On speeds the gallant youth, whistling and singing snatches as he tramps the interminable bush. "Might be worse," he reiterates in thought. There's a chill in the midnight air, and the walk will warm him nicely. On, then, through the still hours! Not even the hollow note of the night-owl or the familiar thump made by the feeding marsupial breaks the monotony of silence. No sound, indeed, save the crunching of the traveller's boots on the rough ground. How long drawn out the day has been. It seems an eternity since he dowsed Tom and Sandy on the bedroom floor. Lucky beggars, they are snug and sound under the blankets, dreaming the happy dreams of youth; while he, Joe Blain, is tramp, tramp, tramping. At length the thought of his comrades' sweet repose fills him with longing for rest and sleep.
"How long ago it is since I broke my fast? Must be eight, ten, twelve hours; yes, twelve mortal hours! Eat! Oh, for a slice of damper and salt junk! That were a feed if you like. Puddings, tarts, cakes! Bah! Gimme a slice (thick) of Nosey's damper, an' a slab of that corn-beef."
What a sinking seems to fill his being! How heavy his boots have grown! How steep those everlasting ridges have become! How lovely to crouch down on that patch of bracken—for five minutes only! He must stop and rest awhile; not to lie and sleep: just to get his wind and ease his tired limbs. Shall he——? But no! he must first cut the track—then! His limbs are trembling; he must not stand still, or he will fall. On, on—to the station track! Onward, then, creeps the tottering, stumbling lad. Whistle and song have long ceased. Fatigue reigns supreme, and sheer weariness confuses his brain, and bears heavily on will. Mechanically now, the dear lad staggers over the pathless waste.
But see! Yes, there is a change. What is that line ahead? Is it on the ground or in the air? It rises and falls in the moonlight, but still persists. The ground, too, is getting smoother. The ridges have disappeared. Hurrah! Is not this the end? A few steps more now, and—the station track!
On trudges the lost boy with rising hope. But, alas! the line thickens, darkens, deepens, until it stands out solid, an impregnable scrub. How weird it all is; how awful! In a moment the benighted lad is stripped of hope. He is frightened beyond words. With a momentary strength born of despair the wretched youth coasts the dismal scrub, seeking an opening in vain. Suddenly he stumbles over a soft, dark mass, and falls to the ground. Putting out a hand instinctively, he touches the substance. Great Cæsar, it is the dingo! Yes, it has happened to poor Joe Blain as it has to many a one more experienced in the ways of the bush—he has circled!
This shock is the last blow. Nature is drained of her resources and can hold out no longer. The lad sinks back into a half-swoon, which presently merges into a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
"Joe, old fellow, wake up! Wake up, I say; Joe—Joe—d'ye hear?"
"W-w-w-what is it? Drat you, lemme lone. 'Snot mornin'. There's goo-good fler, so s-s-sleep——"
Joe Blain, eyes sealed, dead with sleep, rolls over on the ground, and never was any creature more gently rocked in the arms of Morpheus than he.