That evening Smith asked Big Jack if he might see his father, and have a talk with him.
"He can do nothing but talk," said Big Jack gloomily, returning to what he evidently considered a grievance. "If, when you go back to your tribe, you will take him away, I will give him to you."
This completely took the wind out of Smith, and helped him better than anything he had yet seen or heard to understand how these poor devils had reverted to absolute savagery. He recalled stories of African savages putting their elderly relatives to death, sometimes with a view to the needs of the commissariat. That the old man who talked was still alive showed that pressure had not at any rate been yet so severe as to suggest resort to such extreme measures.
And in another minute he was squatted in front of a very old man, with snowy white hair and beard, who was seated inside a gunyah about big enough for a large dog.
"This is the white man who came from the billabong," said Big Jack, without saluting his parent in any way, "and he wants to speak with you. And, Smith, give me your pipe and bacca."
For a moment Smith resented the tone in which the man said this, but knowing how absurd the impulse was, to say nothing of its uselessness, he handed his smoking implements over, together with his knife.
"What is this?" asked Jack. And Smith had to explain what it was. He saw Jack go back to the fire, where he was presently surrounded by a crowd, to whom he expatiated on the wonders of the new weapon, which, as a cutting instrument, far surpassed anything they possessed. Then Smith turned to the old man, who, if unable to fight, showed no particular sign of great senility.
"Where did your tribe come from, father?" said Smith.
"From the east, Smith. Is your name Smith? I remember my father speaking of a man called Smith," said the old man. "But that is a long time ago. I was young then, quite young, and we was fur from this 'ere place."
He mumbled a little as his mind went back. But his talk was easier to Smith than that of the younger generations. It was more like ordinary vulgar English, and not so mixed with aboriginal terms.
"But who was your father, old man?" asked Smith.
"Let me think a bit. It was a long time ago," said he, "and I have almost forgotten. But now I remember—yes, I remember. He was a very big man, and he and Smith were together when they took to the bush. Yes, it was Smith, but I never knew him. He was killed over yonder, before I was born."
And he returned upon the strange memories of the long plains which they had overpast.
"But who was your father?" insisted Smith gently.
"He said he was a lag," said the old man, "but I don't understand what that is. If Jack's mother was alive she could tell you."
"He must have been a prisoner," said Smith.
"Yes, a prisoner," said the old man; "he was, perhaps, taken in war, and escaped."
Smith shook his head.
"I mean he had committed a crime," said he.
"What is that?" asked the old man. "I don't know what that is."
And Smith could not tell him either.
"He did wrong," he suggested.
"Yes," cried the old man, brightening; "I heard him say he did that. I remember."
"What was it he did?"
"He said he could have killed all of his enemies, and he only killed two. It made him feel bad even when he died. I always killed mine, and so does Jack—my big son Jack—"
And grasping at Smith's arm, he nodded, and his eyes brightened.
"They brought in thirty heads just now," he cried; "I never brought in so many, no, not even I. And I was a big man once."
His voice ran out low into a whisper, and he bowed his head, thinking of his brave youth and manhood.
"But where did the white women come from?" said Smith. "I mean your mother."
The old man laughed.
"I remember that, yes, because my mother told me after my father died. She helped him to escape from his enemies. But Smith took his wife by force as they went. I remember that."
"And was the place they came from Sydney?" asked Smith.
The old man shook his head, but looked up, and smiled.
"Yes, he was a Sydney Sider," he cried. "But I do not remember any more, Smith. When I was a man, and led the tribe, we came towards the setting sun always. And the weak ones died, or we ate them, and the strong ones were saved. And our tribe is small, but it is strong, and the black-fellows fear us as they do the devils. And when they see our mark they fly."
"What is the mark?" asked Smith.
"The Brodarro," cried the old man, as if it was a war-cry, and the word was so like the sound of a native word, that for a moment Smith did not understand. Then he saw it.
"Ah, the Broad Arrow," he said.
"I said the Brodarro," cried the old man again. "And where we come the others go. They call us the white devils of the Brodarro. But they are snakes, snakes and scorpions, and we tread on them, we tread on them! My boy Jack eats their tribes up. He is a man, and can fight."
And the old man fell upon his knees, and pushed Smith away.
"Let me come out to the fire," He crawled till he came to the entrance, and then rose.
"I was a man, Smith. Take me to the fire."
Smith took him by the arm, and led the feeble father of that fierce race into the light. He saw then that the man who talked was the wreck of a giant. Though he stooped, he must have once been taller even than his son, who over-topped Smith by inches. The old man trembled as he walked, and his knotty joints creaked; but there was a gleam in his eyes still.
"Let me come to the fire," he said, and those near it gave him and Smith scant room, with scanter courtesy. Old age had no claims on them; it was but a burden. He who could no longer fight, who could not hunt, who was no longer able to fish, of what use was he? Let him die, and free them of a useless member of a band who could give no hostages in a merciless fight with nature.
But the old man would not trouble them long.
"Where is Jack?" he asked, looking round the camp.
"Here," said his son, who was seated on a stump, smoking Smith's pipe in a business-like way that made the owner wonder if he would ever get it back again.
"I wish to speak to the tribe of the Brodarro," cried his father. "For the man of another white tribe has brought back the past to me, and I remember my father, and the time when I was young, when I could fight and run as fast as a flying doe, when I was as strong as an old man kangaroo. And now, men of the Brodarro, I am old and feeble, and nearly blind, and there is no pleasure for me in the fight. I can bring no more heads to the camp, I can neither hurl the spear, nor throw the boomerang, neither can I lie in wait for our enemies."
His voice became a melancholy wail, like the night cry of a curlew. But as he spoke again, strength came back to him, and his form straightened, and his voice grew resonant.
"But, men of the Brodarro, all of you my children, this is what I say to you as darkness opens to me, and I go out among the spirits of the bush. My father came out from a white tribe who were his enemies, and with him came another man and two women, and their life and the life of their children was free. We could fight and live as we wished, and there wasn't no man over us. And I remember how my father said that among the other white tribes were many damn cruel customs, and that no man was the equal of another, and that some starved though there was food in the camp, and, if one, who starved, took from any of his mates, he was tortured, and kept alive to be tortured, and given no meat, nor fish, nor was he allowed to look upon the sun. And he told me, as he died, to live as a free man with my children, and to have nought to do with the other white tribes, who were too cunning. So now I say this to you," and his voice was like a trumpet, and he rose to his full height, "even as my father said it. Have nought to do with the white men of any other tribe, for they are blacker in their hearts than an Emu, and more powerful and more cunning than the little devils in the caves of the northern country."
