*CHAPTER XVIII*
*THE CHASE, AND ITS SEQUEL*
"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky, Proclaim a hunting morn; Before the sun rises away we go,-- The sleep of the sluggard we scorn." OLD SONG.
"Now then, sleepies,--up you get!" cried Sandy in the early morning, ashe performed his usual preliminary of whipping off the bed-clothes fromthe sleepy-headed Joe and Tom.
"Sun's laughing at you through the windows. Come, Master Hawkins!"cried he with a grin as he tumbled that grunting individual on to thefloor, piling the bed-clothes on top of him, and then seating himself onthe wriggling pile. "If soft measures won't avail I am prepared toadopt severe ones."
Tom, now thoroughly aroused, and as peppery as you like, shouted andyelled and writhed, getting his arm at last round his persecutor, thelaughing Sandy, and by a violent effort pulling him on to the broad ofhis back, thus reversing their positions.
"You red-headed Scotchman, I'll teach you meddle with--" pommel--"meagain"--pommel, pommel.
Here a cold douche arrested the uplifted arm of the irate Tom, and tookhis breath for a moment, as it descended upon the prone bodies,accompanied by sundry "ouchs" and shrill yells. As the boys scrambledto their feet they joined forces and rushed the dodging Joe, who, aftera few ineffectual dives, was caught and jolly well punched.
The usual early morning diversion ended, the lads, rosy with health andbrimming over with animal spirits--the essence of good nature for alltheir rough play--dressed with haste and made for the stockyard, to picktheir steeds.
This occupied their time till the seven o'clock breakfast, after whichthey secured from the storeman the rations for the trapper.
"Now Sandy, my boy, ye'll no forget to tell George what I named atbreakfast."
"M-yes, about the dingoes, father?"
"No, stupid. Didna I ask you to tell him that, dingoes or no dingoes,he is to come next week at the latest, to handle the colts?"
"Oh yes, dad, I won't forget. I expect he'll growl a bit, as he's madon getting the dogs and the reward. He's quite cranky over it."
"He'll come richt enough if ye gie him my order."
The trapper's camp, as previously stated, was situated about elevenmiles from the homestead. Four miles or so from home the trackroughened, and became what is known as broken country, all hills andgullies, for the most part very rocky, and heavily wooded in places.
The boys' progress was but slow, owing to the nature of the ground, andit took them nearly three hours to reach the camp, which they foundunoccupied. After cooeeing in vain for the absentee, they proceeded tolight a fire in order to boil the billy, spreading the substantial lunchwhich Mrs. M'Intyre had furnished them.
"Bother old Nosey; wish he'd turn up!" exclaimed Sandy, when the boyshad finished their repast. "We can't go till he comes. There'd be noend of a row if we went home without delivering the message."
"Oh, he'll be here before long," interjected Joe. "I vote we do a campin the shade for an hour or two; it's hot enough to fry a steak."
This was good advice, and the boys made themselves as comfortable ascircumstances permitted under the shade of the trees. So the hourspassed without any sign of the trapper.
"Well, I declare," exclaimed Tom for the twentieth time in the course ofthe last hour, "it's too bad of Nosey. I'm full up of waitin' here withnothing to do. Can't you leave a message somehow for the ole cuss?"
"How is it to be done, Hawkins?"
"Oh bother! write a note, of course."
"Well, you are a greeney, Tom. Where's the pen, ink, and paper to comefrom?"
"Why, hasn't ole Nosey----?"
"Old Nosey, be hanged! Of course he hasn't, any more than he's got adress suit and a toilet mirror."
"I've got a pencil," said Joe, feeling in his pocket.
"No good in the world; where's the paper to come from; an' supposin' wehad pens, ink, paper, blotting-pads, writing desks, and whatever elseyou like to name in the scribbling line, what good 'ud it all be?"
"Meaning----?"
"Meanin' this, you dunderheads--it's got to be read."
"Well?"
