and about the latter there seemed to be a gallantry and romantic swagger which put it on the higher plane of the two. But I was not born to be a bushranger either. I failed at the very first attempt. I was outwitted by my first victim, a thin old gentleman riding a cob at night on the Geelong road.
“‘Why rob me?’ said he. ‘I have only ten pounds in my pocket, and the punishment will be the same as though it were ten thousand.’
“‘I want your cob,’ said I (for I was on foot); ‘I’m a starving Jack,
me that for once at least he had spoken the truth. There was even a spice of malice in his tone. I began to see possibilities in the little beast.
“Well,” I said, “you’re a nice lot! I don’t know what your game is, and don’t want to. I’ve had enough of you without that. I’m off tonight.”
“Before they