And he called to his son Jack, who came to him as obediently as though he feared the old man. For his father was as one possessed.
"Come, my son, give me a spear in my right hand, and let me shout our war-cry once more, as I shouted it when I led you against the Jinwarries, and when we brought in the heads of the Red Kangaroos."
And they brought him a spear, placing it in his hand.
"Farewell, men of the Brodarro, and the big plains, and the rivers, and the ranges. Come, my children, shout with me before I go."
And the tribe rose to their feet, shaking with excitement, as the old man lifted his spear and brandished it like a youth.
"Brodarro," they shouted, but above all was the clarion cry of the old man, who cried it thrice, and at the third time pitched headlong, and rolled over upon his back, by the red edge of the blazing fire. Smith dropped on his knees by the old warrior, but he knew that the father of the Brodarros was dead.
The sensation which the old man had caused subsided as rapidly as it rose, and most of the tribe resumed their idle occupations at once. But Big Jack and three others lifted the dead and went rapidly into the bush. Smith crossed over to the Baker, who was sitting by the side of Bill.
"What have they done with the old man, Bill?" he asked.
"They will give him to the big ants," said Bill carelessly, "and in three days his bones will be as white as his hair. It is a good thing he is dead."
"But why did the bloomin' old prophet want to do us a bad turn?" said Baker.
"Um?" said Bill, as Smith squatted by him.
"I mean, why did he say as the men of the Brodarro was to 'ave no truck with h'other white men?"
"He spoke foolishness," said Bill; "but, then, he was an old man. It don't matter what he said, as long as Big Jack likes you. And I like you," he added, with a grin.
"Good old chap," said the Baker, "and to-morrow, Bill, will you show us the gold?"
Bill nodded.
"Show us to-night, Bill," said Smith, "There's a good moon, and I will give you a smoke. At least, the Baker will, for Big Jack has my pipe."
Bill rose and fetched his spear.
"Come," he said, and they slipped out of the camp, and getting beyond the big trees, they were soon in the full blaze of the high moon, which shone almost like day. The shadows the trees cast were very solid and opaque; their own shadows were peculiarly black and clear-cut, and against the sky every branch was like a silhouette. When they looked behind them, they saw the big blaze of the fire like a great red eye.
"Why do you make such big fires, Bill?" asked Smith. "Do not the black-fellows ever attack you?"
Bill laughed contemptuously.
"If they saw two men of the Brodarro they would run like wallabies and hide."
"But they killed the Slayer, Bill," said the Baker.
"The Slayer was a fool," said Bill, "He always went alone to get heads, and though he got many they killed him at last. For he had to sleep after three days. And when a man is asleep, a snake can bite him. But when two men are together, one can sleep, and the eyes of the other are open."
And he stalked across the bush.
"There is not a black-fellow now within a day's journey," he said. "They are frightened of us now."
"And I don't wonder at it," cried the Baker. "I'm scared to death of you myself."
"Eh?" said Bill.
The Baker went up to him, and felt his arm.
"By Gosh! I say I'm frightened of you myself. I'm such a little 'un by you, Bill."
"There ain't no need," said Bill shortly; "but look out for my brother. He thinks the little girl likes you. And he wants her. He might kill you."
"What did I tell you, Smith?" exclaimed the Baker in alarm. "There it is. I'm courted by a young wild cat, and there will be 'ell to pay and no pitch 'ot, as I said before. I say, Bill, when we get back, you tell that brother of yourn that I'm not on. You say that I think the young lady—"
"Lady! What's that?" asked Bill.
"I was only just respectful," said the Baker.
But Bill shook his head, and turned to Smith.
"The little man uses strange words, and sometimes I don't understand."
"'E don't savvy respectful," said the Baker. "Well, Bill, I mean this. I likes the girl, and thinks she's all right, but I want to get back."
"To your own tribe?"
"That's about it," said the Baker, "and I don't want no wife to trouble me on the journey."
"If she was a trouble you could kill her," said Bill simply.
"Thank you," replied the Baker, "but I don't care about it. So, you say to your bloomin' bloke of a brother that 'es welcome to the girl for me."
"I think she likes you," said Bill.
"Then my goose is cooked," replied the Baker in melancholy resignation. "I want to sling my 'ook right now. 'Ere, 'urry up, Smith, let's do our prospectin', and I'm for offin it quick."
And he lagged behind, considering his prospects between the devil, Bill's brother, and the deep sea of savage and unsophisticated maidenhood.
After about twenty minutes walking, they came to some broken ground that rose gently. Here and there Smith saw some quartz glittering in the moonlight. Every bit he picked up was rich with gold; or it would have seemed rich to any ordinary miner. He also remarked some rocks jutting out of the ground. They looked like the outcrop of reefs. But still Bill went straight ahead, and going through a belt of thin scrub, they came on a narrow valley about fifty yards across, and some hundred and fifty yards long. It evidently ended in the river, for the belt of heavy timber rose blackly at its south end. But in the middle of this gulley was a huge lump of rock, some yards square, which gleamed white in the moon.
"That's it," said Bill, and the two miners went on, while he sat on a little knoll, which commanded a view of the near country.
"Stop a minute," said Smith, when they got within twenty yards. "Stop a minute, Baker. I can't believe this. Man alive, it's all gold, with just a quartz casing."
But the Baker went on, and was followed by Smith.
All round the casing of the vein were scattered lumps of quartz studded with gold. But inside the casing it was pure, though here and there divided by thin bands of stone, for the grass and earth had been torn away, and sufficient gold cut out to leave the mass visible. Smith sat down on a lump of stone.
"Is this my luck after all?" he said. "Oh, if I can only get back!"
And if the Baker had been near enough, he might have heard Smith speak the same name that he muttered on that night of his delirium.
But the Baker was on the top of the golden hill. He was dazed, but, as ever, half-humourous.
"I suppose it's the stuff, Smith, but I'm half inclined to doubt it. There ain't so much in the universe. If it's only just a lump on top there's millions in it; and if it runs a true reef, why, gold's come down in England as it 'as 'ere to the makin' of cookin' pots."
And Smith joined him. The sight was one calculated, if ever any sight was, to make a man crazy who had been hunting for wealth but never found it. Smith had to hold himself tight, and suddenly he leapt off the golden throne.
