Would the tantalising stuff be better boiled? I made the experiment; it failed.
I tried it with some meat extract (a few capsules of which I had); but—it was salter than ever.
With tea? Perhaps, but I had no tea.
A smoke for consolation—no, I dare not.
I bathed my face and hands, and was a little relieved. Then, filling the waterbag, on the off chance of later on feeling more disposed towards poisoning myself, made all the haste I could for the Wycliffe.
* * * *
An old turn-off track beyond the Taylor Well leads out in an easterly direction to the Frew River and El Kedra—both abandoned stations. The country about there had been stocked at one time, but the natives were uncontrollable and very troublesome, spearing and slaughtering many of the cattle; and the lessees deemed abandonment advisable. From those places, and from another lower down and to the west—Anna's Reservoir—the natives count upon having frightened away the white men, the would-be settlers, and are inclined to "fancy" themselves accordingly. In other words, they are said to be "bad" about those places, and, as somebody significantly expressed it, are "spoiling for a hidin'."
It was dreary "going"; and the thoughts associated with the country were not cheering. It was flounder, flounder through the heavy sand, with the lips parched and the throat dry—and growing drier and drier. I turn back now to my note-book and find the single entry—"This five-mile 'plug' is the killing gait."
Yet no creek showed itself. My legs were beginning to send up signals of distress—and all the time that water "flopped" in the bag and tormented me.