There was a singing in his ears, and a monotonous, wailing cry hovered around him.
If the little chap died he knew there was nothing left for him to live for. That small life breathed hope into him, and if it were extinguished the last flicker would go out of his heart.
In the far distance he saw a small cluster of houses, shanties would perhaps be the proper word. It was the dim outline of Swamp Creek, a miserable little place, but to Jim it seemed a haven of rest and hope.
The local doctor was a curious compound of self-conceit and good nature. He had been a ship's surgeon for many years, and if he was somewhat addicted to drink, no better hearted fellow could be found for a hundred miles round.
He was stranded in Sydney, but through the aid of a brother medico of repute he managed to establish himself at Swamp Creek, where in his bachelor state he eked out an existence.
Dr Thomas Sheridan, or, as he was familiarly known in Swamp Creek district, Dr Tom, was simply idolised by the inhabitants, and this adoration was not undeserved, for it often stood in lieu of medical fees.
Dr Tom, even when in his cups, was never known to refuse to undertake any journey, no matter how far, or in what weather, or how remote the chance of payment.
Although he did not look it, Dr Tom was by no means unskilful, and he had an iron nerve which no amount of bad, fiery liquor, could shake.
It was to Dr Tom that Jim Dennis was riding, and he felt every confidence in his being able to pull the little chap through if he could only get him there in time.
That was the all-important question: Would Dr Tom arrive in time?