smith, whose throat was dry, and whose tongue was half-blackened, stumbled on for a hundred yards before he thought of taking his bearings. for now in a country of scanty timber, which only gradually grew denser, one part was terribly like another. he returned to the tree, and, getting his tomahawk, blazed his way for nearly a mile. and though the trees were thicker, he saw no sign of water, and few signs of life beyond swarms of ants and some native bees.
as he walked, he spoke a little to himself, but it was chiefly of far-away things, and he chuckled now and again with a very frightful sound. though every once in a while he became half delirious, he was yet able to control his wandering mind. it occurred to him that he felt as he had sometimes done in drink, when it was necessary to have his wits about him. so, as he walked, he stopped sometimes and said to himself, as if he were another man:
"pull yourself together, old son."
he stumbled on in the intense heat, and sometimes he stayed behind a bigger tree and let the shade cover him. as he slashed at one tree, he noticed the bark was not wholly dry. so, cutting into the sapwood, he got a chip, and sucked it. why hadn't he done that for the poor baker?
and as he travelled he was aware of men, or shadows, or ghosts behind every tree. he called to them, but when he came up they were far ahead of him. he believed in them at last, and they terrified him a little. he held his tomahawk as if to defend himself. and then he grew angry, and remembered, with peculiar gusto, the hot taste of the blood of mandeville's murdered horse.
but the delirium left him when he caught his foot in a root, and went head-long. for he turned about in a blind rage and cut the root through savagely. it was alive, and had done it on purpose. he was no more than a child.
and by some odd and ridiculous notion of his mind, he began to feel angry with the baker. why did the man not come himself, why did he send him on such a hideous and futile errand, while he took his ease, lying down in the shade? when he got so far, it struck smith with terrible distinctness that he did not remember in any way how he came to be with mandeville in such a position. he could not recollect anything of the yesterday, and though he recalled the new find, that seemed very far off and vague, and in no way connected with their present trouble. but he said at last, that when he saw the baker he would ask him about it. meantime he had to get water, and he held up his water-bag, which was as dry as a last year's bone.
but the trees now became denser, and there were patches of very thick scrub. he remembered that he had not blazed a tree for a good time, and he stupidly blazed every one he came to.
presently he found himself futilely going round one tree, as though he meant to ring-bark it, and for a moment he could not remember in which direction he should go. but at last he recalled the fact, that the sun was on the right side of the back of his neck, and that his foolish squat shadow should be on his left. he walked fast, and ran.
he had been travelling about an hour, when it occurred to him with a horrible shock, that he neither knew who he was, nor what he was doing. he sat down on a wind-fallen tree, and pondered painfully, sucking his finger in a babyish manner. he knew very well that he was somebody who was thirsty, but he could not remember his own name, nor his own identity, and the frightful catastrophe appalled him. he had a peculiar desolation around him, the desolation of some newly-created being, born full-grown without knowledge of his destiny. he struggled with his brain for what seemed innumerable centuries, and it gave no answer. an intolerable melancholy oppressed him, and he still sucked his finger. and suddenly he noticed that it seemed to taste like milk, and he appeared to smell milk. he bit it, and tongued a little blood, which tasted like milk too. he resumed his fight for his own soul, and he took up his tomahawk; looking at it idly, he saw mandeville's name on it, and said he knew that name. and then he saw mandeville, and his own mind came back. he knew who he was. it was an intolerable relief.
but, then, the thirst came on him again, and his aural centre went wrong. he heard frogs; he swore to himself he heard them croaking. but it was all as dry as his throat. what was a frog doing in a dry forest? he rose up suddenly, and began to run again. and then he heard frogs once more; why, there were millions, millions of them, and they deafened him! he dropped his tomahawk, and ran through a bit of blind scrub, and out into sudden silence, which was quite as appalling as the noise he had heard. he ran on again, and stopped, and ran, with his dry tongue between his teeth. he knew he had thirst delusions on him. when he heard a frog next, he shook his head pettishly, and was as angry as a nervous man worried by drumming in his ears. he would be seeing water soon! and the big frog boomed, boomed, and boomed. he went on slowly through the scrub, and came to some saplings. the bit of whitish ground under them looked like water, and he shook his head again, a little more, and he would believe it—believe there was water.
and then the maddening boom of a world of frogs began again. he cursed them without a voice, for now his voice was gone, and he put his fingers in his ears and ran a little, and came right out of the saplings.
he stayed, glaring, and then, turning, sat down on the ground. oh, these horrible, horrible delusions! what had he done to be so tormented? for that time he had seen water, a deep, deep creek of cool water.
