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The Sheep Stealer—
Chapter V.

By A. J. G. Schmitt .

The next day Monty caught the steamer to Auckland. He had asked Sergeant Kelly to tell Jim the full particulars of the Court proceedings. His first thought was to find his mother and Rex, and as Jim had given Monty their address, this did not take long.

Rex was working in the front garden and caught sight of Monty on the other side of the road.

“Hello!” he yelled.

The meeting between the two brothers was a very warm one, and his mother received him with open arms.

“By Jove, Monty! this is jolly—so unexpected, too. What brought you down?” asked Rex.

“I'll tell you later, Rex.”

After lunch Monty suggested to Rex to take a walk down town with him. “I want to go to my solicitor and you must come with me, Rex. There are matters to be fixed up, and I think you and mother will be satisfied to go back to Valley Road. The reason you went away need not bother you any longer. I have finished with the wretched business.”

“I'm terribly glad, old chap. You don't know how it worried me,” said Rex earnestly, “that my brother should be taking such risks and for such an object. You were sure to be found out some day.”

“Read this, Rex. The news must have come down by the steamer that brought me. The first thing I saw in the morning paper, in large headings was—

(Concluded).

The names used in this story are entirely fictitious. The incident described, however, and the method used for stealing sheep from the large mobs which were driven via the East Coast of the North Island, in the early days, may, perhaps, be recalled by many of the older generation.

“Sheep Stealing On The

East Coast.

Arrest by Sergeant Kelly.

Insufficient Evidence.

Wealthy Pioneer Discharged.

Name Suppressed.”

Then followed a full account of the proceedings at the Magistrate's Court.

“Oh, just as I thought, Monty. What must you feel?”

“I feel,” replied Monty, “like not going back. In fact, I can't go back. It would kill me knowing everyone knew of my disgrace. The only thing is that I never intended to rob anyone. My conscience is quite clear on this point, but it's the disgrace I've brought upon you all. That almost drives me to distraction. No one would give a thought to motives in a case like this, Rex.”

Rex was too upset to speak.

“I've told Mabel, Jim, and Mr. Chad-wick. No one has said an unkind word to me, and that has made it harder. Anyhow, here we are at the solicitor's.”

They walked up the steps to the office in silence, and on giving their names to the office boy were shown in.

(By A. J. G. Schmitt).

“I am Monty Carden, and this is my brother Rex, Mr. Rushton. I will be pleased if you can spare us a little time.”

The pleasant-faced solicitor behind the desk looked up over his glasses. “Certainly! Do sit down gentlemen. Now what can I do for you?”

“Well,” began Monty, “some little time ago you transferred my brother Rex's share of the farm to me. I now want the whole estate transferred to him.”

“Hold on, Monty,” broke in Rex, “I haven't agreed to take it.”

“But you must, Rex. You place the amount I gave you for your share to my credit and for the goodwill of my remaining half, you can pay me 3 per cent. per annum. It can be made as a mortgage if you wish—then a mortgage of one quarter only of the value of the estate at 3 per cent.”

“But that's not a half, Monty!”

“It will be if you add to the one quarter your little home here, furniture included.”

“But that's not worth the other quarter by a £1,000.”

“Never mind, Rex, it will be a little wedding present when you marry Phil, and you won't want me around as a partner. Agree to this, Rex, and Mr. Rushton can get on to the business straight away.”

“All right, Monty. It's just like you—the most generous chap in the world.”

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“Would you like me to draw out a preliminary agreement?” asked Mr. Rushton.

“Not necessarily. When you have the documents ready both of us will be at hand to sign. I think that is all, Mr. Rushton.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Rushton, rising to his feet, and extending a hand to each in turn, said, “I will get the documents ready for your signatures,” and he bowed them out.

* * *

Early the following week Rex and his mother departed for home by the scow Dawn, and Monty arranged that his housekeeper should come to Auckland by the return trip. In the meantime he found plenty to do. Following a long consultation with his banker, he decided to open an office.

A few days later an advertisement appeared in the paper setting forth his business—a Bureau of Information to Intending Farmers by a Farmer. Maps were not too easy to obtain, but with the assistance of some of his Auckland friends he soon made a fair showing, and had an imposing display of the surveyed lands of the Auckland Province on the walls of his office. He advertised in the southern papers and also in England.

Monty invested some of his money in sound undertakings, and bought sections in the city whenever he could get them at the right price.

Of the number of friends he had made during his many trips to Auckland he liked William O'Brien best. O'Brien was a happy-go-lucky Irishman, well educated, and the receiver of a fair remittance from Home. So as soon as the housekeeper arrived and things settled down O'Brien spent most of his evenings with Monty.

