As McKeith mixed a liberal allowance of whisky with water from the water-bag and handed it to the mailman, he asked curtly: 'This isn't one of your blowing yarns, Harry?
You're positive about the fact ?' 'Saw the thing with my own eyes, Boss.

As fine a team as ever I'd wish to own, lying with their throats cut, and the trees black with crows all round.

There was the dray-load all turned over, and two cases prized open.

I bet that the rum-kegs and spirits that couldn't be carried off, are buried in some handy dry water-hole close by.

I saw two or three empty brandy bottles with the heads of 'em smashed to show that the rascals had wet the wool before starting off.' McKeith cursed in his throat.