CHAPTER XVII
THE TURNING OF THE LONG LANE
IT was barely dawn next morning when the twins’ alarum-clock roused them. They sprang up, dressed with swift movements, and tiptoed to the larder. No one else was astir.
“Whatever we do, we mustn’t wake Sarah!”
“No—and we mustn’t take what will be noticed too much,” Jean said. “Here’s a tin of sheep’s tongue, and another of sardines.” She rummaged among the spare foodstuffs that are to be found in every station store-room. “A pot of peach jam, Jean—I hope he likes peach; and a tin of tomatoes. There’s a jar of anchovy paste here.”
“No—make him too thirsty,” objected Jo. “He can’t crawl up and down the bank for water, with that ankle. Look, I’ll pack butter into this little pot—it’s got a screw-top, and he can put it in a tin of water if it gets too soft. We must take a spare billy and a cup—oh, and grab a tin-opener! And a knife.”
“Right!” whispered her twin. “Plenty of bread, thank goodness: Sarah baked yesterday. No wonder she was cooked at night, poor old dear! I believe we can spare him some cake.” They progressed to the meat-safe under the walnut-tree, and abstracted some cold beef. A bottle of milk finished their depredations, and they set off, laden, across the paddock. The house still slumbered peacefully.
So, apparently, did their patient when they appeared at the door of the hut; but he woke with a terrified start.
“It’s all right,” Jean assured him. “No one knows you are here. How are you?”
“Better,” he whispered. Speech seemed difficult to him; he lay quietly while they bathed his injuries. They gave him milk, which he drank thirstily, but he refused food.
“We’ll bring you more milk as soon as we can,” Jean said. “It was no use bringing more now, because it would only go sour—it’s going to be another blazing day. Sour milk would be bad for you, so finish that soon.” She spoke in the tone of an understanding mother to a fractious child, and he looked at her gratefully for a moment. Then his heavy lids drooped over his eyes again.