"Would you be kind enough to lift my dog into the wagon? I have n't been able to call him lately, but he won't be far off."
"Bad news for you, Alf. The poor fellow got a bait somewhere, and came home to die. He 's lying under the wagon, beside your saddle."
The outlaw turned away his face. 'Short of being Swift,' says Taine; 'one must love something.' (Ay, and short of being too morally slow to catch grubs, one must hate something. See, then, that you hate prayerfully and judiciously).
While I was thinking that every minute's delay would make my journey after the bullocks a little longer, Alf suddenly looked round.
"You need n't stay here," said he sharply—thin blades of articulation shooting here and there through his laboured whisper, as the water he had drunk took effect on his swollen tongue. "If you would come again in an hour, and give me another turn-over, you would be doing more for me than I would do for you. What day is this?"
"Sunday, December the ninth."
He pondered awhile. "I 've lost count of the days. What time is it?"
"Between one and two, I should think. My watch is at the bottom of the Murray."
"Afternoon, of course. I think I ought to be dead by this time to-morrow.
What's keeping you here? I want to be alone."
"Don't talk nonsense, Alf. I'll pull you through, if I can only hit the complaint. Have you any symptoms?"