"Come, Baker," he cried, "that's enough. Let's try and get away. The sooner the better. If we get through we're millionaires. And waiting won't help. Come."
And the three men went towards the camp.
"It's very useful," said Bill. "For it makes better waddies than wood. The black fellows never found that out. But they are fools. What does your tribe do with it, Smith?"
But Smith was not to be drawn into any more explanations of currency and exchange.
"We make things of it, too," he said. And after avoiding this opportunity of puzzling poor Bill, he turned the talk in a direction which might be useful.
"Have you been down the river, Bill?" he asked.
But Bill shook his head.
"We came here from the East the last big rain."
"How many boats have you?"
"Two. We made them with fire," said Bill proudly. "They are better than a log. For Jack's father, who is dead, and was not so foolish a little while ago, told us about hollow logs which he called boats."
And he went on chattering, while Smith was thinking how he could get possession of the boats. He wondered, too, whether it would be wiser to take them or to make some kind of an exchange. It was possible that the knife which Big Jack had might be considered an equivalent. He wished now they had brought their tomahawks, and pondered about the possibility of returning down the billabong for them. For with them they might make canoes for themselves.
But Fate solved the problem for them far more suddenly than he thought possible, and solved it that very night not long after they returned to the camp.
"Just sneak off if you can," said Smith to the Baker an hour later, "and try and find out where they keep the canoes. And see if the paddles are there."
"I don't like leaving you," said Mandeville; "that's a fact, for there's some that's took up the old un's prophecies. That I can see. And Bill's brother is talkin' agin us plain."
And when Smith looked, it certainly seemed that the Baker was right, for the objectionable suitor for the "wild cat's" hand was holding forth by the fire on a subject which made those with him continually look at the two from that other tribe of white men.
"Never mind," said Smith. "I'll stick to Bill and Jack, and they're all right so far."
So presently the little Baker casually sauntered into the darkness, and went down to the river, with his heart in his mouth.
"I want more 'bacca, Smith," said Big Jack, and Smith reluctantly parted with what he had left.
"If you will send one of your young men back with me," said Smith, "I will give you a great deal of tobacco, and many knives."
"Um," said Big Jack ponderously. "How far is your tribe?"
"Ten days' journey," said Smith.
And just then he saw the girl Baker feared so slip out of the camp on the river side. Apparently her departure was usual, or not noticed. As far as Smith could see, in spite of Bill's suggestion that a troublesome wife might be clubbed to death, the women had a great deal of liberty, and were greatly considered. They were not the beasts of burden that they become in agricultural communities.
But when Smith looked up again he saw that Bill's brother was gone, too, and this seriously alarmed him. If the wild cat had gone after the Baker with any notions of gentle dalliance on the river bank, it was possible that her savage suitor might catch them. He made an excuse to go into the bush, and when he was out of the range of the fire, he ran rapidly to the river. When he reached the bank, he went slowly, and kept as much as he could in the shadow of the trees. Once, as he stayed, he fancied he heard voices below him, and then he made sure he heard a little twig break. He looked round, and saw Bill's brother peering over the bank into the darkness.
Smith's impulse that moment was to call to the Baker to warn him, but the next brought him caution. He might have to fight the man himself, and it was certainly better not to let the savage know he was observed. He lay still, and waited.
But the next moment Smith had his revolver sights dead on him as he was lifting his spear. He could see the man's very expression, the snarl of rage, the deadly intent, as he took aim. But before the spear could leave the strong hand Smith fired, and without a sound the would-be assassin leapt in the air, and went tumbling down the bank.
Without a sound the would-be assassin leapt in the air, and went tumbling down the bank.
Without a sound the would-be assassin leapt in the air,
and went tumbling down the bank.
He heard the Baker cry out, and heard a woman's scream, as the whole camp behind him rose. He almost fell down the bank, and found his chum with the girl.
"Where are the canoes?" he said. "He was going to spear you, and I had to shoot. Quick, quick!"
And the girl ran to the dead man. When she saw who it was she came back.
"Where are the canoes, girl?" asked Smith again.
And she nodded, and ran as they followed her close. The next moment they were at the water's edge in a narrow-cut gully. The girl thrust the canoes out.
"We must take both," said Smith.
And as he got into one, the Baker sprang into the other. The girl shoved both off into deep water, but as the Baker's left the ground, she sprang into it, and grasped a paddle. They shot out upon the slow, dark stream.
But behind them they heard a terrible shouting and clamour. And above the hubbub rose the cry, "Brodarro."
The current in the river was running barely a mile an hour, and it was difficult to make the canoes go more than four or five, even by paddling desperately. And at first they did not dare paddle too hard, for fear of being heard.
But as soon as they got well round the first bend, they put their backs into it, and finally the Baker's boat drew ahead. When he saw this, Mandeville stopped paddling.
"Get in ours, old man; one's enough."
"What about this one?" said Smith.
They steered over to the other bank, and left it there. For when they capsized it, they found it would not sink as they hoped.
"But we've all the paddles," said the girl, the beautiful cause of the war.
They paddled steadily once more, until Smith suddenly made a sound expressive of entire vexation.
"What is it?" said the Baker.
"We've no food, and the water-bags are left behind."
The Baker laughed.
"Water enough, sonny; and h'as for food, Miss Kitty, 'ere, will have to find it."
"What made the big noise?" asked Kitty, which was what the Baker had christened the girl.
And Mandeville showed her the revolver in his belt.
"Smith has one like it. It makes a noise and kills men. She came down to the river to tell me about the row as was likely to be, Smith."
"And brought it on right off," said Smith; "and if this hadn't happened we might have got away with tucker and everything else to-morrow. It's cursedly annoying."
And they paddled steadily for half an hour, still keeping as much in the shade as possible. The river ran here between deep-cut, steep banks, lined all the way with very high and heavy timber. As it seemed, there was much scrub as well, and this gave Smith hopes that if they were pursued by land they would not be seen. In any case, the presence of scrub would make pursuit difficult. He wondered what the girl thought of it. She should know how her tribe would act.
"Kitty, what will your people do?" he said, when they took a spell after an hour's steady paddling, which made the sweat pour down them like water. But Smith noticed that the girl, who worked quite as hard, had never turned a hair.
"If they catch us they will take your heads," she said.
"And you?"
"They would kill me unless I said you had taken me against my will, Smith. And I would not say that because I want to go with Baker. I am glad you killed Tommy. I did not like him."
