The newcorner was slim, and Rogers felt that he might break him between his hands if he could only get a proper grip; but the drunken drover--for it was he--was as sinuous as an eel, and a moment later Joe was on the broad of his back with the 'darbies' on his wrists and a trooper kneeling on his chest, while the drover, transformed into Detective Downy, stood over them, mopping his face with his big false beard.
The wounded trooper had recovered somewhat, and was on his hands and knees, with down-hanging head, in the light of the open door.
'How are you, Casey ?' asked the detective anxiously.
'Aisy, sor.

I'm jist wonderin' if I'm dead or alive,' said the trooper in a still small voice, watching the blood-drops falling from his forehead.
'Then the devil a bit's the matter with you, Casey.' 'Thank you, sor,' said the trooper, with a trained man's confidence in his superior.

'Thin I'd best git up, p'raps.' And he arose and stood dubiously fingering the furrow plowed along the top of his head by the gold stealer's bullet.
'Get him into the hut,' said Downy, indicating Rogers with a nod; 'and hobble the brute--he's dangerous.' Rogers, sitting on the edge of his bunk, handcuffed and leg-ironed, gazed sullenly at the detective.
'Well,' he said, 'an' now you've got me, what's the charge ?' 'A trifle of gold-stealing,' replied Downy, 'and this,' indicating Casey's bleeding head.

'To say nothing of the murder of your accomplice.' Rogers blanched and glared at the detective, his face contorted and his eyes big with terror.
'Shine,' he murmured, 'd'ye mean Shine?
It's a lie; he's not dead!' Harry Hardy, who had just come upon the scene and was standing in the doorway, cried out at this.
'Great God!' he said.

'Then it was Ephraim Shine after all!' 'Pooh!'' cried Rogers, 'it was a trick to trap me into givin' his name.
You needn't 'a' troubled yerself.