'And now you've had it.'
'It doesn't last, though?'
'Won't with you, I reckon. I've known some taken with it when they weren't any better than boys, and as they got older it didn't show any wearing off. Whenever they'd start to shoot at a deer, the fever would come up as bad as ever.'
'But it doesn't happen to everyone?'
'I guess it's the exception. I've never had it. Some say it's no bad sign when a young fellow gets knocked over with it. For it's generally men that are good shots who get bothered with the fever. Another thing—if a fellow goes to knife the beast with any sort of pity—you had, I know, for I watched you close—he's gone. You're feeling right again, eh?'
The other assented. 'It goes off as quickly as it comes on, anyhow.'
'And leaves a man none the worse,' added the hunter. Then he hastened to change the subject, as he noticed the gradual blackening of the surrounding shadows.
'See here, Winton, it's getting sort of late. Alf will be bothering, if we're not back by dark. Suppose you wait here, while I make tracks for the horses?'
'There's an hour of daylight yet,' said Winton. 'Let's sit down for a smoke. There's lot of time.'
Sinclair glanced round a little uneasily. 'Make it half a pipeful, and I don't mind joining you. I'm sort of hungry for a bit of plug. But, I tell you straight, I'm not wanting to hang around here long after sunset.'