"no, no," he cried to himself, "it's the devil's country, and devil's water, and all of a piece with the frogs."
he turned round again slowly, trembling as he turned. and then he crawled on his hands and knees, and at last he rose and fell again, with his mouth in thick mud, and water on his burning brow. he pushed forward six inches, and drank.
no! it was not a delusion. it was water after all.
he lay and drank like an animal, and then, feeling his brain reel, he twisted round and blindly clawed his way back up the bank. for he felt dimly that, if he became insensible there, he would drown like a thirsty fly. and when he was in safety his senses did leave him for a space.
when he came to, he felt for a long time as weak as a child, but he was sane, quite sane, and the strange and horrible delusions of the thirsty bush had vanished. he remembered that poor mandeville was dying. perhaps, he said, he is even now dead. at the thought of that, he sprang to his feet, but went blind, and fell on his knees. when he next rose he could walk, but he filled his water-bag with trembling hands. he turned to go, but, staying, wondered if this was a creek, or only a water-hole. perhaps there was some motion in the water. he threw in a twig to try, and found it did move slowly to the south. it was a creek, and so would be easier to discover again.
but could he find mandeville? he almost doubted it.
for when he began to go back over his journey from the tree under which his chum was still lying, it seemed such an incredible one both by time and distance that the sun appeared to lie. by the position of the sun, he could not have been more than three hours. that seemed absurd and ridiculous. had he then lain insensible twenty-four hours? it occurred to him that he might possibly have been by the creek for a night. it certainly was possible; such a thing, he knew, might happen. but how was he to know? how indeed? and as he asked himself the question, his heart sank. he knew that if he found mandeville alive, his mad journey had only consumed a few hours. but a day more would certainly kill him, when it was doubtful if a few hours would not do it. and to go back would inevitably take longer than it had taken to come. he began to run, and then he stopped. it would never do to go too hastily; if he missed the blazed way, he might never see mandeville again. so he tracked himself back through the thicker scrub by some hardly visible footsteps and some broken twigs. he came at last to the spot where he had dropped his tomahawk, and his heart beat more freely. he forgot how insane he had been, for now he was quite himself. he forgot how rarely he had blazed the trees, before he found himself hacking round one single trunk, like a madman. and when he came to that tree, it struck him with the shock which shakes every man, who, believing himself in a lone land, finds evidence of other human beings. for smith could not, for a long time, believe he had done it himself. it looked purposed; it suggested some end which he thought alien to his own journey. until he fitted the edge of the tomahawk exactly into a clean wide cut of the ring-barking, he was alarmed; but that reassured him.
"i must have been crazy," he muttered, and, taking his direction, he went on. but he now came to the gap which he had left in his marking, and he found no more slashes in trees for two hundred yards. he examined each carefully, and often went back. just as he came to the conclusion that he would probably never get through, he saw a whitish mark in a tree fifty yards further south. his heart leapt up, he was once more in the true line.
and now he ran till he came upon the dry creek bed he and mandeville had crossed. he shouted aloud:
"mandeville, mandy!"
and no answer came back to him. he ran like a madman, and at last spied the tree under which he had left his chum. he knew it for the same one, for he could see his own blankets rolled up leaning against it. but when he reached it mandeville was not there.
"i say, mandy, where are you?" called smith in a high, tremulous voice. and there was no answer. the silence seemed a flood; it made smith shake. for that silence promised to be eternal; the loneliness was complete. he began searching like a madman, and suddenly he remembered that they had gone twenty yards further when he had dropped his swag, for the next tree gave the most shade. the moment after, smith was kneeling by the baker, who was breathing very laboriously, and quite unconscious.
smith's face twitched as he poured a little water between the other's dry lips. for he believed he was back too late. mandeville seemed in the very act of death; the heavy, slow pulsation of the artery in his neck looked as if it might stop at any moment. his heart strove dreadfully with his thirsty, thickened blood.
but his lips opened, and he drank unconsciously drop by drop. and very slowly life came back to him.
if smith could have prayed at any time, he would have prayed as his one friend turned hesitatingly from the open door of death, and not even his bitterness against the world and the heaven of brass above could prevent him from breaking down with joy, and sobbing like a child as the baker opened his weary eyes.
