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

“Is there anything more I can do for you just now, Alf?” I asked presently.

“More water.” I gave him a drink out of a pannikin; and, as I laid his head down again, he continued, in the same painful whisper, and with frequent pauses, “Have you any idea where my bullocks are?⁠—I was trying to keep them here⁠—in this corner of Mondunbarra⁠—and they’re reasonably safe unless⁠—unless the Chinaman knows the state I’m in⁠—but if they cross the boundary into Avondale⁠—Tommy will hunt them over the river, and⁠—Sollicker will get them.”

It must be remembered that Alf was camped at the junction of three runs; Yoongoolee lay along the opposite side of the river, whilst on our side, Mondunbarra and Avondale were separated by a boundary fence which ran into the water a few yards beyond where the wagon stood. The fence, much damaged by floods, was repaired merely to the sheep-proof standard. The wagon was in Mondunbarra.

“They’re across the river now, Alf. Mosey Price told me so, not twenty minutes ago.”

“Across the river!” hissed Alf, half-rising and then falling heavily back, whilst a low moan mingled with the furious grinding of his teeth. “They’ve got into Avondale, and Tommy has hunted them across! May the holy⁠—”etc., etc. “Never mind. Let them go. I’ve had enough of it. If other people are satisfied, I’m sure I am.”

“Who is she?” I thought; and I was just lapsing into my Hamlet-mood⁠—

“Collins!”

“Yes, Alf.”

“Would you be kind enough to lift my dog into the wagon? I haven’t been able to call him lately, but he won’t be far off.”

“Bad news for you, Alf. The poor fellow got a bait somewhere, and came home to die. He’s lying under the wagon, beside your saddle.”

The outlaw turned away his face. “Short of being Swift,” says Taine; “one must love something.” (Ay, and short of being too morally slow to catch grubs, one must hate something. See, then, that you hate prayerfully and judiciously).

While I was thinking that every minute’s delay would make my journey after the bullocks a little longer, Alf suddenly looked round.

“You needn’t stay here,” said he sharply⁠—thin blades of articulation shooting here and there through his laboured whisper, as the water he had drunk took effect on his swollen tongue. “If you would come again in an hour, and give me another turnover, you would be doing more for me than I would do for you. What day is this?”

“Sunday, December the ninth.”

He pondered awhile. “I’ve lost count of the days. What time is it?”

“Between one and two, I should think. My watch is at the bottom of the Murray.”

“Afternoon, of course. I think I ought to be dead by this time tomorrow. What’s keeping you here? I want to be alone.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Alf. I’ll pull you through, if I can only hit the complaint. Have you any symptoms?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I was gradually getting worse and worse for a week, or more; but still able to yoke up a few quiet bullocks to shift the wagon every day; till at last, one night, I just managed to climb in here, to get away from the mosquitos. I don’t know what night it was, or how the time has passed since then. Just look at my arms, if you have any curiosity; but don’t dare to prescribe for me. I had enough of your doctoring at the Yellow Tank⁠—blast you!”

Without heeding his reminiscence, which has no connection with the present memoir, I untied an old bootlace which fastened one of his wristbands, and drew up the sleeve. The long, sinewy arm, now wet and clammy from the effect of the water he had drunk, was helpless and shapeless, round and rigid; the elbow-joint set at a right-angle, and extremely sensitive to pain.

“There,” said he, with a quivering groan; “the other arm is just the same, and so are my knees and ankles; and my head’s fit to burst; and I’m one mass of pains all over. It’s all up with me, Collins. Now I only ask one favour of you⁠—and that is to get out of my sight.”

“I’ll be back in two or three hours, Alf,” said I, rising. “Keep your mind as easy as possible, and see if you can doze off to sleep.”

So I returned to my own camp, and, with all speed, caught and equipped Cleopatra. Then, after chaining Pup in a shady place, I stowed some smoking-tackle in the crown of the soft hat I wore; then shed apparel till I was like the photo of some champion athlete; finally, I stuck the spare clothes, with the rest of my riches, among the branches of a coolibah, out of the way of the wild pigs. The next moment, I was in the saddle, and Cleopatra, after perfunctorily illustrating Demosthenes’ three rules of oratory:⁠—the first, Action; the second, ditto, the third, ibid.⁠—turned obediently toward the river, and was soon breasting the cool current, while, with one arm across the saddle, I steered him for the most promising landing-place on the opposite bank.

(Let me remark here, that the man who knows no better than to remain in the saddle after his horse has lost bottom, ought never to go out of sight of a bridge. He is the sort of adventurer that is brought to light, a week afterward, per medium of a grappling-hook in the hollow of his eye. Perhaps the best plan of all⁠—though no hero of romance could do such a thing⁠—is to hang on to the horse’s tail. Also, never wait for an emergency to make sure that your mount can swim. Many a man has lost his life through the helpless floundering of a horse bewildered by first and sudden experience of deep water).

My landing-place happened to be none of the best. After clearing the water, it required all Cleopatra’s strength and activity to climb the bank. Having slipped into the saddle as he regained footing, I