save that the trees were a little bigger and more closely set, there was no change in the scenery next day. perhaps the ground rolled a trifle more, and patches of thicker scrub sometimes turned them from the billabong. but the heat was the same, and the accursed flies got worse. each time they lay down they were hunted by pismires, whose bite is a little red-hot stab, and they saw innumerable ants of other kinds. but though the ants, and flies, and mosquitoes were maddening, their big trouble was hunger, which they found nothing to assuage. not yet having come to the point where they could swallow their natural antipathies and cook a snake, they let one pass unharmed which would have made a meal for six men, and smith, who was saving his strength, did not go out of his way to kill it, though it was a black snake, and very deadly.
"it can't hurt anyone in this country," he said. "is there a human being within a thousand miles' now? the lord, who started earth-making in this quarter of the globe, and never brought anything to perfection but reptiles and vermin, only knows."
and the baker was on in front. if he had endured thirst less easily than smith, it was evident that he could stand hunger better.
"i think 'unger's very much a matter of 'abit, smith," he said encouragingly. "if you fill yerself up reg'lar three times a day, a bit of starvin' knocks the stuffin' right out of yer quick; but if you live 'ard and uncertain, you can go without a deuce of a time. and except when i was in a job, i never 'ave been very reg'lar. and i 'ad too much say at 'ome to keep a job long. i was too h'inderpendent, that's what i was. so now we're 'ere, that's where we are."
but all the same, to use his own picturesque expression, much nearer physiologic truth than he knew, "the flaps of 'is stummick was glued together and eating each other," and the pain he suffered was at times very intense. but he grunted little, and only stayed sometimes half-bent down, when an extra spasm of anguish got hold of him.
"i give in over thirst," he said to himself, "but, mandy, my boy, you don't give in about 'unger."
so he talked with courage, though the mosquitoes robbed him of his blood, and perhaps planted malaria and ague as they bored. for smith obviously suffered badly, though he never mentioned food and made no complaint. he continually drank water and chewed tobacco. but his face got thin and thinner, and deep anxiety sat within his eyes.
that night they had to make a dense smoke to keep away the mosquitoes, for they were surrounded by half-dried swamps, which bred these pests in millions. till sundown they saw them swaying in long clouds under the trees, but when the sun went down some horrible ancient instinct in them cried out for blood, though in that desert these creatures of a day could not have tasted it for unnumbered generations, and they swept down upon them singing.
yet their instincts were still true; they knew their work, and made the long, hot night an unutterable torture, and a ceaseless, bitter combat, in which victory was theirs. the two starving men fought against them till early dawn, and as they fell asleep, the mosquitoes had them at their will. they sat in the trees mere globules of red blood, rejoicing at a satisfaction granted to one in ten thousand.
when the two men woke, they felt as if their little tortured sleep had done them harm beyond reparation. they were ghastly and worn, and poor mandeville was half-blind. but he did not growl.
they rolled up their blankets, though this day smith left one of his upon the ground.
"one's enough to carry," said he. and the baker made no answer as he swung his swag on his back. even without food in it, it now felt sufficiently heavy. at noon, he, too, dropped a heavy blue blanket, and felt the loss of its weight as an extreme relief.
their progress now was slow. they often rested, and sat in silence, sometimes broken by a bitter laugh from smith.
"for gawd's sake, old man," said the baker, but he could say no more.
but that day they caught a brown snake, and cooked it on the coals. smith was ill after it, and as white as death. they rose and staggered on. and during the night smith was slightly delirious. he spoke in his sleep, and once or twice the baker heard him say, "carrie!"
next morning smith talked a good deal.
"it won't be much longer, baker," he said. "and when i drop you go on. i found water for you. perhaps you'll find food for me. i don't want to die in this hole. some might be glad if i never turned up again, but i'll turn up if i can."
he gnawed his lip and his blonde moustache, and, turning the end of his beard into his mouth, he chewed it in deep contemplation.
"money, money," he said, "why, what a fool a man is. there's gold everywhere in this country. it's more and more like it. i can smell it."
he rose, staggering, but, grabbing up his blankets, walked on, followed by the baker.
"how many days without food, mandy?"
"this is the fourth day, smith, bar the snake."
"paugh," said smith; "but do you know, mandy, i think i could do with a bit of snake now."
he laughed thinly, and walked on again muttering to himself. but now for a time the pains had left him. the baker, too, was easier, though very weak.
"how much more can you stand, baker?" asked smith an hour later.
"two days i reckon," said mandeville.
"that's one more than my life," said smith. "but let's push on."
and presently smith stayed again. he pointed through a little opening in the bush, and mandeville saw a faint blue range.
"how far?" said smith. but the baker didn't know.
"too far to reach," said smith. "but the gold's there."
"how do you know?" asked mandeville.
"i know," said smith angrily. and the baker's heart died within him. he saw his chum was failing fast. and going round the next bend of the creek, they trod in a pile of dust that rose beneath them. smith went on blindly, but the baker stayed with his heart in his mouth.
"my gawd!" he said, and called to smith, who came back. "what's them?" asked the baker, and smith went down on his knees.
"ashes, by god!" he said in a loud voice, and then he fainted dead away.
it took the baker half an hour to bring him to his senses.
"what's up?" asked smith.
"you fainted, i guess," said the baker. "but we must be near some people now."
and with smith propped against a tree, they considered the matter in all its bearings.
"black-fellows," said smith. "how old is the fire do you think?"
but mandeville shook his head.
"it's dead cold, and might 'ave bin 'ere a year.'
"no!" said smith, with his hand in the grey ashes, "it hasn't rained here since it was lighted."
"and when was the last rain 'ere?" asked the baker cheerfully.
smith looked at the dried grass, and tore up a thin tussock.
"not so very long," he answered. "but the blacks who lighted it may be a hundred miles off, and that would lick us. and if we found them they would most likely spear us."
"it ain't certain," said mandeville.
"no!" answered smith. "but probable."
and rising, he took up his swag, and walked on side by side with his chum.
"it's likely they will stay by the billabong," he said. "there may be fish in it, and there's sure to be fish in the river. and though we have seen very few kangaroos, yet there'll be plenty about somewhere. we may strike them yet."
he walked a little faster at the notion.
"if i have to live on grubs out of a rotten stump, i'll live," he said. and hope gave him more strength. he walked better, though he felt light-headed.
and just before sundown they came on the ashes of another fire by the creek. this time smith spotted them first, and he thrust his hand in to feel if they had more warmth than the day's burning sun could give them. but they were cold.
smith sat down on a fallen tree, and contemplated the ashes in silence. once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, but he said nothing. the baker brought up some water from the billabong, and made a little weak tea of the last tea they had, and part of that was leaves saved from two infusions. then smith spoke:
"i suppose we are the first white men that ever got so far in this direction," he said, "unless we are near warburton's track when he crossed the continent in 'seventy-three. we'll call it mandeville land if we ever get back."
the baker smiled faintly, and lighted a little fire.
"not too big," said smith; "we want to see the blacks first, and then we'll have a chance."
and after the tea they lay down.
"no further to-day," said smith, and mandeville undid his swag for him. and, presently, it was quite dark, and mandeville fell unto an uneasy slumber. how long it lasted he could not say, but he was waked by hearing smith talk. he turned over in alarm. but smith presently broke into laughter. "mandeville, you damn fool, wake up," he said.
"yes," said the baker, shaking.
"you're a fool; i'm a fool; but i see it now. i see it now!"
"see what, smith?" asked the baker, and smith came over to him and knelt down.
"it was a white man's fire, mandy."
