“JIM! Wake up, you old sinner!”
Jim, in his sleep, was riding after a bullock on the Billabong plains. The bullock was speedy, and he and Garryowen were doing their utmost to catch and turn him. They drew near—he swung up his arm with the stockwhip, and met a soft obstacle that surprised him effectually from his dream.
“By Jove, you can hit, old man!” said Wally, in a sepulchral whisper, rubbing his side. “Call yourself a pal? Wake up?”
“I’m sorry,” Jim said, struggling to consciousness. “Did I hit you? What’s the matter, Wal?”
“Be quiet, fathead, can’t you?” whispered Wally, impatiently. “I’ve been trying to wake you silently, and you’ll raise the ship. Get up—the signaller’s at work!”
Jim was out of his berth in a moment, and at the port-hole. Far down the side of the ship they could see fitful gleams of light.
“By Jove!” he said, bringing in his head. “We’ll get him this time, Wal. Awfully sorry I was so hard to wake.”
“Well, you’ve had about six hours’ sleep in the last three nights, so it’s not much wonder,” Wally answered. “Generally you wake if a fly looks at you.” They were struggling into coats and slippers in the dark. “Come along!”
They hurried noiselessly down the passage, and turned into the narrow alley-way leading to the little empty cabin near Norah’s. The port-hole had been left open, and they peered out in turn.
“There’s no doubt this time,” said Jim, excitedly; “he’s signalling for all he’s worth. No lady with curling-tongs and a spirit-lamp about that chap! he means business.”