That we’ll lose all our grinders,
All our gold-plugged reminders,
Of the toothache that taught us to swear.
“It’s a case of gray matter and such,
Though for that we need not care much,
For—cocktails and chowder for lunch,
Soft drinks, sangaree, and rum punch
Will surely be living for fair.”
“Come,” growled Goritz, “this sort of nonsense isn’t getting us anywhere. Strap up your packs and get out of this. The chances for grub ahead are not the best in the world. The country is already as bare as a cleared table, and what are we going to do for water?”
That was a disagreeable predicament. Hitherto the springs, little tarns or water holes, though decreasing in number as we advanced, had fully met our requirements, but if we were to cross any considerable dry tract we might be seriously imperiled. To be sure, the limestone country if prolonged would almost certainly feed us, but that desert land which our closest inspection of the distance only made more unquestionable—How about that?