One evening O'Brien handed to Monty a cutting from a newspaper. “I only dropped on this a few days ago and thought it might interest you. It calls to my mind very forcibly a bet I made with you about two years ago, and begorra! I thought I had lost my bet.”

“I've seen this before, old chap. Supposing it referred to me would you have paid up the £100?”

“Well, seeing that the fellow got off and the evidence was only suspicion, by the powers that be I think I would be after paying up, Monty.”

“Then produce your cheque book and I'll produce the pen and ink. Make the cheque payable to Monty Carden. You know you bet me that it was impossible for anyone to steal sheep in fair numbers without getting caught. I very foolishly accepted so as to prove to you I could steal some hundreds of sheep without leaving evidence sufficient to convict me. To my cost, I succeeded. After all, though, I don't think I'll take the cheque, Bill. It feels too much like selling my honour for £100. We'll call quits, old chap.”

“There is one thing, however, that I haven't told you,” Monty went on, “and it was a greater incentive than our bet. It hasn't mitigated the offence from the public's point of view, but it has given me some satisfaction. It's a story that few, if any, know, because my father was one of those men who seldom talked of his own affairs. When he first came to New Zealand he had a letter of introduction to a man called Peter Lowney, a southern farmer.”

“While my father was in Hawke's Bay he happened to hear of a sheep farmer of almost the same name—the difference being Pete Lowney instead of Peter. My father, thinking this was the man, handed the letter to Pete. The letter stated that the bearer, who held the highest credentials, was investing some thousands of pounds in the Dominion, and asked Lowney to do his best to advise the bearer in regard to investments.

“Pete Lowney immediately saw his chance—gave my father a very good time, took him to his sheep farm, and by degrees obtained his confidence, and even friendship. When the time was ripe, he induced my father to invest £5,000 in a land syndicate of which he and a confederate were the company.

“The land comprised some thousands of acres which Lowney had purchased at 2/6 an acre—the land being absolutely worthless. There apparently was no redress, and my father, after giving Pete Lowney the soundest thrashing he had ever had in his life, swallowed his misfortune. His remaining capital was just sufficient to enable him to join up with his two friends, Chadwick and Jeffreys. Now practically all the sheep coming north are Pete Lowney's (I found that out from the Maoris). He rarely sends less than five or six thousand. How I managed to get hold of the sheep I am telling no one, but every one I obtained was, I considered, so much off the £5,000. Had things not gone wrong I would have continued until I had the whole of the swindled money from him.”

O'Brien was dumbfounded and for a moment could say nothing. At last he ejaculated: “Well, Monty, me boy, forgive me!”

“There's nothing to forgive. I was the fool for taking it on. I have not said a word to anyone about the bet, because it looked as if I was excusing myself, and it also entailed too much explanation. The only two people I have told of the wretched business, but without mentioning the bet, are Jim Jeffreys and Mabel Chadwick.”

* * *

About a month had passed when

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Monty received a letter from Rex to say Jim's engagement to Mabel had been broken off. “What appears to be most strange,” wrote Rex in his letter, “is that nobody seems hurt about it. In fact, Mabel seems jollier than ever. I think, however, both have leanings in other directions. You will, I'm sure, congratulate me on my engagement to Phil. There are only two outcasts now—Mabel and you—and I don't think that is Mabel's fault. Everything is going on all right. I hate your beastly pigs. There are no more cull sheep about and the brutes eat about ten loads of turnips a day. Unless I can fatten about half of them off there won't be many swedes for the lambing season. Mother is well, but thinks there is something mysterious about your being away so long. By the way, Jim, Hilda and Mabel will be paying you a visit in the near future.”

Monty read Rex's letter with a feeling akin to joy! To think that he would soon see Mabel and that she was free! Then the sheep business obtruded. How could he ask her to share a name besmirched with the odium of felony. Yet, strangely enough, no one seemed to shun him. His friends were just the same and his business was thriving.

Oh! well, things must just take their course. If Mabel showed that she cared for him it would be with her eyes open. No one could ever tell what time the Dawn would arrive, so when an unexpected knock at the door interrupted Monty and O'Brien in the middle ofa game of chess, the sound of voices accompanied by further vigorous knocks told Monty that his Valley friends had arrived.

Surprise and pleasure rendered him almost speechless, but he managed to stammer out: “Welcome to you all,” but his eyes caught and held Mabel's.

O'Brien stood up as Monty ushered the visitors in.

“You have all met Mr. O'Brien, I think,” said Monty.

“Yes. I think I called you little Jim, you the saucy Miss Hilda, and you Miss Sobersides, Miss Chadwick. Don't stand gaping at your visitors, Monty! They'll be in need of tea and will want to get their things off. Where's that estimable housekeeper of yours?”

