“Queer chap, that,” said Dr. Anderson, lighting a cigarette. “That’s about the only remark he’s made all day, and in the motor he didn’t say as much—sat like an ebony statue, with his eyes bulging in unholy terror. I hear you’ve been flying all over the country, Norah. What do you mean by looking so white?”
The tale of Norah’s iniquities was unfolded to him, and the doctor felt her pulse in a friendly way.
“You’ll have to go to bed soon,” he said. “Can’t have you knocking yourself up, you know; and we’ve got to make an early start to-morrow to avoid the worst heat of the day for the patient. Also, you will take a small tabloid to make you ‘buck up,’ if you know what that means, Norah!” Norah grinned. “Ah, well, Mr. Stephenson here will make you forget all that undesirable knowledge before long—lost in a maze of Euclid, and Latin, and Greek, and trigonometry, and things!”
“I say!” gasped Norah.
“Well, you may,” grinned the doctor. “I foresee lively times for you and your tutor in the paths of learning, young lady. First of all, however, you’ll have to be under-nurse to our friend the patient, with Mrs. Brown as head. And that reminds me—someone must sit up to-night.”
“That’s my privilege,” said Dick Stephenson quickly. And all that night, after the camp had quieted to sleep, the son sat beside his newly-found father, watching in the silver moonlight every change that flitted across the wan old face. The Hermit had not yet recovered consciousness, but under the doctor’s remedies he had lost the terrible restlessness of delirium and lay for the most part calmly. In heart, as he watched him, Dick was but a little boy again, loving above all the world the tall “Daddy” who was his hero—longing with all the little boy’s devotion and all the strength of his manhood to make up to him for the years he had suffered alone.
But the calm face on the bed never showed sign of recognition. Once or twice the Hermit muttered, and his boy’s name was on his lips. The pulse fluttered feebly. The great river flowed very close about his feet.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE END OF THE STRUGGLE
The long slow journey to Billabong homestead was accomplished.
The Hermit had never regained consciousness throughout the weary hours during which every jolt of the express-wagon over the rough tracks had sent a throb to the hearts of the watchers. All unconscious he had lain while they lifted him from the bunk where he had slept for so many lonely nights. The men packed his few personal belongings quickly. Norah, remembering a hint dropped by the Hermit in other days, had instituted a search for buried papers, which resulted in the unearthing of a tin box containing various documents. She had insisted, too, that the rough furniture should go, and it was piled in the front of the wagon. Another man had brought out the old pack mare for the baggage of the original fishing party, and the whole cavalcade moved off before the sun had got above the horizon.