But the other did not answer, for he, too, in his heart, was asking, “After?” And their lips were dry and parched, and their tongues swollen, and before them lay the salt-pan, with right in the centre a little gleam of dark blue water which mocked their misery. There was nothing for it but to lie down beneath the scanty shade and rest. They were too weary to push on, all their energy had departed, and Helm, lying on his back looking up at the patches of blue sky that peeped through the branches, said with a sigh,
“If we ‘re done for, I wish to heaven the end would come now. I can’t stand the thought of—of—What’s it like, old man? Is it very bad, do you think?”
“As bad as bad can be.”
“And is there no hope?”
What could he say, this man who had lived in the bush all his life? What hope could he give, when practically his experience told him there was no hope—that if they would save themselves from needless pain they would turn their pistols against themselves and die there and at once. But the love of life is strong in us all, and the hope of life is as strong. How could they die, these strong men with life in every vein? No, no, surely it was impossible. An iguana scuttled across in front of them and Helm started up eagerly.
“There,” he said, “there—and I never thought. Look at that beast. There must be water somewhere or how could he live.”
Anderson sighed.
“Yes, there’s the bitterness of it. I know there’s water about if only we could find it; but as we didn’t find any when we had everything in our favour there’s not much good in our wasting time looking now. After all I believe those beasts must live without, though they say they don’t. No, old chap, our only hope lies in pushing on to the nearest water we know of.”
“Then don’t let us lie here wasting precious minutes. Every minute is of consequence; let’s make a start. We must push on.”
Push on! They had been pushing on ever since they left Yerlo station ten days ago, and this is what it had brought them to.