"No," cried Basil, in great excitement, "I have not seen her, and I would give the best years of my life to find her. You know where she is; you can take me to her!"
"Steady, lad, steady. I haven't seen her, and can't take you to her, but there's a sign-post that may show the way. There's no certainty in it; it's just a chance. What do you say if I lead up to it? It's late in the night, but I've no inclination to close my eyes, knowing I shouldn't sleep a wink, I'm that stirred up."
"Neither could I sleep, Corrie. Let us sit and talk and smoke; here's a spare pipe and tobacco--and you shall tell me in your own way."
Corrie nodded, and filled his pipe, and lit it Basil did the same, and waited in anxious expectancy, while Corrie puffed and contemplated the ceiling meditatively.
"In my own way, Master Basil?"
"In your own way, Corrie."
"A roundabout way, but there's plenty of time before daybreak, and then a couple of hours sleep will make us both fit. Old bushmen like ourselves won't miss one night's rest."
[CHAPTER XXXV.]
There was distinct tenderness in Old Corrie's face as he watched the curling wreaths of smoke.
"I don't lay claim to being a poet," he said; "I leave that to my betters; but they almost seem to me to belong to poetry, these rings of smoke that come and go. They bring back old times, and I could fancy we were in the bush, sitting by the camp fire before turning in for the night, spinning yarns, and as happy as blackbirds in spring. There's no life like it, Master Basil, say what they will of the pleasures of the city. Pleasures! Good Lord! To think of the lives some lead here and then to speak of pleasures! I'm not going to preach, however; the ship's been battered about, but it has reached port,"--he touched Basil's hand gratefully--"and here sits the old bushman recalling old times. I shan't dwell upon them because I know it would be trying your patience. I'd like you to give me a little information about yourself before I go on."