Such Is Life by Joseph Furphy (children's books read aloud .TXT) 📕

the sand and dust, was becoming too much for the horses; and, in any case, I should have had to stop on Pup’s account. I turned Cleopatra’s head to leeward, and began carefully to dismount. But the wind ballooned the back of my coat and the right branch of my other garment, and I went three yards through the air, like a bird shot on the wing. Recovering foothold, I fought my way to Bunyip, and relieved him of his pack. Then, with Cleopatra’s rein over my arm, I sat down on the ground to see it out. At this low elevation, the air was thick with skipping crumbs of hard dirt, which rattled on my skull like hail; in fact, everything not anchored to the ground was at racing speed, and all in the same direction.

But this strong, thirsty wind, coming from the northwestern deserts with a clear fetch of a thousand miles, was not going to last many hours; meantime, I set myself to work out scientifically its genesis, operation, and hidden purpose. The first and second considerations were merely matters of research and calculation; the third was largely speculative, admitting of no more definite conclusion than that the time had come when hygienic necessities required a thorough rousing and ridding-out of microbes, bacteria, and other pests too minute to be worth particularising. But I was better enlightened before another day had gone over my head.

Whilst engaged in these not unpleasing studies, I caught a momentary glimpse of something, ten yards away to the left, which seemed to be moving slowly against the wind. The volume of flying dust was, of course, far from uniform in density; and presently I caught sight of the object again. It was a man, creeping slowly and painfully across the stubbly knobs of cotton-bush on his hands and knees. I hailed him in a voice that took the skin off my throat, but another glimpse showed him still travelling; his head bent almost to the ground. I rose carefully to my feet, facing the shower, but only to be hurled down on top of the faithful Pup, and savagely snapped at. Then I went like a quadruped till I reached the wayfarer, and caught him by the ankle. He looked round; I beckoned, and crept back to my former seat, whilst he followed close behind. Then a bearded, haggard, resolute face, framed by an old hat tied down over the ears, confronted me.

“You look like some worn and weary brother, pulling hard against the stream,” I shouted.

The dry, cracked lips moved without speech, and the bloodshot eyes left my face to scan the packsaddle beside me.

“Water?” I suggested.

He nodded. Cleopatra was close behind me, propped against the wind. I drew myself up by the near stirrup, till I could unbuckle the water-bag from the cantle. Though filled with half a gallon of water not two hours before, it was now half-empty. I drew the cork; my visitor clasped the cool, damp canvas between his trembling hands, and, with fine self-control, barely wetted his lips again and again. At last he took a moderate drink.

“Making for Patagonia Tank,” he hoarsely remarked.

“You were going past it. It’s about a mile and a half straight across there. I’ve just come from it.”

“Disappointed of water last night,” he continued. “It was dark when I struck the little tank I was making for, and I found her dry; and my throat like a limekiln. Too dog-tired to go any further, so I rested till morning, and then struck for the Patagonia, with a devil of a headache to help me along. I knew of another tank nearer, but I wouldn’t trust myself to find her in the dust. I helped to sink the Patagonia. Fine tank⁠—ain’t she?”

“First-class. Have you no swag?”

“I had a very good one a few hours ago, but Lord knows where she is now. I left her behind when the wind put me on all-fours. Kept pretty well in the same quarter, I think?”

“About the same.”

“That’ll be a bit of a guide. You’ll be staying here till she slackens-down?”

“There’s nothing else I can do.”

“Well, I’ll stay with you. If you shoot me straight for the swamp I’ll be right. I’ll spell tonight at the tank, and then have a try for my swag.”

“You’ll find two very decent coves camped at the tank, with the engine and pump. They’ll put you on your feet.”

“Good again.”

“Which way are you travelling?” I asked.

“Any way. Work’s scarce; contractors camped for want of water; too late for burr-cutting; nothing doing. I wish to God the rabbits would come something worthwhile.”

And so the profitless conversation (conversation is generally profitless) went on by fits and starts, till the sand and dirt-pellets ceased to drift. Half-an-hour later, it was an almost perfect calm, though the air was still charged with dust.

By this time, I had re-packed, and was ready to start. My guest was now on his feet, but shaky enough. With Bligh-like impartiality, I meted out half a pint of water to him, the same quantity to Pup, and the remaining quarter-pint to myself.

“Got a bit of tobacco to spare?” he asked. “Mine’s all in my swag.”

“Certainly,” I replied. “Are you hard up? Because I can lend you five bob till we meet again.”

“No, thank-you. I’ve got a couple or three notes left, and even if I hadn’t, I’d think twice before I touched your money. Money’s a peculiar thing.”

“Especially in the sense of being peculiar to certain sections of society,” I replied. “Now strike straight across there, and you’ll fetch the tank in a mile and a half.”

“What’s your name?” he demanded, as I placed my foot in the stirrup.

“Collins.”

“Well, so-long!”

“So-long.”

My horses went off freely. I struck the wicket-gate with accuracy and bowled on toward the declining sun, which showed dull and coppery through suspended dust; till, just at that hour which calls the faithful Mussulman to prayer, and the no less faithful sundowner to the station store, I reached