"But do you think they will catch us?" asked Smith, as they began paddling again.
She shook her head.
"Perhaps the big noise frightened them. If they do not find we took the boats, they will not come after us. They were afraid of you, Smith, many of them. Because, in spite of what Big Jack's father said, we did not believe there were any other white men in the world. And they said you were jumped up after being dead."
The Baker laughed.
"You didn't, Kitty?"
"Not after you kissed me," said Kitty.
"Oh," said Smith, "indeed. That's it, is it?"
But the Baker took his paddle again. They worked hard for another hour.
"Thank the Lord this river isn't like the Lachlan," said Smith, "all curls, and whirls, and meanderings. It does seem to go straight. Kitty, can you get anything to eat here?"
"I could get a 'possum, perhaps," said Kitty, "but we shall not be hungry till to-morrow. And there are plenty of white grubs under the dead bark."
At which the Baker visibly squirmed. That his wild lady-love should eat grubs seemed rather too much.
He began to wonder what he would do with her if they ever got back to some kind of civilisation, and could only console himself with the poor consolation that they were never likely to do so. For to be on an unknown river, going into the unknown with no food and little chance of any, and a savage set of headhunters after them, seemed heavy odds against a lucky termination to their wanderings. He was glad to slave at the paddle to keep from speculating.
And as Smith worked, the whole adventure assumed the peculiar quality of a dream. It was just that kind of vision which sometimes comes to a man who has had adventures. Often in the old days, when in some kind of ease, he had dreamed such dreams, which began suddenly with his going somewhere in a strange impossible land, with some strange and yet more impossible perils in front of him. As he thought of the last week or two, it seemed to him that he had never left New Find at all. Was not the whole adventure of the nature of a nightmare. He had suffered dream thirst, and dream hunger, and had come into a mere vision of mixed origin, of knowledge and fantasy, and had handled fairy gold. And now he and his dream companions were stretched on the rack of imagination, toiling down a black river, margined by ghostly trees, clear-cut against a gibbous moon, with pre-historic devils behind them. For he conceived it as possible that no one would credit their story if they ever returned. But, then, the girl was with them. If they brought her back, and did obtain belief through her corroboration, it pleased him to think that he could make a rare stir in the world of travel. At the very notion, ambitions long dead within him began to lift their heads. But was not that the biggest dream of all?
By this time the moon, which had been almost in front of them for some time as their river turned nearly due west, came closer to the trees, and was soon hidden. It was now close on midnight, perhaps even later, and he was conscious of feeling fatigued.
"Spell, oh!" he said softly, and they floated idly for some minutes.
"I've been thinking, Baker," he said, "that the most dangerous time for us will be in the early morning. For if they go for the canoes and see we have them, as they must, and if they do determine to chase us, they will surely have the savvy to go as fast as they can down the river, and wait for us. At the utmost, we can't have done much more than thirty miles when it begins to get light. And if they aren't scared of going into an unknown country, they can do that too, if they hurry and trot a bit."
The Baker nodded.
"And what's your notion?"
"I think as soon as it begins to show the first sign of dawn we had better shove the canoes into the bank here, hide them, and lie up and see what happens. What's the girl think, I wonder."
"She's asleep," said the Baker. "Poor little devil."
She was lying in the bottom of the canoe, with her head on the Baker's knees.
"Yes," said Smith, "and you've acted like an idiot over this, Baker."
"I could'n 'elp it," said the gay Lothario anything but gaily. "She's a reg'lar scorcher, she is, and she fair rushed me. And if 'er 'air was combed, and she was washed, she'd be good-lookin'."
"Um," said Smith, "lay her down, and let's start again."
So they paddled once more, and Kitty, who was not used to such exercise, lay on her arm and her matted hair, which would have defied anything less than a horse's mane comb, and slept like a child in a rocked cradle.
"If we get through, you'll have to marry your catch," said Smith, when they easied.
"I'd as soon do that as marry some as 'ave clawed after me," said the Baker. "I reckon she's a kind of princess, and if so be as we land some of the posh, and are rich, I'll 'ave 'er eddicated at a 'igh school. Lord, but she'd wake some of 'em up, if she got slingin' yarns about 'ead 'unting. 'Ow does a man who marries a princess call 'imself, Smith? is 'e a prince, too?"
"He's her husband, Baker," said Smith drily, "and is often mistaken for a waiter. But I'd hold on if I were you."
When they spoke again it was black dark, for the moon was lower, and the heavy timber made the river as sombre as a narrow cañon two hundred feet deep.
"Go easy," cried Smith, "and look out, Baker, for any snags. It won't do to get capsized. How's the girl?"
"Dreamin' of 'er 'appy 'ome!" said the Baker cheerfully. "I was just wonderin', Smith, as to what that long, sulky swine, 'Icks, would say, if 'e know'd what 'e'd missed. 'E could 'ave took up with the Brodarro, and been king, being big and hugly enough. And what the boys will say about Mrs. Mandeville 'ere rather does for me."
"You'll have to stand a lot of chiacking," said Smith, "but I'm sorrier for the girl. What she will do in civilisation I don't know. But it is getting light in the east, Baker. Look out for a hiding-place."
They pulled in close to the southern bank, which was steep, but broken with small gullies cut by the rain.
"None of those will do," said Smith, "and I'm afraid the river's too low for us to get much cover, unless we find a creek. The one we passed an hour ago would have done. Wake the girl up. We'd better push on till we reach some sort of cover."
When Kitty was roused, she sat up and stared about her, as if she were dazed. They explained to her what they wanted, and after kissing the Baker's hand, an act of loving homage he received with every visible sign of discomfort, they paddled on faster. And just as it was obviously dawn, they came to a bit of a creek, and shoved the canoe into it.
"If they come down this side, we're cooked," said the Baker.
"We must risk something," replied Smith. "They would hardly swim over, when one side's like another."
And he uttered an exclamation.
"What is it?" asked the Baker.
"By Jove! perhaps they think we just crossed, shoved the canoes adrift, and went back the way we came," he said.
"They might, but if they did, they would soon find out they were off it," answered the Baker. "And then they might come down this side, and our name would be—"
"We must chance it," said Smith. "Have you any tobacco? Jack took all mine. I hope he'll go in for a debauch and get sick."
The Baker handed him over a fig of black twist, and he took a chew.
"Give it me," said Mrs. Mandeville, "I can eat, too."
It took a deal of explanation before she could understand that they were chewing what would make her very ill, and even then she insisted on trying.
