"Come on, Jack," he said, "wake up."
Jack sprang to his feet with a blundering rush, grappled with his
mate, and made a break for the door.
"It's all right, Jack," said the other, gently yet firmly, holding
and shaking him. "Go in with the boss and get into your own
clothes--we've got to make a start. "The other came to himself and
went inside quietly with the settler. The dark man stretched himself,
crossed the kitchen and looked down at the sleeping child; he returned
to the fire without comment. The wildness had left his eyes. The
bushwoman was busy putting some tucker in a sugar-bag. "There's tea
and sugar and salt in these mustard tins, and they won't get wet,"
she said, "and there's some butter too; but I don't know how you'll
manage about the bread--I've wrapped it up, but you'll have to keep it
dry as well as you can."
"Thank you, missus, but that'll be all right. I've got a bit of
oil-cloth," he said.
They spoke lamely for a while, against time; then the bushwoman
touched the spring, and their voices became suddenly low and earnest
as they drew together. The stranger spoke as at a funeral, but the
funeral was his own.
"I don't care about myself so much," he said, "for I'm tired of it,
and--and--for the matter of that I'm tired of everything; but I'd like
to see poor Jack right, and I'll try to get clear myself, for his
sake. You've seen him. I can't blame myself, for I took him from a
life that was worse than jail.
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