"Well!--of all the thick-heads, muddle-pates, soft-uns, hodges, andidiots that ever I came across----!"
"Here, draw it mild, young porridge-pot. There's two to one againstyou: mind that, you red herring!"
"I'll _mind_ more than that, if I am the son of a Scot, which is nogreat disgrace, after all," replied Sandy jeeringly. "But look here andlisten, chiels. I'll tell you a story--
"Once upon a time, when pigs were called swine an' monkeys chewedtobacco, there lived a bully English captain, the commander of a man o'war. This frigate, sailing up the channel on her return from foreignparts, sighted a French ship, not more'n about twice her size. Insteadof closing with the Frenchy slap bang, an' givin' her what-for, sheturned tail an' showed her a clean pair of heels. This outrageousproceeding on the part of a British sea-dog demanded instantinvestigation, and so the jolly captain was promptly court-martialled.After the case had been put by the prosecuting officer, and not deniedby the prisoner, he was asked by the president of the court why he didnot engage the enemy. The captain, in reply, said that he had tenreasons. 'Name them,' says the boss officer. 'The first is: I had nopowder; it was all used up.' 'Enuf sed,' sings out the judge. 'We don'twant the other nine. You're discharged, my man, without a stain on yourcharacter.'"
"Oh, that's all right for a yarn," cried Joe; "but I want to know whatit's got to do with your father's message to Nosey?"
"Just as much as it's got to do with the grass of a duck in a forty-acrepaddock," jeered Sandy.
"It's a story with a moral, boys; and as Captain Kettle--no, I meanCuttle, says in that book of Dickens, the moral of the story lies in theapplication."
"Apply it, my wise man."
"Here then: old Nosey has ten reasons for not gettin' a writtenmessage."
"Name the first!"
"He can't read."
"Now then, Joe," said Tom, turning to that worthy, "what's the verdictof the court?"
"I s'pose we'll have to discharge the prisoner without a character,"replied Joe with a wink.
"Blow these bally flies!" cried Tom, after an interval. "They're here inmillions. Faugh!--splutter--there's one down my jolly throat. Say,Joe, what are you goin' to do?"
"Boil the billy," replied that youth laconically. "May as well dosomething, an' kill time."
So the hours sped until the sun was well on its descending curve in thelate afternoon. Their patience was now thoroughly exhausted in waitingfor the trapper. They canvassed the reasons for his non-appearance,until they were mortally sick of discussing the subject.
"Tell you what, boys, message or no message, Nosey or no Nosey," criedSandy at last, "we must make tracks for home. We are not to blame forold George's absence. They'll be wondering what's become of us. It'lltake us all our time to get there before dark as it is. At the worst,we'll have to come out to-morrow."
It took but a few minutes after this to secure the horses, saddle them,call the dog which had accompanied them to heel, and set out on thereturn journey.
After jogging briskly for a couple of miles or so the cattle dog, astrong wiry hound and a noted warrior among his species, began to sniffabout, uttering a series of low, short barks.
"Hello, Brindle, what's up? Got 'possum scent? Bandicoot, I 'spect.Fetch him, boy!"
Just at this moment Brindle made a dash forward, what time a bigdog-dingo started out from under an old log a hundred yards or so ahead.The route taken by the chase lay up a long gully. This gully was, morecorrectly speaking, a depression, lacking abrupt and precipitous sides,and was comparatively free from rocks.
The boys hesitated a moment, but the temptation was too strong. Joe,clapping his spurs to his steed's sides, started off with a clatter, theothers following pell-mell. The gully was long and winding, and to this,for some reason, the dingo stuc
k. The hunters now began to gain alittle on the beast, and were in full sight, the cattle dog just holdinghis distance. At length the gully petered out at the base of a ridge,over which the quarry sped, the dog and boys in full chase. The otherside of the ridge was more precipitous, and covered with bracken andstunted bushes. Down this the pursuit thundered, Joe in the lead andwell to the cattle dog's heels: the dingo leading by not more thanseventy yards. So absorbed was the boy in the hunt that he remained inignorance of a calamity that was even now happening to one of his mates.