"Don't take much," said the Baker anxiously, "you'll only spit it out."
And spit it out she did with every sign of disgust, when she got the savour of the luscious black morsel.
"I told you so, missis," said the Baker. "But ain't she just like a woman, Smith?"
He said this with an air of intense enjoyment in discovering feminine qualities in Kitty.
But Smith chuckled.
"What the devil else did you expect her to be like?" he demanded.
And Kitty, to take the taste out of her mouth, went ashore, in spite of their remonstrances, and found something to eat, which they refused with every sign of abhorrence.
"You eat bacca, I eat these," said Kitty, and the Baker found it so difficult to explain to her that he was entitled, by his customs, to make a beast of himself, that at last he began to see dimly that chewing tobacco might be objectionable from some points of view.
And just as they were discussing the matter in low tones, Smith, who was on a nervous stretch which made every sense preternaturally keen, held up his hand warningly to the others.
"I thought I heard something," he said. "Listen."
And then all three distinctly heard the noise of some one or some thing making its way through dense scrub.
"Kangaroos?" said the Baker.
But the girl smiled, and Smith shook his head.
"Lie low and say nothing," he whispered, as he got out of the canoe with his cocked revolver in his hand. He lay flat on his stomach, and wriggled a yard or two till he could see the further bank.
"Which side is it, Kitty?" asked the Baker, who began to trust the girl's instincts better than his own.
She pointed across the stream.
"That's good," said the Baker; but, nevertheless, he got out his weapon, turned the barrels to see they all had cartridges, and cocked it.
And presently Smith came back, feet foremost, and inch by inch.
"They're there," he said.
"How many?"
"I see six, and there are some on the bank; at least, I think so. They came from down stream. I was right, you see."
The Baker nodded.
"Who are they?"
"There's Big Jack, and some of the rest. Poor old Bill; I hope we sha'n't have to wipe him out," said Smith. "He's the best of the gang."
"Yes," said Mrs. Mandeville, "he is good. I like Bill. I want to see, Smith."
"No, no," whispered Smith. "Keep quiet."
But she got out of the boat, sliding like a snake, and lay by him. And gradually, with the invisible motion of a snake who sees its prey, she crept out of the skin, which was her only garment, and went the three yards between her and the low-growing scrub which concealed them. She lay with her head in the scrub for ten minutes, and came back again as she went.
"There are ten," she said, and, after the manner of a savage counting, she showed her five fingers twice.
Smith, who had once read something about the low arithmetical powers of savages, had noticed that these had not degenerated so far as to come to the inclusive word "many," under a hundred.
"Yes, there are ten," she repeated; "and some want to go back, and some want to go down the river again; and I think, Smith, that some say, 'let us swim over.'"
"We can kill them all in the water," said Smith, showing his revolver.
She nodded.
"But they might come over further up," she added presently.
Smith looked behind him apprehensively. This was now all that he feared. If they were taken by surprise in the rear, it would be a close shave.
"Baker," he said, "turn round, and keep your eyes skinned and your ears open. Don't trouble about this side. And you, Kitty, go back and watch them."
Smith held out his hand to the Baker.
"Shake, old man," he said with emotion. "If we don't get out we've been good pals."
"Right you are," replied the Baker. "Good old man."
And then Kitty put one hand behind her, and held up one finger. Then she made a motion with her hand which suggested swimming.
"There's one swimming over," said Smith; "but don't you look round unless I tell you."
And he went a little bit up the bank in order to get a view of the stream. He saw a head in the water half way across, and was heartily glad to see that it was not Bill. He looked at his six-shooter again. It was only a forty-two calibre, and he had always been accustomed to a forty-five; but he thought he could hit the man at fifteen yards. He bent down, and made a low noise, which caused Kitty to turn her head. He put his fingers to his ears, to make her understand that she was not to be afraid, and, raising his revolver, he brought it slowly down till he saw the foresight right in the nick. Staying one second to make sure his hand was steady, he pulled the trigger. He noticed that never in his life had the time seemed so long from the time the hammer fell to the explosion of the cartridge. But, as the shot echoed, the swimmer gave one plunge, rolled over on his back, and went under.
And until a heavy body came tumbling down the bank and struck him from his seat, he did not know that the Baker had fired at the very same moment as himself. For one of their enemies was lying dead with his matted hair in the very water under the canoe. And as the double shot rang out, the men of the Brodarro rose upon the other bank, and shouted terribly.
He did not know that the Baker had fired at the very same moment as himself.
He did not know that the Baker had fired
at the very same moment as himself.
"But they are awful scared," said Kitty, who was now back with the Baker. "Who did you kill?"
And reaching out, she caught the dead man by the hair.
"It is Bill," she said lamentably. "I did not want Bill killed."
And the Baker could hardly speak. If it was possible to feel affection for any man among that awful tribe, he had felt it for the poor wretch who lay in the water killed by his hand. And this was the first time that he had ever fired a shot in anger in his life.
He called to Smith in a low voice, but Smith waved to him angrily to keep quiet. For he was wondering what the rest would do. Presently he slipped down the bank and joined them.
"What will they do, do you think, Kitty?" he asked.
But the girl shook her head.
"If you kill Big Jack they will go," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"The others are not brave unless they see their enemies," she said. "When we fought with the devil men in the caves, they were always frightened at night. For the little men killed many of us with small arrows."
"Give me your pistol, Baker," said Smith, and taking the bigger weapon, he crawled down to the scrub.
It was a shot of forty yards, and he doubted his skill. But the affair was desperate. If they went up or down stream, and swam across, there were still eight to their two, and, in a hand to hand rush, he could not doubt the termination.
Taking very careful aim, he at last fired, and fancied he heard the bullet strike. He could even see the man's face, which was turned towards him.
He noticed in that brief space of time that Big Jack dropped his spear and put his hand to his heart. An expression of futile rage passed over him as he staggered. He made an effort to keep his balance, but, failing, fell on his knees. He rose again, grasping his spear, but as he endeavoured to hurl it towards the quarter whence his unseen death had come, he staggered again, fell headlong, and rolled into the river.
And after one moment, in which the rest stood as though they were carved figures, they broke, ran up the bank, and burst into the scrub like startled kangaroos. Smith heard them breaking through it for a long minute, and when the noise died away in the distance, he returned to the canoe. He found the Baker looking greatly distressed, for the girl was on the bank with the dead man's head upon her knees, and she was sobbing terribly.
