"Oh, everywhere within a rajus," sweeping his arm across the refuse-littered waste. "Marines for yez, but"—with infinite sadness—"all dead."
* * * *
At Hergott, 441 miles from Adelaide. Bleak and uninviting. Treeless, save for some Government date palms; healthy looking plants, fringing an artesian bore. The hotel people kindness personified. "Spelled" the greater part of next day and overhauled the machine; cleaned the chain, and located one or two puncturettes.
Found awaiting me here some wearables, a rug and other likely-to-be-useful articles; but hearing of depots still ahead, I re-addressed the parcel, minus the wearables, back to whence it came. Although the nights were likely to be cold, the days are very warm; and the bulk of the rug made it "impossible" in bad country. At night time, for a while at any rate, when camping out I would try how sleeping between two or half-a-dozen fires suits me.
* * * *
Oil was to be had at the telegraph stations. (Neatsfoot—I fancy for this hot climate an oil of about the right consistency; sperm oil, such as is used for sewing-machines, being to my mind too thin altogether, while castor is, on the other hand, of course too thick.) As I had so far used hardly a single feeder-full, I merely replenished my oil-feeder and left the "reserve tin" behind. I had oiled each morning regularly, perhaps using another drop or two on the main bearings during the day, and had dropped a little on the chain after roughly cleaning it occasionally. Some machines call for frequent re-oiling; others do well with very little. Diamond luckily was among the latter.
* * * *
The consensus of opinion at Hergott was adverse to the success of my project—for my intentions could no longer be completely hidden. So, rather than endure possibly irritating remarks on the subject, I moved on in the afternoon.
Several people southwards had told me of a cyclist who was coming presently with the object of attempting to ride right through. (It had got into the newspapers somehow—how I do not to this day know.) I was so lightly loaded that few, if any, of them suspected that I was the individual, "misguided," "rash" and many other things. Wherefore to me they laughed more derisively about the coming visitor than they might otherwise have done.
At one place, after obliging with his signature, a postmaster opened his heart to me. (That "somewhere about the terminus of the railway" was my destination I had permitted him to infer.) I ought to wait, he said, till the expectantly-looked-for other fellow turned up. "He is bound to come along this way," remarked the P.M., "and—unless you'd rather not, of course—it would be company for both of you."