It was about a fortnight after Hubert’s call at the cottage that a bullock-driver, dusty and bronzed, came into the office at King William Street, and asked to speak to Mr Oliphant’s nephew.
“I suppose, sir, you’re Mr Hubert Oliphant,” said the man.
“I am.”
“Well, I’ve just come in from the bush. It’s four days now since I left Tanindie—it’s a sheep-station down on the Murray. Thomas Rowlands, as shepherds there, asked me to come and tell you that there’s a young gent called Scholfield, or Oldfield, or some such name, as is dangerously ill in a little log-hut near the river. The chap as came down with him has just cut and run, and left him to shift for himself; and he’s likely to have a bad time of it, as he seems to have some sort of fever, and there’s no doctor nearer than forty miles.”
Hubert was greatly shocked.
“And how came the shepherd to think about sending to us?” he asked.
“Oh, the poor young man’s been raving and talking about you scores of times; and Mr Abraham’s name’s well-known all over the colony.”
Hubert went to his uncle with the information.
“What can we do?” he asked; “I’ll gladly go to him, if you can spare me for a few days.”
Jacob Poole, who was in the office, and had heard the conversation, now interposed,—