"She says she doesn't think Bill meant any 'arm," said the Baker, "and for all I know, she's right, for she says him and his brother never 'it it off. And perhaps 'e just meant to tell us to lie low."
And the Baker broke down and cried too.
"I feel just like a murderer," he said.
Smith, as he looked on the man stretched out upon the bank, could not help thinking that he was as magnificent dead as he had been alive, and far more like an ordinary human being who was not degenerate or an unparalleled reversion. For, in the quiet sleep of death, much of the ferocity natural to a savage had disappeared, and there was a calmness on his face which gave him an air of peculiar and strong serenity. He looked still like some ancient warrior, but centuries had dropped away from him; instead of a savage of the Stone Age, clad in skins, he might have been a Viking slain in some uncommon adventure. His hair was now drawn backwards from his forehead by the girl who mourned him, and she had separated his long golden moustache from the deeper brown of his curly beard, and wiped away the bloody froth from his lips. He looked like a man, sufficient to himself in life or in death, brave, enduring, and now, almost wise. Smith turned away with a sigh.
"I'm sorry for this," he said. "What shall we do now? What do you do with the dead in your tribe, Kitty?" he asked.
"They are given to the ants," she said.
And between them the two men with difficulty carried the corpse up the bank. Kitty, who went in front, showed them where she wanted the body put. They returned in silence to their boat.
"I am very sorry, Kitty," said the Baker.
"You could not help it," sobbed the girl.
"And what shall we do now," asked Smith. "Do you think they will come after us again?"
Kitty shook her head.
"They will be too frightened," she said. "I am frightened. How did you do it?"
But there was no time to explain the inexplicable to her.
"Do you think we can go on?"
"Yes," said Kitty. "But first let us go over and see if they left anything to eat on the other side."
"I tell you she's got a lot of savvy," said the Baker, who was getting furiously hungry, and talked as if glad to discover the strange girl who had attached herself to him was not quite a fool. "She's got a lot of savvy."
And, crossing the stream, they found some lumps of kangaroo flesh which had been half cooked. They turned the canoe down stream again, and ate as they paddled.
The next twenty-four hours were without incident, as they went through the intolerable and blatant monotony of Australian river scenery, in which all change was quiet renewal. The banks of the stream were still steep, and one bend was so like another that their progress seemed vain; they were like three ants floating desperately in a ditch. The sun set and the close heat remained; the heavy odours of the bush drifted down into their drain, and the mosquitoes made their lives a burden. And then the sun rose once more, and climbed into a brazen sky, and burned them into blisters. For no breeze tempered its fierce rays, not a shadow of a cloud protected them. They went steadily west, towards the sea, perhaps, but more certainly still into the unknown.
Though Smith believed that the Brodarro would now leave them, being terrified by the inexplicable and terrible loss of four of their best and bravest men, it was by no means certain that they might not at any moment come across some tribe of black-fellows, as hard to deal with, and of infinitely more natural ferocity. The Brodarro, descendants of white men, had some of a white man's qualities, and they were not naturally the enemies of their own colour in these later generations. But with the blacks it would be different; at any rate, it might be. If the Brodarro were ever cannibal, it was only under exceptional and heavy pressure; but many of the aboriginal tribes were men-eaters always, and needed no other excitement than common need. They could, then, only pray that they might meet none.
It was curious, however, that Kitty showed little fear of the aboriginals. Her people had so harried and destroyed those with whom they came into hostile conflict, that she could hardly understand how they would dare to attack two whites together. And now that she was with two white men of an entirely superior order, who had weapons which made a most awe-inspiring row, and killed as far as a well-thrown spear, she entirely despised the black-fellows.
"They are foolish men," she said, "and do not really know how to fight. They can throw spears at a man who is asleep, that is all. Only the little devil men of the caves are bad."
She had referred to these before.
"Who are the little devil men, Kitty?" Smith asked.
"A long time ago we fought with them," she said. "They lived in caves over yonder," she pointed to the north-east; "and when I was smaller we came there. And every night a man died, and sometimes a woman, and they had a little arrow in them as long as my hand. But we never saw those who shot them. We were very much frightened, and thought they were spirits. But Big Jack found they lived in caves, red caves, and we made a big, big fire in the mouths of the caves. And then we saw the smoke come out far off; and some went there and found a hole big enough for a dingo. And then a little woman came out; she was white like clay; and Bill speared her. Then some men came; they were no bigger than a child when it no longer sucks, but they were very strong. So we speared them until no more would come out. The rest died in the smoke. We found them after three days. They had little spears, and little bows and arrows, and the scratch of an arrow killed a man like the bite of a snake."
"Horrible," said Smith. "On my soul, Baker, Mrs. Mandeville can spin a yarn. I'm not surprised at her caring nothing about the ordinary open-air black-fellow after that. But, then, these were white, too."
And he pondered over all the problems this journey presented for solution. What did we know yet about all the world's secrets? If we were told anything out of the way, we smiled; and those who exercised their little faculties in little books sat on the judgment-seat.
But neither Smith nor the Baker had overmuch thought to spare for quiet speculation. For now their stock of burned kangaroo was almost done for.
"How are we going to live?" asked Smith.
"We might go up the bank, and lay for a kangaroo," said the Baker.
"Lay! How long?" asked Smith. "Kitty, how are we to get more to eat?"
"I can get grubs," said Kitty, and when she saw the men shake their heads, she suggested she might find a 'possum.
"You can try later," said Smith.
And that night she caught a 'possum, which was coiled up most comfortably in a hole in a rotten stump. She banged it on the ground, and killed it, and they cooked their dinner.
"I think," said Smith, as they smoked the Baker's pipe in turns, "that we are coming to a change in this infernal scenery."
The Baker looked up the banks.
"Don't see much bally h'alteration," he answered.
"You have as much observation as a policeman," said Smith. "The timber is scantier and not so dense, and the banks are not so high. If I'm not off it, we are going into a brown burnt desert, with no trees at all."
"The Lord forbid," said the Baker piously. "But there's water any'ow. That suits me. I don't mind 'unger."
"No, not when ye're full of 'possum," said Smith.
"Who stood it best on the billabong?" asked the Baker.
"Why, you did, old man," said Smith.
"Then that's hall right," cried the Baker cheerfully; "and don't get snake-headed if I says so. If we gets very hard up for grub, we can eat Mrs. Mandeville. Eh, Kitty?"
And Kitty grinned, and snuggled up close to her man.
