Dr Tom remained for three days at Wanabeen.

'If there's anyone ill they know where to find me,' he said.

'They'll never come to Wanabeen for you. There's a bad name about this place,' Jim replied.

'Who's given it?'

'The police, and well—you know—others.'

'Why?'

Jim Dennis shrugged his shoulders. It was an expressive gesture, it meant so much to a man who understood him.

'You are one of the old gang, they tell me, Jim—is that true?'

'What do you mean by the old gang?'

'One of the men who stuck the beggars all up at Potter's Shanty when the coach was stopped,' said Dr Tom.

'They say that—do they?'

'Yes.'

'Then let it rest. I was there that night.'

'Were you in it, Jim?—no halves.'

'No, doc, I was not in it in the sense you mean.'

'Who put it up?'

The question was a simple one, but Jim Dennis turned round like a lion at bay, and said,—

'You—you—dare ask me that?'

Dr Tom felt uncomfortable.

'I don't want you to give a pal away,' he said.

Jim Dennis strode over to him and took his arm. The pressure was painful and Dr Tom winced.

'This is not an amputation case,' he said.

Jim Dennis dropped his arm and said quietly,—

'Forgive me, doc; but don't you really know the fact of that matter?'

'No, on my honour.'

'Then I am the last man to tell you.'

Dr Tom sighed and glanced out of his eyes at Jim.

That 'sticking up' case at Potter's Shanty had puzzled more than one clever man.

Now the little chap has pulled through, and death is not knocking at his door, it may be as well to relate the incident.

Potter's Shanty was a public-house, a wayside hotel, a dispensary for every kind of infernal liquor, bad and indifferent—there was no good.

The mail coach stopped at Potter's, and it was reported to the police that sometimes the mails stopped there also. Potter's was a curious old place, and lay, or, to be more correct, tried to stand, between Swamp Creek and Wanabeen. Old Potter was a relic of bygone days. He had been mixed up with the Kelly gang over the border, and at various times a hospitable Government had entertained him without his sanction.

Old Potter was a trifle of a moralist in his way. He could neither read or write; so on one occasion when he was accused of forgery he brought forward unimpeachable evidence in his favour.

The Crown had produced a mass of evidence which proved up to the hilt that old Potter was an unmitigated thief, but the prosecution went too far, as prosecutions occasionally do, and proved too much. It was sworn on oath (Potter was particular about oaths) that old Samuel Potter had forged a signature to a bill.

'What's a bill?' asked Samuel.

The Court tittered. There were a few remarks made as to Samuel Potter's blissful ignorance.

'Do you mean to tell me you don't know what a bill is?' asked the Crown prosecutor.

'Well, that depends,' said Potter.

'What depends? Depends on what? Answer me that, sir!' thundered the irate man with the flowing wig.

'Well, it's this way, you see. If you stayed at my shanty and ran up a score, which you didn't pay, and I asked you for the amount, I'd call that a bill.'

The learned gentleman pulled his black cloak furiously and said,—

'If I owed you a bill I would pay it, provided you presented it in due form.'

'That's what I couldn't do, your worship,' said Potter.

'Why?' asked the judge.

'Because I can't read or write.'

The judge put on his spectacles, which had been reposing on his notebook, and said, as he eyed the Crown prosecutor with severity,—

'I understood this man was charged with forgery.'

The Crown prosecutor blinked, and eventually Samuel Potter was discharged.

Although it was perfectly true that Potter could neither read or write, he was a shrewd man, and his shanty had been the scene of many an illegal transaction.

Swamp Creek folk had a wholesome dread of Potter's, and the solitary mounted constable in the place knew it was wise for him to 'keep in' with old Sam.

The police magistrate for the district was also aware that Potter's Shanty was a house of ill repute, but what could he do, he was one against many?

The incident alluded to by Dr Tom was exciting enough in its way.

Ned Glenn, the driver of the coach, pulled up as usual at Potter's to refresh his horses, five of them, fairly good animals. The passengers also endeavoured to cool their parched throats, but old Sam was one too many for them. His liquors were strong and 'home made,' and so the passengers discovered.