Tom's horse, in bounding down the ridge, and when close to the bottom,put his foot in a wombat's[#] hole that was hidden by bracken. Overcame horse and rider, Tom striking the ground on head and shoulder,while Sandy, who was about a length behind, narrowly averted collisionwith the fallen steed and boy. As quickly as possible he pulled up hisgalloping animal, shouting out as he did so to Joe, who was too far awayand too much engrossed in the chase to hear the call.
[#] Wombat---a burrowing marsupial.
Returning to the collapsed pair, Sandy jumped off and lifted Tom's head,for the lad lay stiff. His appearance frightened the boy as he laystill and death-like. To his great joy, however, on feeling Tom'swrist, Sandy detected a feeble pulse-beat. Laying his stricken mategently down in the bracken, he made a hasty examination of his head. Itbore no trace of wound, save some gravel scratches and a nasty bruiseunder the left eye. The relieved boy hurried to the bottom of theridge, where by good hap was a rill of water. Filling his hat hereturned and laved the brow and wrists of his companion. After sometwenty minutes or so Tom began to stir, and quickly regainedconsciousness. No bones were broken, but the boy was badly shaken, andall thoughts of further pursuit were out of the question. The horse, bya miracle, was without hurt.
"You're a lucky beggar, Tom," said Sandy, after a few minutes. "Fromthe way you crashed down I made sure every blessed bone in your body wasbroken. How do you feel now, ole boss?"
"Oh, I'm all right," replied Tom feebly. "Shoulder's the worst. It'snot dislocated, but it pains a lot. Phew! but it does hurt when I moveit. I expect it felt the full force of the tumble. But--where's Joe?"
"Joe's ahead. Goodness only knows where he's got to by now. He hasn'ta ghost's show of getting the dingo if he makes for the hills."
"I tell you what," continued the boy; "we'll get off home as soon as youfeel fit. It's no use waiting for Joe. He can easily catch us. You'llhave to go slow, old man, you know."
This was true, for Tom's shoulder was in an agony of ache, which themovement of the horse, after they had mounted, intensified to an almostunbearable degree.
It was long after dark ere the pair sighted the homestead lights. Theyhad not been overtaken by Joe, much to their surprise. They were met atthe slip-rails by Harry and Jacky, who had just been dispatched to lookfor them, as the family were getting uneasy at their prolonged absence.The men returned with the lads to the house. Beyond a severe word toSandy for being tempted to pursue the impossible when on the homewardtrack, the squatter justified their act of returning from the camp; alsoin not waiting for Joe.
"I expect the rascal will turn up in a few minutes. His horse wouldsoon be knocked up in that country, and he would therefore be unable tocatch you after he abandoned the dingo. The cheek of you boys, to thinkyou could run it down in that country!"
The minutes sped without sight or sound of the huntsman. Anxietydeepened in the women; the men, too, became uneasy.
"Some one ought to go after the lad," broke in the perturbed mother, atlength. "The poor laddie must have met trouble. His horse has knockedup. Perhaps he has lost himself. Perhaps he----!"
"Perhaps nothing of the kind has happened, except that the horse mayhave knocked up. You women will always jump to the worst conclusions.Willy, you and I'll ride back a bit; come you too Sandy, if you're nottoo tired."
Mr. M'Intyre feared more than he showed. It would be easy enough afterall, he reflected, for a boy who was ignorant of the lay of the countryand who had no experience in bush travelling, to lose his way. Hedetermined, therefore, to take his son with him, so that he might leadthem to the spot where the accident occurred, if it were necessary.Accordingly the three set off on the track. Fortunately it wasmoonlight and clear, so that they were able to make good headway throughthe bush.