"You can, Baker," she said, "but not Smith."
They camped that night on the bank, but by the earliest dawn they were afloat again. And long before noon it was obvious that Smith's prediction as to the change in the scenery was rapidly coming true. For the trees were scantier and scantier still, and the banks obviously lower. Finally, the timber disappeared, and they came to a low range through which the river flowed. The only vegetation was a small dense scrub, and even that grew in patches among sand.
"If this ain't an un'oly-looking country, I dunno what a Gawd-forsaken place is," said the Baker. "You can't catch no 'possum in this 'ere place, missis."
But Mrs. Mandeville laughed. If there were no 'possums there were sure to be ground iguanas, she explained. So they paddled on through the red desolation.
The range was no more than five miles across, and at its highest the river flowed through a cañon-like passage two hundred feet deep. When they were through, the range dropped away pretty suddenly, and just before they came to a bend, they could, by standing up, see an illimitable plain before them.
"By Gosh," said the Baker, "it's good to 'ave a river to take us through that. It reminds me of the look-out from New Find, Smith."
And they drifted out upon the open plain, which was not quite level, but rolling like sand dunes.
"And it is sand," said Smith, as he worked the bow paddle. But gradually anxiety grew into his keen, brown face. "If it's so, God help us," he said.
The two behind him saw nothing, but chattered together.
"Good old Baker," said Smith, "he's quite happy with this girl just now. And I'm thinking of another kind of woman. Shall I ever see her?"
And he shoved his paddle straight down into the water. It touched the bottom.
"'Ullo, Smith," cried the Baker, "don't go and miss your bloomin' tip, and tumble h'overboard."
They rounded a bend.
"It wouldn't matter," said Smith gravely; "where's the river, Baker?"
And they grounded on a sand bank.
The canoe was now in a part of the river which looked like a lagoon bounded on every side by sand-hills, and it had no visible outlet, nor was there any current. But every now and again air bubbles came up from the bottom, and at one place the water appeared to move in a circular direction. Smith gave a stroke or two of his paddle, and the canoe came within the influence of this circle.
It moved slowly round and round. Meantime the Baker sat motionless with a fallen jaw; and even Kitty seemed disturbed.
"What is it?" he asked at length.
"It's a river sink," said Smith gloomily; "the water goes in the sand or under it."
"Rot," cried the Baker; "there must be a way out."
He took his paddle again, and made the canoe move fast. But behind each little mound of sand was only a bay. It was true there was no outlet.
"Is this another billabong?" he cried.
But Smith shook his head.
"This is a true river, but here is its sink," he answered. "It's not such an uncommon thing. There's one on the Humboldt River in Western America."
"And does it come up again?" asked the Baker.
"How can I tell?" cried Smith impatiently. "What are we to do?"
"And how the devil can I h'answer that?" said the Baker.
They were again in the slow circle of the sinking water, moving slowly round and round.
"Did you ever see anything like this, Kitty?" asked Smith; but the girl shook her head, and was silent.
"Shove her into the sand," said Smith. And he went ashore. He climbed with difficulty upon the highest dune, and looked west. Presently he called to the others.
"Come up and tell me what you can see, if you can see anything."
They ploughed their way through the sand, and stood by him, looking west.
"You, Baker?" said Smith.
And shading his eyes, the Baker looked across the glaring, white, uneven plain, rolling in big sand waves, with here and there a few wattles upon its barren surface.
"There may be a bit of a bluish range out yonder, but I ain't sure," said he.
"You, Kitty?" asked Smith.
"There's a big tree, Smith," said the girl.
And Smith nodded.
"It stands by itself," he said, "and the trunk of it isn't to be seen. What shall we do, Baker?"
But at the sight of the hideous thirst-land the Baker was done.
"I guess I'm finished," he said. "I'd rather stay and die where there's water."
He sat down, and looked despairing for the first time. It made Smith pluck up courage. It would never do for both to be down at once.
"Cheer up, old man," he said. "I guess this river must come out again. It's not likely to go into the bowels of the earth. And that tree is not more than thirty miles away. We can do that easy."
"No water-bags," said the Baker.
And Smith sighed. If the sand were as heavy all the way they could hardly hope to do much more than a mile an hour. If they started at sundown or a little before, that would mean toiling through the night, only to reach it by the next night, if they had no other bad luck.
"We must try it," he said. "Let's have the canoe up. It will give us a bit of shade. And we must start the moment the sun begins to go down."
They dragged the boat out of the water, and laying it bottom upmost, scooped some of the sand away on the south side. They could, at any rate, get shelter for their heads.
But Kitty would not lie down. She asked the Baker for his knife, and went away a little distance.
"She's after guanners," said the Baker. But he was wrong.
She came back in half an hour, or even less, and dumped what looked like a particularly fat and shapeless 'possum down by him. He felt it, gave a cry of joy, and, catching hold of her, kissed her most violently.
"What's up?" said Smith, withdrawing his head from his hole.
"What's up," said the Baker deliriously, "why, this is up. Mrs. Mandeville is a darling, and cleverer than they make 'em. She's made a water-bag, Smith."
"What?" said Smith.
"She done it with the bloomin' old 'possum skin," cried the Baker, hugging Kitty still more violently; "ain't she a darlin'; just tying up the neck 'ole and three of 'is legs."
"Kitty," said Smith, "you're a genius, and have very likely saved our lives."
But he wondered why he had not thought of it himself. They started within an hour on their heavy and toilsome journey, as the hot sun went down a peculiar and bloody red. They had nothing to eat, and only about three quarts of water between them.
Smith, taking his direction by the setting sun, led the way, and the others followed side by side. As soon as it became dark, a star served him as a compass till midnight.
The aspect of the sand desert in the darkness was one of peculiar desolation, and the fact that it rolled sufficiently to prevent them seeing fifty yards ahead, made them exercise caution even when caution appeared unnecessary. They could not tell whether some black-fellows who knew the country might not cross it occasionally, and they might possibly stumble upon them sleeping. But as the heavy hours passed, and the labour of merely lifting their feet became painful, their needless caution vanished. They went blindly, and hardly noticed the visible changes in the sky.
For now there was a cool, quick breeze springing from the north-west quarter, and in the low north-west were clouds.
Just as the wind became strong enough to blow the sand in their teeth, it suddenly failed, and the air got hot and heavy once more. But it seemed hotter than it had been; the sweat poured from them and ran saltly upon their lips. And still the clouds grew in the north-west, until at last they suddenly obscured the star by which their leader steered. He stayed till the others joined him.
