and rising up, walked quickly toward the spot whence the noise came.

“Who’s that?” he said, as he saw the figure of a man standing on his side of the fence, and leaning against it, with a pipe in his month.

“Who are you?” replied the man on the fence. “My name is Medlicot.”

“Oh, Mr. Medlicot, is it?”

“Is that Mr. Heathcote? Good night, Mr. Heathcote. You are going about at a late hour of the night.”

“I have to go about early and late; but I ain’t later than you.”

“I’m close at home,” said Medlicot.

“I am, at any rate, on my own run,” said Harry.

“You mean to say that I am trespassing?” said the other; “because I can very soon jump back over the fence.”

“I didn’t mean that at all, Mr. Medlicot; anybody is welcome on my run, night or day, who knows how to behave himself.”

“I hope I’m included in that list.”

“Just so⁠—of course. Considering the state that everything is in, and all the damage that a fire would do, I rather wish that people would be a little more careful about smoking.”

“My canes, Mr. Heathcote, would burn quite as quickly as your grass.”

“It is not only the grass. I’ve a hundred miles of fencing on the run which is as dry as tinder, not to talk of the station and the wool-shed.”

“They shan’t suffer from my neglect, Mr. Heathcote.”

“You have men about who mayn’t be so careful. The wind, such as it is, is coming right across from your place. If there were light enough, I could show you three or four patches where there has been fire within half a mile of this spot. There was a log burning there for two or three days, not long ago, which was lighted by one of our men.”

“That was a fortnight since. There was no heat then, and the men were boiling their kettle. I spoke about it.”

“A log like that, Mr. Medlicot, will burn for weeks sometimes. I’ll tell you fairly what I’m afraid of. There’s a man with you whom I turned out of the shed last shearing, and I think he might put a match down⁠—not by accident.”

“You mean Nokes. As far as I know, he’s a decent man. You wouldn’t have me not employ a man just because you had dismissed him?”

“Certainly not⁠—that is, I shouldn’t think of dictating to you about such a thing.”

“Well, no, Mr. Heathcote, I suppose not. Nokes has got to earn his bread, though you did dismiss him. I don’t know that he’s not as honest a man as you or I.”

“If so, there’s three of us very bad⁠—that’s all, Mr. Medlicot. Good night⁠—and if you’ll trouble yourself to look after the ash of your tobacco it might be the saving of me and all I have.” So saying, he turned round, and made his way back to the horses.

Medlicot had placed himself on the fence during the interview, and he still kept his seat. Of course he was now thinking of the man who had just left him, whom he declared to himself to be an ignorant, prejudiced, ill-constituted cur. “I believe in his heart he thinks that I’m going to set fire to his run,” he said, almost aloud. “And because he grows wool he thinks himself above everybody in the colony. He occupies thousands of acres, and employs three or four men. I till about two hundred, and maintain thirty families. But he is such a pig that he can’t understand all that; and he thinks that I must be something low because I’ve bought with my own money a bit of land which never belonged to him, and which he couldn’t use.” Such was the nature of Giles Medlicot’s soliloquy as he sat swinging his legs, and still smoking his pipe, on the fence which divided his sugarcane from the other young man’s run.

And Harry Heathcote uttered his soliloquy also. “I wouldn’t swear that he wouldn’t do it himself, after all;” meaning that he almost suspected that Medlicot himself would be an incendiary. To him, in his way of thinking, a man who would take advantage of the law to buy a bit of another man’s land⁠—or become a free-selector, as the term goes⁠—was a public enemy, and might be presumed capable of any iniquity. It was all very well for the girls⁠—meaning his wife and sister-in-law⁠—to tell him that Medlicot had the manners of a gentleman and had come of decent people. Women were always soft enough to be taken by soft hands, a good-looking face, and a decent coat. This Medlicot went about dressed like a man in the towns, exhibiting, as Harry thought, a contemptible, unmanly finery. Of what use was it to tell him that Medlicot was a gentleman? What Harry knew was that since Medlicot had come he had lost his