“I hope we shan’t all be sorry afterwards,” he said gravely. “But it’s a big thing, Mary-girl.” He helped her to the ground. “Go on to the house while I let the horses go: it’s far too hot for you to be out.”
The long day dragged to evening—an evening that brought little relief from the overpowering heat. There was something almost malignant in the heavy air. Even Billy and Rex were subdued by it: they lay on the floor in their room, in the minimum of clothing, and would not face the short journey to the river, declaring that one couldn’t actually live in the water, and that one felt worse on coming out. The twins tried to read, and found it impossible to keep their attention on a book: slept, lying on the floor, and awoke in a bath of perspiration, acutely sorry they had slept. Mrs. Weston would not come into the house. She lay on a lounge on the verandah, pretending to read; but whenever her husband looked at her, her eyes were fixed upon the western sky, where the sun, a ball of lurid fire, was sinking into the bank of dull cloud that waited for it every evening.
Sarah—who had ironed all the afternoon with steady persistency—made no attempt to induce people to eat what she termed a “proper” meal. She marched through the house towards evening with a tray of sandwiches and a huge jug of cold coffee—the said coffee having been immersed, in bottles, in the underground tank. Jean and Jo nibbled their sandwiches, and then, taking a bottle of milk with them, slipped away to the hut by the creek.
It was evident that their patient was ill. He lay in the stifling little hut, his breath coming in gasps, his face deadly white. But he was more alive now: he looked at them with more recognition, and muttered thanks as they bathed his head and foot; and he drank the milk greedily. They conferred together in low tones.
“I’m sure he needs a doctor,” Jean said.
“We’ll get Sarah,” said Jo.
“Don’t get anyone,” begged the patient, unexpectedly. “I’m all right—want sleep—brute of a headache—sorry!” He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. They watched him for a little while, and then, as he made no movement, they set off home.
“He’ll simply have to be moved,” said Jean. “It’s enough to kill him, to be in that awful little hut. We couldn’t risk another day of it for him.”
“Yes,” Jo agreed. She heaved a sigh. “Better to let the police have him than for him to die—and he looks awful to-night. But who wouldn’t look awful, to have spent to-day in that hut!”
“Oh, we’ll beg and beg Father!” said Jean. “Perhaps he’ll take the risk and not tell the police. No one would think of looking for the prisoner in the homestead; as far as that went, he’d be safer than in the hut.”