It is time, however, to return to Joe. That ardent hunter had followedthe chase for some distance ere he missed his pals. What with theseverity of the pace and the increasing roughness of the course, itstwistings and turnings, all his attention was focussed on the quarry. Ifhe did think at all of his companions, it was to picture them followingclose behind. But in the heat of the chase he had little thought forothers. When it did dawn upon him that he had outdistanced hiscompanions, as happened eventually, he attributed little importance tothat. They, no doubt, had good reason for slackening their pace. Hishorse, as he well knew, had a dash of speed denied to theirs. Maybetheir steeds had caved in. Anyhow, he was having a glorious time, and"the finish" was touched with roseate hues to his imagination.
His horse was justifying the reputation given of him to Joe by Harry,the stockman, one day when they were discussing the relative merits oftheir mounts.
"For a hack," that worthy had remarked, "there's nothing on the runequal to the little thing you're ridin'. With a light weight up likeyourself she can show a dash of foot an' staying powers that'll take atremendous lot of lickin'."
This was a just criticism, as events were proving. Still, the pace wasbeginning to tell, and Joe was forced to ease the mare somewhat, even atthe risk of losing sight of the quarry. The rough ridges, too, made thegoing to be precarious.
Things were as bad with Master Dingo, however. The pursuit was hotenough to extend him to the fullest. He was always in view, and couldnot shake off the foe. As long as he remained in sight it wasimpossible to resort to any trick by which he might gain time or wind.The ordinary pace of the dingo when on the chase may be described as alope. This can be kept up the live-long day, and thus wear down thefleetest victim. To keep extended at full gallop in this unwontedfashion is not at all to the dingo's liking, and the sooner he can reachthe distant scrub, which is his objective, the better pleased he willbe. The cattle dog, though not ordinarily a hunter, is strong andtough, and possessed of a good pair of bellows. He started the gamewith the utmost alacrity, and now continues it with the greatest vim anddetermination.
So the chase continues, and is now but little more than a mile from thescrub belt which fringes the base of the hills. To this ark of safety,therefore, the dingo strains every muscle, and seizes every smalladvantage which his instinct discerns. No less strenuous is the cattledog. He has the staying powers of his class, and he too runs to win. Inthis way the pursued and pursuers hurry-skurry over bush and brake, overstony ridges and across intersecting gullies.
Within half a mile of the scrub the country flattens out, and this givesan advantage to the cattle dog, who closes up. Joe's horse is now indistress. The course has been long and rough, the pace severe, and thegrass-fed steed is weakening, can make no headway, is indeed losing inthe race. The lad sees this, and chevies the dog on, for he can plainlymark now that unless the chase be ended on this side of the scrub allhope must be abandoned, Oh, to win! A supremely glorious thing were heto achieve the impossible! There are chances. Lots of things mighthappen yet. On, on, good doggie! Catch him, Brindle! Hurrah, Brindleis closing; is surely creeping up!
They are now about three hundred yards from the timber belt, and thedingo is slowly but surely being overhauled. Visions of the scalp as aproud trophy fill the boy's imagination. If only Brindle may seize hisvictim and hold him till he rides up and gives the brute its quietuswith the stirrup iron! Brindle is now not more than four lengthsbehind, and the beasts are still a hundred yards from the scrub.
"On then, doggie: catch him: hold him!" shouts Joe across the widelyintervening distance. The voice is borne faintly to the dog's ear
s, andnerves him to heroic effort in this the final stage of the struggle, thelast lap, so to speak. Breath is too precious to be wasted in answeringcry, but the spurt of the hound speaks volumes: "I shall catch him,master, never fear: I am gaining; but ''twill be on the post."
Both dogs, wild and domestic, are stretched to their fullest extent. Itis the crowning burst. They are labouring heavily, staggering, androlling in their stride. The pace is slow but hard. It is a question ofendurance. Every ounce of strength in each body is laid undercontribution. Once within the scrub the chances in favour of the dingowill immediately increase a hundredfold, for in doubling and dodgingthrough the densely timbered belts the native dog has no equal.