* * *

The week sped by only too quickly, The last evening they spent at Monty's and interest was centred on Jim's and Hilda's coming wedding.

“You're a good organiser, O'Brien. What would you suggest?”

“Sure it's an honour you're bestowing on me. O'Brien, a confirmed bachelor, called upon to help in arranging the suicide of two young people—a climax which they generally arrange themselves!”

“We didn't ask you to arrange it. We asked for a suggestion, Mr. O'Brien!” cried Mabel.

“Well, begorra! I would suggest that I take Jim's place.” At this there was a general laugh.

“Would you not be taking a big risk?” asked Mabel.

“Oh, I don't mind a gamble now and again,” O'Brien answered, winking at Monty. “Anyhow, what do you say to this? Rex and Phil are contemplating suicide also, so why not have them do the deed the same day as Jim and Hilda? Charter the P.S. Cynthia to take all your friends, including William O'Brien, and the clergyman. Be married at one of the homes of your childhood; have a real old rosy time and return to Auckland the following day?”

“Al at Lloyds,” shouted Jim.

“Then when you get home put it to the parents,” O'Brien went on. “If they are agreeable write to Monty and he will fix things up at this end.”

It was a hard time for Monty. He was doing his best not to take advantage of the many times he and Mabel had been left by themselves. He endeavoured to conceal his feelings and succeeded fairly well, but when Mabel asked him if he would miss them, he answered that he wished she would stay once and for all.

At this Mabel caught his hand in both of hers and Monty thereupon covered them with kisses, but just then O'Brien put in an appearance. “You two are wanted in the drawing room,” he said.

Mabel, her face rosy red, made an excuse to stop and talk to O'Brien. “Well, Miss Mabel, it is an honour you're paying me?”

“I want you to look after Monty. He is getting thin, and he is not quite the Monty of old.” (Cont. on p. 46).

As a man grows older his tastes usually change and things that formerly appealed to him somehow lose their attraction. He may, perchance, have cherished ambitions, dreamed dreams; or been keen on sport, the theatre, travel, reading, social intercourse. But when he enters upon the “sere and yellow leaf” stage of existence, he seldom cares much for “any of these things.” There is, however, a taste that once acquired, rarely deserts any man—his love of his pipe, frequently as greatly relished at eighty as it was at five-and-twenty. Unfortunately, however, many tobaccos are so full of nicotine they're unsafe to smoke at any age! The purest of all are the toasted ones—Cut Plug No. 10 (Bullshead), Cavendish, Navy Cut No. 3 (Bulldog), Riverhead Gold and Desert Gold, which largely freed of nicotine by toasting (the manufacturers’ marvellous and unique process), are simply unequalled for flavour, bouquet, and the power to soothe and solace so highly appreciated by smokers. Buy any of the brands enumerated and you'll avoid rubbishy imitations. The genuine toasted can't be imitated.^*

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“By my faith I will, for its partly my fault that he's in this town at all. If I should be after telling you why, you must keep it to your sweet self.”

So O'Brien told Mabel all about the bet and the way Pete Lowney had swindled Monty's father of £5,000, the loss of which had partly been the cause of Carden senior's death, and that when Monty saw an opportunity to get even with him he adopted the method which had caused all the trouble.

“So that is the way you lure your country cousins to destruction! But I'm very glad you told me, and you are quite forgiven,” said Mabel.

“Then forgive Monty, too, Miss Mabel.”

“He has been forgiven a long time ago, Mr. O'Brien, though after all there was not much to forgive, yet it was the most hideously foolish venture I ever heard of, and you might have had Monty in jail for ten or fifteen years. That would have been a nice ending to one of the finest men that ever lived.”

* * *

Monty had little chance of following up his advances to Mabel. His last words to her before the boat left were, “Please write to me, Mabel. I shall know by your letters what the world has opened up for me.”

“Never fear, old boy,” Mabel answered as the Dawn cast off. She stood in the stern and waved until he was out of sight.

The following week Monty received a letter from Mabel. It was very short but it made Monty's heart beat for joy.

“Dear Monty,” it ran. “I'm afraid of being the one old maid in Valley Road and suggest that another couple be added to Mr. O'Brien's list and one who will require the services of a clergyman also. It will save expense and take half an hour longer. Ever yours, Mabel.”

“P.S.—Tell Mr. O'Brien that all the parents have fallen in with the idea he suggested. He is to invite twenty-five ladies and ditto gentlemen, including the minister. We will send the names of the lady friends, and Jim and yourself are to invite the gentlemen. There will be a spring tide three weeks from to-day, so the boat will be able to come right up to the landing. The visitor I want most of all is a gentleman who is named Monty Carden.”

The End.