"Rain," he said, pointing to the heavy cloud bank. And as he spoke forked lightning ran upon the clouds and split them wonderfully, opening intense and awful depths.
As the Baker opened his mouth to speak, he heard a sound such as he had never heard before.
"Listen!" he cried, "what is it?"
And Smith stood still as he heard a roar which was not thunder nor loosed waters. It was the sound of a tornado in the desert, and he saw even in the dark a dun cloud low down, but close upon them. For as the distant thunder roared at last, another flash of lightning showed the white sand sea as in noon-day, and he beheld the desert rise.
"Lie down!" he cried, and the next moment the wind swept over them with a roar, and the grit flew like fine shot, screaming, and they grasped at unstable sand, which fled from between their fingers, to hold to the moving earth. At last they grasped each other and waited as the sand piled about them, as if it was alive, and got into their eyes and their hair and their dry mouths. They could not speak, and if they could have spoken, their voices would have been swallowed up; they could not open their eyes, and if they could they would have seen no more than if they had lain drowning in a turbid flood. But there was no rain.
Through the frightful uproar and the red blast there came now incredible and incessant flashes of lightning, which burnt into their brains even as they lay face down with closed eyes. And through the vast diapason of the organic storm were short splitting roars which shocked and half deafened them. They felt like blind beasts stricken of God in the wilderness; they were scapegoats for the crimes of things, and then they were nothing but struggling physical blots of mere suffering life. For the sand drifted upon them and covered them up. They struggled out of it, and were rolled over. They tore at each other for something to hold to.
They tore at each other for something to hold to.
They tore at each other for something to hold to.
And then as suddenly as it came, so suddenly the dry storm passed, and went howling across the wilderness in the chariot of the winds. For now, overhead, the stars were shining, and the moon was clear-cut and bright and splendid.
They rose out of the sand which had so nearly been their grave, and spat thick dust from their parched mouths.
"Where's the water?" asked Smith.
And Kitty gave a cry.
"I've lost it," she said.
And their being half-blind gave them a horrible shock. For it lay at their very feet. The girl had held on to it until the very last gust.
"That was a close one," said the Baker, "and now I 'ope we've done. The devil must have his finger in our pie. But after this we should get through."
"Don't be too sanguine," said Smith. But there he asked for something quite beyond his chum's strength. For the Baker's remarks on the storm, and the desert, and their luck, were of an extremely sanguine nature; at least, his one adjective was.
And Kitty, too, was about as badly frightened as she could be. Though sand storms are not uncommon in the bush, yet she had never had such an experience as this. She clung closely to the Baker when they resumed their interminable tramp.
"Cheer up, old girl," said the East Ender, "we'll be in the Mile End Road yet. I'll show you life."
And Smith, for the first time in a week, burst into a shout of laughter.
"If Smith can smile that way," said the Baker, "there ain't nothing very wrong, not to say reely wrong. But when 'e bites that 'air moustache of 'is, and shuts 'is eyes, that's when I funk it, day or night. What's o'clock, Smith?"
"It's five-and-twenty to three, by the clock on Bow Church," said Smith.
"Gahn," said the Baker. And they went on through the sand in silence.
Presently Smith stopped.
"Did you hear anything, Baker?" he asked.
"Distant thunder," said the Baker.
"Um," said Smith, "I don't know."
But he walked on again.
"D'ye reely think we shall strike that bloomin' river agin, Smith?" he asked.
"It's quite likely, Baker. It's pretty sure to come out somewhere. And if this infernal desert ends at the tree yonder, it may be there."
"What kind of a tree is it?"
"A pine, I suppose," said Smith, "one of the beautiful useful colonial pines."
"Yes," cried the Baker; "drive a tin tack into a board, and it splits from one end to the other. That's it. But I wish we was hout of this. And I'm as 'ungry as I can stick. How goes it, Kitty, my girl?"
Kitty came closer to him, and smiled.
"More thunder," said the Baker, presently. And then he stopped. "Smith, what's up? Look at it; look."
And right ahead of them there was a great jet of sand. It rose in a cloud, and then died away. There was another low roar.
"What is it?" said Smith to himself, and then he turned on the Baker. "How should I know?"
When they came to the place where the jet was, they found nothing but a deeper hollow than usual.
"Perhaps it's one of those whirlwinds, dust devils some call 'em," said the Baker, whom the strange phenomenon had frightened.
But the dawn was growing up behind them like a magical golden mango plant, and the light gave him courage.
"We'll do it," he cried cheerfully. "And as for the bloomin' tree, I'm beginning to see it myself. Let's take a spell, Smith. I'm that tired I can 'ardly stir."
As Smith was fearfully tired, too, he did not require much asking, and they sat down. And continually there was the sound of distant thunder. Once it was not distant, but quite near, and the very desert trembled.
"Can it be an earthquake?" asked Smith. But he could not remember any happening in Australia, and he dismissed the notion. He lay back on the sand, and half went to sleep.
Presently the Baker caught him by the shoulder.
"Wake up, Smith," he cried, in a curious voice so unlike his own that Smith fairly jumped. "Come, get out of this."
And he saw the Baker ghastly pale.
"What's up?" he cried.
But Mandeville was stumbling blindly up the dune towards Kitty, who continually rose and fell again on a steep slope.
"Come, or you're a dead man!" shrieked the Baker, and Smith ran.
But as he ran with labouring limbs, the sand ran down beneath him. He did not think, he could not, but it seemed to him that some black horror was behind, that he was in a nightmare in which he could make no progress. And looking up—yes, looking up, he said he saw the Baker on the top, shouting madly, "Come, come," and the man looked over and past him.
He made an incredible effort, and fell flat, but rose and leaped. As he fell again, the Baker caught his hand.
As he fell again, the Baker caught his hand.
As he fell again, the Baker caught his hand.
"Hold my feet, Kitty," he cried, and the girl clutched his ankles.
The next moment Smith was on the top, and looked back on a round pit about thirty yards across, which went down to a point at a rapidly increasing angle. And the sand perpetually ran down the side; he could see it moving; but still the pit deepened and deepened.
"What is it?" he gasped.
But the Baker clutched him.
"Come away," he said in a whisper. And just then there was a black mouth to the pit, a little funnel hole, which grew till it was big enough for ten men to drop through. And the sand drained over its edges into a bottomless chasm.