So the second day was done, and one more day's food remained.
And now the solemn trees seemed personal and cruel to Smith, whose mind was the easiest affected. The Baker tramped, and whistled, and talked, but his companion only smiled his answer, and the smile was often melancholy and far away.
These tall trees, with their motionless metallic blue-green leaves, seemed to look down on him, and take the same notice that mountains far aloof take of a solitary traveller. A rustle in their sombre foliage was a whisper, and the cries of the birds were human, too. But they all said that these two white ants could never, never get out, that they would presently lie down and stay until they died.
"This is my luck," said Smith, after a long, long hour of silence. "I said that this journey would be my luck. I felt assured it would be luck for me. And I'm humping my swag through endless hell with starvation at the end of it."
"You never know," said Mandeville eagerly. "Come now, Smith, old son, cheer up. It's a long lane—"
"No proverbs, for God's sake," cried Smith irritably. "Give me platitudes in your own language, but spare me the futile and concentrated optimism of the proverb."
"That's very fine jaw," said the chop-fallen Baker, "but if you'd speak H'english I'd understand it a deal h'easier. Of course I know a nobleman, such as Tichborne, or you, must talk different from common ordinary folk. But you've bin 'ere long enough to learn the language."
And he chattered desperately, trying to encourage his mate, while Smith stalked on in silence.
That night no more food was left than would make a scanty morning meal, and all the Baker's 'possum hunting was futile.
And the next hungry day was even as the last. They went on and on to the north, sometimes going a little to the east, through the same sombre and melancholy nightmare of a forest. Their evening meal was a little weak tea and a chew of tobacco, and an earlier camp than usual.