I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night. It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round—it was made to cover a high load, the flour in the waggon didn’t come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground. I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon: when I went to lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn’t like. Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.
‘How do you feel now, sonny?’
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars.
‘Jim’s better, dad.’ Then he said something like, ‘The stars are looking at me.’ I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots, and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
‘Kiss me ‘night-night, daddy,’ he said.
I’d rather he hadn’t asked me—it was a bad sign. As I was going to the fire he called me back.
‘What is it, Jim?’
‘Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.’
I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he’d brought from Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And ‘’night-night’ and ‘daddy’ were two-year-old language to Jim. I’d thought he’d forgotten those words—he seemed to be going back.
‘Are you quite warm enough, Jim?’