Only thirty yards now lie between the dingo and his salvation--the goodthick scrub that will swallow him up; but--the breath of the pursuerblows hot upon him. Throwing his head over his shoulder for the fractionof a second, the desperate beast sees that only by a miracle can heescape. The adversary is upon his quarters, and in another second thebrute's fangs will be buried in his back. It is a supreme moment. Nowor never! Making a super-canine effort, the fear-stricken thing drawsaway from its enemy in the last dozen strides. Saved, saved! Alas,alas! Right at the very fringe, and within a single step of safety, hetumbles in a heap, and with a convulsive gasp rolls over and gives upthe ghost: the prolonged exertions have broken his heart.
You can work your will on the hunted one now, Brindle: no need to fearthe vicious snap that was reserved for you should the worst happen. Butthe dog's instincts inform him that all power of resistance has gonefrom that mute and still form; indeed, he has no strength to worryshould the call be made: the last spurt has left him without a vestigeof strength. And so, when Joe appeared upon the scene a few minuteslater, it was to behold the motionless dingo, and by his side, withlolling tongue and cavernous mouth, the panting and exhausted Brindle.
In a moment the boy has slid from his horse, and is dancing a grotesquefandango, expressive of his unbounded joy. But, when in a calmer momenthe understood the tragedy of it from the dingo's side of things, afeeling of compassion possessed him, yet joy persisted. "He's a noblefellow, and has given me the grandest sport I've ever had. I'm sorry,and yet I'm glad," quoth the lad. "What'll old Nosey say to this! Mystars, ain't the boys out of it! Wonder where the poor beggars have gotto. Hope nothing's happened to them. Poor beast!" apostrophising thedingo, "you made a royal struggle and deserved to escape, but the fateswere against you. And you, good old Brindle; my word, you've coveredyourself with glory, sir! Poor fellow, you are done up; can only blinkyour pleasure; can't wag even the tip of your tail. Good doggie, I'mproud of you!"
"I'm blest if I don't skin the dingo," exclaimed he, after a moment'spause. "I'll keep it as a trophy. Something to look at in after yearswhen I'm a grey-beard," chuckled the youth. So saying, he whipped outhis knife. Joe had never before skinned a dingo, but as he hadperformed that office on many a wallaby and 'possum he was fairlyexpert, and in a few minutes had achieved his object. Rolling the peltin the approved manner, the youth bound it with a stout piece of cordwhich he extracted from his pocket, and fastened it to the saddle ring.
"Next thing's to get some water. My word! I'm as dry as leather, an'could drink a tank dry. The animals, too, are clean done up, an' I'llget nothing out of them unless they have water. Good gracious! why--thesun's down, an' it'll soon be dark."
Not until this moment did the young hunter realise his position. "Mustbe miles and miles off the track," muttered he as he took a brief surveyof his surroundings. "I'll have to make tracks with a vengeance! Won'tdo to be nipped here. Let's see; yes, the way back is across that flatfor a certainty, and then over yon stony ridge. Beyond that we bend tothe right till we reach a rocky creek." In this way the hunter stroveto recall the innumerable bends and curves taken in the chase. "Ah,here's the moon rising: good old moon!"
Joe had plenty of heart, nerve, and resource. His good spirits wereproverbial. Yet the situation was not at all inviting. Fourteen milesor so from home on the eve of night. A complete stranger to this roughand trackless region, and his horse badly used up! These were thingscalculated to try the nerves and tax the courage of the benighted youth.
He made small bones of these, however, and started off at a slow pace onhis return. The dog had recovered sufficiently to drag himself along atthe horse's heels. The boy eagerly scanned the country for signs ofwater for this would afford the greatest relief to man and beasts: allof whom felt an intolerable thirst. At last they dropped across a smallpool in a stony creek, to their great delight.
