Yet, all the time, in the minds of both was a sense of futility whether they succeeded or did not succeed. The Baker let his mind out one night, and drew out Smith's.
"Say, Smith, old man, what are we a-workin' for? If I get a streak wot went a pound to the pan, or five for the matter of that, what use'd it be? And if you do strike Herder's Find, it won't buy tucker, nor take us 'ome to our blooming pals."
"That's so," said Smith.
"Then why work?"
"Why not?"
"Let's get out instead, old man,"
"Across the way we came?"
Though they were talking by a regular black-fellow's fire of two sticks and a red coal, Smith knew what kind of face the Baker's was, all screwed up in knots and lines indicative of the keenest apprehension.
"Acrost 'ell," said the Baker. "No; what I mean is, let's run the bloomin' creek down till we get's to a river; and then we can scoot down the river. What river is it likely to be?"
Smith grunted, for his geography was little better than that of most miners and tramps, and it was a ten to one chance that he could have drawn a rough outline of Australia, or have even placed Albany, Perth, or Freemantle, on a Westralian map.