“Yes.”
“Ay,” and M'Gregor looked at the pony with a businesslike don't-think-much-of-him air, ran his hand lightly over the hard legs, and opened the passive creature's mouth. “H'm,” he said. Then he turned to the drover. “Ye seem a bit oot o' luck. Ye're thin like. What's been the matter?”
“Been sick with fever—Queensland fever. Just come through from the North. Been out on the Diamantina last.”
“Ay. I was there mysel',” said M'Gregor. “Hae ye the fever on ye still?”
“Yes—goin' home to get rid of it.”
A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he can carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his strength and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, the malady moves with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at regular intervals to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually it wears itself out, often wearing its patient out at the same time. M'Gregor had been through the experience, and there was a slight change in his voice as he went on with his palaver.
“Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?”
“Monaro—my people live in Monaro.”
“Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?”
“Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin',” said the drover, while a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features. “I've rode him far enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles. I wouldn't sell him, only I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now to get the money to go home.”