Both horse and dog drank as if they would never stop. This, the boyfelt, would be bad for the animals, and he sought to stay them. He withdifficulty checked the horse, but the dog would not quit lapping untilhe was as tight as the proverbial drum. Joe himself drank sparingly,and then moved onward. The dog soon began to vomit, and appeared to beon the verge of collapse. So after vain waiting and entreaty the lad wasforced to leave it behind, in the hope that it would recover during thenight, when he had small doubt as to its ability to find its way home.The horse went easier, now that she had assuaged her thirst. All lighthad vanished save that of the moon, which shed an uncertain light,making puzzling shadows on the rough ground.
"It's time I was at the head of the long gully," muttered the lad."From there it's only a mile or so to the home track. Get up Jill, andmoosey along. The other chaps are home by this time I expect, andthey're wondering what's become of me."
Strange to say, the long gully refused to appear, until it dawned on Joeat last that he was off the track. None but those who have experiencedit can understand the weird feeling that possesses one in the dawn ofthat consciousness. To be in the lonely Australian bush, where thesilence is an oppression, is something like being cast adrift inmid-ocean on a raft, with nothing in sight save the wild waste ofwaters.
That he had lost his bearings became increasingly evident to thewanderer as he moved along. He became a prey to disquieting qualms andthe creeping chill of apprehension. Gruesome accounts of the fate oflost travellers had often been related at the home fireside, and thesememories awoke in his mind.
"I'm off the track all right; still, I'm sure to cut across theRazorback trail; it'll lie over in that direction." After a pause hedetermined to adhere to the way that he had been pursuing for somelittle while. On then "breast forward." There is no semblance of atrack, and presently the lad gets into very difficult country. It wouldbe bad enough to travel through in daylight, but now the trouble isaccentuated; yet the boy, with strong faith in his ultimate emergencefrom this chaos, bravely faces the situation. Up hill, down dale,across gullies, forcing the patches of scrub, slithering down ridges,going on hands and knees, ever and anon, to feel for the hoof-prints onwhat appeared to be the longed-for track--an unceasing march goes on.
At last the mare, completely done up, comes to grief over a tree root,and tumbles to mother earth. The rider rises, unhurt; not so the mare,who has strained her fetlock. What is to be done now? It is a seriousmischance, and the boy feels the gravity of the situation. The onlything to be done is to relieve his steed of saddle and bridle, cache hisaccoutrements, and trudge along on foot.
"Might have been worse," sighed the philosophic lad. "Poor Jill! Idon't like leaving you; but it won't be for long, my beauty. Yourmaster will send some one to look after you to-morrow. To-morrow!--Why,it must be past midnight now! Good-bye, Jill."
On speeds the gallant youth, whistling and singing snatches as he trampsthe interminable bush. "Might be worse," he reiterates in thought.There's a chill in the midnight air, and the walk will warm him nicely.On, then, through the still hours! Not even the hollow note of thenight-owl or the familiar thump made by the feeding marsupial breaks themonotony of silence. No sound, indeed, save the crunching of thetraveller's boots on the rough ground. How long drawn out the day hasbeen. It seems an eternity since he dowsed Tom and Sandy on the bedroomfloor. Lucky beggars, th
ey are snug and sound under the blankets,dreaming the happy dreams of youth; while he, Joe Blain, is tramp,tramp, tramping. At length the thought of his comrades' sweet reposefills him with longing for rest and sleep.
"How long ago it is since I broke my fast? Must be eight, ten, twelvehours; yes, twelve mortal hours! Eat! Oh, for a slice of damper andsalt junk! That were a feed if you like. Puddings, tarts, cakes! Bah!Gimme a slice (thick) of Nosey's damper, an' a slab of that corn-beef."
