“Oh yes; I’m ten times worse,” said Jill, awfully.
We soon after came into a country high, bleak, and desolate, with only here and there a clump of trees. Hills there were in plenty, but houses none.
And night was falling fast, and both of us were getting very tired. We would have to sleep out, that was evident, and so determined to take the first available shelter. So on coming to a bushy gully, with a tiny streamlet going singing down the centre of it, we left the road and followed the water upwards, and were soon at the foot of a rock. To my surprise, on pulling some bushes aside I found a cave.
Some shepherd’s, evidently, we thought, for here was a bed of withered ferns, soft and dry; and not far from the mouth of the cave a place where a fire had been.
So we camped at once and lit a fire, for I had forgotten nothing. We made the fire between some stones, and placed thereon our tin billy with water to boil for tea.
We soon had made an excellent supper, and Jill’s dear eyes sparkled as he sipped his tea.
“What a splendid bushman you are, Jack!” he said. “This is a first-rate sort of a life, and, don’t you know, I wouldn’t mind living this way for a month.”
“Well,” I said, “it seems pretty safe; and I propose we do stop here for a few days. By that time they will think we are far away, and never look here for us.”
“Agreed,” said Jill.
Then we went and gathered a quantity of fern, so that we had quite a delightful bed in the cave; and as night was now over all the wastes around us, we determined to retire. The stars were out and glimmering down, and bats wheeling about, and every now and then the tu-whit—tu-whoo! of the brown owl made us start. It sounded so close to us, and oh, it was so mournful!