"They're across the river now, Alf. Mosey Price told me so, not twenty minutes ago."
"Across the river!" hissed Alf, half-rising and then falling heavily back, whilst a low moan mingled with the furious grinding of his teeth. "They 've got into Avondale, and Tommy has hunted them across! May the holy"&c., &c. "Never mind. Let them go. I've had enough of it. If other people are satisfied, I'm sure I am."
"Who is she?" I thought; and I was just lapsing into my Hamlet-mood
"Collins!"
"Yes, Alf."
"Would you be kind enough to lift my dog into the wagon? I have n't been able to call him lately, but he won't be far off."
"Bad news for you, Alf. The poor fellow got a bait somewhere, and came home to die. He's lying under the wagon, beside your saddle."
The outlaw turned away his face. 'Short of being Swift,' says Taine; 'one must love something.' (Ay, and short of being too morally slow to catch grubs, one must hate something. See, then, that you hate prayerfully and judiciously).
While I was thinking that every minute's delay would make my journey after the bullocks a little longer, Alf suddenly looked round.
"You need n't stay here," said he sharply—thin blades of articulation shooting here and there through his laboured whisper, as the water he had drunk took effect on his swollen tongue. "If you would come again in an hour, and give me another turn-over, you would be doing more for me than I would do for you. What day is this?"
"Sunday, December the ninth."
He pondered awhile. "I've lost count of the days. What time is it?"
"Between one and two, I should think. My watch is at the bottom of the Murray."
"Afternoon, of course. I think I ought to be dead by this time to-morrow. What's keeping you here? I want to be alone."
"Don't talk nonsense, Alf. I'll pull you through, if I can only hit the complaint. Have you any symptoms?"
"I don't know. I don't know. I was gradually getting worse and worse for a week, or more; but still able to yoke up a few quiet bullocks to shift the wagon every day; till at last, one night, I just managed to climb in here, to get away from the mosquitos. I don't know what night it was, or how the time has passed since then. Just look at my arms, if you have any curiosity; but don't dare to prescribe for me. I had enough of your doctoring at the Yellow Tank—blast you!"
Without heeding his reminiscence, which has no connection with the present memoir, I untied an old boot-lace which fastened one of his wristbands, and drew up the sleeve. The long, sinewy arm, now wet and clammy from the effect of the water he had drunk, was helpless and shapeless, round and rigid; the elbow-joint set at a right-angle, and extremely sensitive to pain.