What a sinking seems to fill his being! How heavy his boots have grown!How steep those everlasting ridges have become! How lovely to crouchdown on that patch of bracken--for five minutes only! He must stop andrest awhile; not to lie and sleep: just to get his wind and ease histired limbs. Shall he----? But no! he must first cut the track--then!His limbs are trembling; he must not stand still, or he will fall. On,on--to the station track! Onward, then, creeps the tottering, stumblinglad. Whistle and song have long ceased. Fatigue reigns supreme, andsheer weariness confuses his brain, and bears heavily on will.Mechanically now, the dear lad staggers over the pathless waste.
But see! Yes, there is a change. What is that line ahead? Is it onthe ground or in the air? It rises and falls in the moonlight, butstill persists. The ground, too, is getting smoother. The ridges havedisappeared. Hurrah! Is not this the end? A few steps more now,and--the station track!
On trudges the lost boy with rising hope. But, alas! the line thickens,darkens, deepens, until it stands out solid, an impregnable scrub. Howweird it all is; how awful! In a moment the benighted lad is strippedof hope. He is frightened beyond words. With a momentary strength bornof despair the wretched youth coasts the dismal scrub, seeking anopening in vain. Suddenly he stumbles over a soft, dark mass, and fallsto the ground. Putting out a hand instinctively, he touches thesubstance. Great Caesar, it is the dingo! Yes, it has happened to poorJoe Blain as it has to many a one more experienced in the ways of thebush--he has circled!
This shock is the last blow. Nature is drained of her resources and canhold out no longer. The lad sinks back into a half-swoon, whichpresently merges into a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
"Joe, old fellow, wake up! Wake up, I say; Joe--Joe--d'ye hear?"
"W-w-w-what is it? Drat you, lemme lone. 'Snot mornin'. There'sgoo-good fler, so s-s-sleep----"
Joe Blain, eyes sealed, dead with sleep, rolls over on the ground, andnever was any creature more gently rocked in the arms of Morpheus thanhe.
Another voice now breaks the silence, sharp and penetrating.
"Hi! hi! there, you sleepy lubber. Are ye going to lie there all day?Rouse up, laddie!"
This imperative speech was accompanied by vigorous shakings androllings.
"Well, well," grunted the half-awakened boy, "sounds like Mr. M'Intyre'svoice. Never knew him to come into the room be-before. Wish they'dleave us alone. Can't open"--and the next moment Joe had relapsed intosleep. Only for a moment, though. The next he was taken neck and crop,lifted to his feet, and shaken violently, what time a voice rasped hisear drum: "Wake up, wake up, ye young Rip Van Winkle!"
Opening his eyes, the dazed Joe starts at the unwonted scene. He is notin his bedroom, then! What on earth has happened? Who are these thatsurround him? Why--he's in the bush! And then the truth dawns upon theweary and weakened lad; he was really lost, and--thank God he is found!
He greets the squatter with a wan smile, and, with the gracecharacteristic of the boy, begins to thank him. But Mr. M'Intyre,patting him affectionately on the back while supporting him with hisarm, extracts the cork of a pocket flask with his teeth, and puts it tothe lad's mouth.
"Tak' a pu' at this, ma laddie; it'll revive ye wonderfu'."
The brandy worked wonders on the boy, so unaccustomed to it.
"We--we ran the dingo down, sir--Jill and Brin--why, here's ole Brindle!Left him at the water-hole; too sick to follow. The horse too----"
"Horse's all right, Joe. We picked her up at the water-hole, wherewe'll leave her for a few days, as she's limping badly. Can you sit onthe saddle before me?" Joe is sure he can, and no time is lost instarting homewards. M'Intyre, to whom the country was an open book,knew a short cut that would take them home in ten miles.
During the ride Joe recited his experiences to the squatter, who inreturn related how Willie had picked up the tracks, sighting first thehorse and then the dog, and followed the trail till they came upon thesleeping lad.
It was a weary but not unhappy boy who reached the homestead at length.The household, duly apprised by Willy, who had ridden on ahead, were inreadiness to cheer the conquering hero.