It so happened that on this journey the young manager of the Swamp Creek branch of the Nation's Bank was on his way to the headquarters for the Western District at Bourke. He carried with him a considerable sum of money, much in gold, more in notes.

It was his way of doing it. He thought that by not giving notice of the fact, publicity would be avoided, and that he might escape observation. Thirty or forty years ago things were very different in Australia to what they are now, and coaches were run in districts where the trains may now be seen daily.

Jim Dennis was at Potter's Shanty the night the coach stopped and the manager of the Nation's Bank was robbed.

A month after the robbery he cashed a note for five pounds in the Swamp Creek Hotel, and this same note was proved to have been in the possession of the manager of the Nation's Bank on the day of the robbery at Potter's. There was no direct evidence to prove Jim Dennis had any hand in the business, but in those days suspicion once fastened on to a man was difficult to get rid of. The majority of the people in the district believed Jim Dennis had a hand in the robbery, in fact was the instigator of it, and Sam Potter encouraged the impression.

Between Potter and Jim Dennis a continual war had been waged ever since, and, what made matters worse, Ned Glenn, the coach driver, sided with the owner of Wanabeen. Ned Glenn was no fool. He had driven the coach between Swamp Creek and Bourke for several years. He knew every inch of the road, or, to be more correct, the track, and no man could frighten a box-seat passenger out of his senses better than Ned. He was a weather-beaten old fellow, with a face like cracked parchment, merry little twinkling eyes that were suggestive of unlimited fun and roguery.

Ned Glenn was a character. He had figured, even in those early days, as a prominent man—a full page all to himself—in the Sydney Lantern. In this remarkable sheet Ned Glenn was depicted as a kind of Claude Duval on the box seat of his coach. Passengers were notified to 'beware of the driver,' and Ned's pockets were bulging out with stolen notes and various articles of attire alleged to have been the property of his passengers.

Ned was advised by the local lawyer at Swamp Creek that he had a good action against the paper and would recover heavy damages.

'And who'll get 'em?' said Ned.

'You will,' replied the lawyer.

'And what about your share?' asked Ned.

'I shall expect some recompense,' said the legal luminary.

Ned winked his near side eye and thought they had better let the matter slide. To tell the honest truth, Ned Glenn was rather proud of figuring in the Lantern. He had seen the Premier occupying the front page, also the Governor, and even if reflections were cast upon his character by the sketch, it was good to be in such company.

'And the hartist's signed his name to it,' said Ned, proudly, as he produced the crumpled up journal for the benefit of the 'bagman,' who occupied the box seat. Ned Glenn was a thick-and-thin supporter of Jim Dennis and Dr Tom, not to mention the little chap, and Sal. If the whole of the members of the ministry had been on his coach, Ned would have pulled up at Wanabeen.

It so came about that the night Dr Tom was to leave Wanabeen Ned's coach was due.

The doctor and Jim Dennis were standing on the verandah, and saw him tooling his team along at a shambling gallop.

'Funny thing we should be talking about that affair at Potter's,' said the doctor. 'Here's Ned's coach.'

'He'll pull up here, he always does,' said Jim. 'I'll go and get him a drink ready. I feel quite light-hearted now the little chap is better—thanks to you, doc.'

Jim Dennis passed inside, and before he came out again Ned Glenn had pulled up his horses in front of the homestead.

There were no passengers; he merely had the mail and some luggage.

'Hullo, doctor, what are you doing here?' sang out Ned in his cheery voice.

'Jim's youngster has been very ill. I've been here these three days.'

'Eh, Gad! What! the little chap?' exclaimed Ned, as he scrambled down.

'Yes, the little chap; but he's out of danger now,' said the doctor.

'Where's Jim?'

'Gone inside to get you a drink.'

Ned Glenn left the mails, the coach and the horses to look after themselves. His old-fashioned figure glided round the side of the homestead, and when he saw Jim Dennis he said,—

'He's all right, eh, Jim? We can't afford to lose him. There never was such a child.'

'Yes, Ned, he's safe, thanks to Dr Tom; but he's had a tough time of it.'

'And pulled through,' said Ned. 'I hope I'll live to see him on the back of a cup winner for his dad before I peg out.'