So Mrs. Dan went and fetched in little Danny from the office where he played while his father pretended to work, and did a deal more play than work himself; and enjoyed it more than the child, maybe.
And Mrs. Dan bathed him and made Ess help, and took care that she had the handling of his chubby three-year-old body. And Ess took him on her knee, and towelled him and wiped his soft skin as tenderly and carefully as if it were a delicate hand-painted china, and then hugged and squeezed him as if he were made of unbreakable india rubber. And when they had got him ready for his bed, and heard him say his prayers, and fondled him and petted him and kissed him to their heart’s content, the two women put him to bed, and came back and sat down and looked at one another, and talked whispered baby-lore and mother-talk, with their heart-strings still thrilling under the touch of the baby fingers.
And Mrs. Dan told of the other children she had borne—and lost; and of the manner of their losing, and cried a little, softly, over the telling, while Ess strove, weeping herself, to comfort her.
“Four of them I’ve had,” Mrs. Dan said, “and only little Danny left. One by one, and one by one, they went. The first was when Dan was selectin’ out in the back country, and the sun and the prickly heat and the furnace air was too much for the baby, and I watched him wilt and crumple like a flower on a broken stem—till he died. And when the next one came, Dan scraped the money together, and I went down to the inside country a piece, and stayed there till he was nine months old, and as strong and sturdy as a little Turk. And I knew that Dan was fightin’ to keep the place goin’, and doin’ without proper food and cookin’, and I thought the child was strong enough to stand the weather and the heat, especially as the worst of the summer was over. So I went back. And then the bush fires came, and we had to saddle up and ride, and got away with our bare lives and what we stood in. And Dan carried the baby in his arms till we come to the lagoon; and we waded in to the water, and stayed there with the water to our lips and the heat of the fire blisterin’ the cheeks of us, and Dan holdin’ the poor mite with just his head above water and a hat fendin’ off the heat. And he died of pneumonia, and no doctor to be had till all was over.... We gave up the selection then, and Dan joined the force and was doin’ well when the third came. He was stationed in a mining township then, and because it was down nearer the coast and cooler, I thought the child would be all right when it came. But I was ill—terribly ill when she came; and I couldn’t nurse her, and—you can think what I felt when they told me—there was no drop of fresh milk to be had for miles round, and the store had but one case of condensed milk, and when they opened it they found every tin of it was bad. And the baby never got over that first few days, and it went—the third of them. And now there’s little Danny there ... and I can never have another. Can you understand how precious he is to me, and what I’d do or not do for the love of him? And now listen to this ... listen and remember it, for it may help you to understand something some day. Danny was took ill two year ago. Dan was away at the time—away for three days; and there was none of the women in the place could say what to do with him—one advised one thing and another another, and I didn’t know myself, and I was near crazy. And a man rode for the doctor, rode down river after him, and got to where he’d been, and found he had crossed the river twelve hours before. And the river was running a banker, but this man rode in and tried to swim across at the Staked Crossing—and that means more than I can tell you, or more than you can understand that’s never seen the Staked Crossing and the river in flood. A log struck his horse before he’d gone half-way, and it was drowned, and the man was washed back on the same bank a mile below. And they picked him up half drowned and brought him to, and as soon as he could stand he took another horse and tried again——”
“It was brave—brave,” murmured Ess, listening with breathless interest.
“It was brave, for he was, and is, a brave man. And this time he won through, but, when he came where the doctor had been, he found him gone again. And he rode his horse to a standstill and borrowed another, and rode till he found the doctor and brought him back at the gallop—and the doctor told us he was just in time. And so—well, I have the child, thanks be to the doctor—and the man that brought him.”
“How you must have thanked him,” said Ess, feelingly.
“Thanked him?” said Mrs. Dan. “He wouldn’t listen to my thanks—laughed at it, and made light and said it was a little thing for any man to do. And the same to Dan when he tried to say with words what our hearts was sayin’. But would you wonder if I’d want to do anything in my power for him; that there’s nothing, barrin’ my husband’s life and my boy’s, that I wouldn’t freely give him for the asking; that I’d put my life or my honour or everything I have or ever hope to have in his bare hands. And I’ll tell you the man’s name, and some day maybe you’ll remember and understand why I’m telling it and this story—the man was Steve Knight.”
“Steve Knight,” whispered Ess.
“Yes, Steve Knight—Fly-by-Night—careless, laughing, happy-go-lucky Steve Knight, that you’ll hear tales and love-stories of by the score, but that never did harm to man, woman or maid, that ever I heard of.”