the second day found all the four men cheerful, but it left them a little apprehensive. for, as the day went on, though it appeared impossible for the morning's heat to be greater, it still grew and grew till noon. that seemed its full flood, and yet they knew it must be worse. and after one o'clock, when they guessed the time intuitively, as bushmen will—for hicks was their clock—the little breeze that blew from the south-east failed.

they were then pushing across a patch of dense, thick scrub with openings in it, which were partially overgrown with dry spinifex, the colour of ripe wheat straw, and every piece of exposed whitish ground shone with reflected heat which was as intense as the sun. and about two o'clock a breeze came from the north. hicks shook his head and pulled up his horse, for they took no noon-time that day. it was better to push on even through the spinifex, which murdered the horses.

"what's wrong?" asked smith, who was riding with both legs on one side like a woman.

"what's wrong?" said hicks. "well, and don't get narked about it, i should say a north wind here was nothing to yearn for. it will soak every pool of water up in twenty-four hours, and we shall be done."

"tut, man," cried smith, but hicks went on.

"and now we are almost as far as we were last time, or even further. where's your creek that you gassed about?"

they wrangled for ten minutes, and then rode on rather sullenly. tom and mandeville, who knew least about the country, said little. but the baker would say "ditto" to smith if smith said "die." that was evident.

the north wind blew steadily at about ten miles an hour, and it was in truth like a breath from a furnace; it caught the men on the left cheek, and tom's skin fairly burnt and blistered. the others grinned and were silent, and rode through the living invisible flame. their horses were evidently distressed, and their legs streamed with blood from wounds made by the porcupine grass.

at last, about six, when hicks' big horse was almost done for, they came to a water-hole. before they could check them, the animals were half up to their knees. they drank till they stretched their girths almost to breaking point.

that night, by their little fire of scrub, there was the usual discussion, which now bore more continually on the thing most to be considered. they did not divagate into common ribaldry, neither did they discuss horse flesh in general. they spoke only of their own horses, of water now and water to-morrow, and the prospects of getting through to some place where they could stay and prospect, or to some rise in the ground which they looked for. for so much they had gathered from herder's dying delirious gabble.

and now it began to seem to tom, and to hicks, who was influenced by the condition of his horse, that they had gone out into the big impossible without much chance of doing anything. what had they to go on in estimating their chances? a heavy lump of gold mixed with quartz, a quantity of fevered talk streaked with a possible vein of real consciousness.

"how can we know he had his senses, even when he talked most sensibly?" asked hicks. "i daresay, the fever invented it for him."

"it didn't h'invent the gold," urged the baker.

hicks grinned.

"yes; but he might have got that anywhere. and, who's to know, now i come to think of it, that he didn't get it and the tip from another chap?"

this damped them a little.

"but it's all the same if he did," said smith; "and with water and a bit of grass i'm for going on. i'll go by myself."

"not you," said mandeville.

"i will, by the powers," cried smith; but, recognising what the baker meant, he reached out his hand to his faithful chum.

"if you go, i go," said the baker, with tears in his eyes.

"good old man," murmured smith.

and they lay down on their spread blankets, and sweated through an intolerable night, while the stars winked hotly in the drying air.

at early dawn tom filled up all the water-bags, and they ate breakfast in comparative silence. they opened no new discussion, and saddled their horses at the same time. if hicks was a little behind the others, that was only customary.

"is it 'go on'?" said he, as smith mounted. and he saw smith turn his head to the north-east. there was no more said, and they followed their leader.

but by noon hicks stopped.

"my horse is nearly done," he said gloomily, and the others paused.

"give him a mouthful of water in your hat," said tom.

and hicks grumbled, but gave it.

"and don't hist your carcass on him again," said the baker. "such a man as you should 'ave an elephant."

"dry up," said hicks. "that's enough."

and smith frowned at mandeville, who rode on a yard or two.

"if we go easy, he can do the rest of the day," said smith. "and if there's no water, why, we can get back to-morrow."

against his judgment hicks went with them. but, as he walked, their pace was slower. and the heat was peculiar and sickening. the wind was no longer quite steady, it came in blasts, as if they were being fanned by a red-hot fan, and its touch was scalding. to make matters worse, they were now on a piece of country, bare even of scrub, and the white ground was like a bright pan on a fire. the haze danced and shimmered until a bit of scrub looked alive against the faint blue of a far, low range to the south. and at last, in the north-west, they saw some trees. they were without visible support, for their thin trunks were not yet to be seen. they might even be a mirage.

"is there water there?" said tom to hicks. and hicks shook his head.

"it ain't likely."

they camped under those trees that night, and there was no water there—not even a dried water-hole was to be found.

the evening tea was scanty, and the talk was scantier still. the men smoked in silence, and turned in early. but smith and the baker, who were close together, talked a little.

"hicks will go no further," said smith.

"and you?" asked mandeville.

"i'm going on," said smith. "there is a low range out ahead, and if there isn't, it's mighty near as bad going back. that water-hole will be dry to-morrow morning, or pretty near, and if so, how will hicks get through to the next?"

"what about tom?" whispered the cockney.

"i don't know," said smith. "but i reckon it will be a fair division. he'll go with hicks."

there was a short silence. but presently smith was touched.

"and you, smith, ain't you scared?"

"scared," said smith bitterly, "what have i to be scared of? hell here or there or anywhere? and death—well, what's life here, eh? and how shall i ever get back without money? ah, you don't know. but for money, young chap, they will pardon the devil."

"yes," said the baker; but he couldn't help wondering how a clergyman's son ever got into such a way of talking.

"'e must 'ave run through a 'eap of cash," he said to himself. "but there, it's all one, and i'm with 'im." and he fell asleep.

the others had been talking too, and the result of that talk was seen when hicks rose about eleven and rolled up his blankets. tom imitated him in silence. but when they brought the horses up, hicks roused smith.

"we're off back, smith," he said.

"eh!" said smith drowsily, "what's up?"

"we're going back, mate. there's nothing but death in this—death of thirst."

smith rolled over and rested on his elbows, and whistled low.

"i don't know but what you are right, hicks," he said. "but to me it's a question if it's not better to go on. that water-hole will be dry when you reach it. if it is, can you put it through to the next?"

"if we don't, we don't," said hicks. "and it's best to travel now while it's cool. i guess we can strike it by the morning. are you coming?"

smith rolled over and touched mandeville, who was a nervous sleeper, and jumped upright in a scare.

"hicks is going, baker," said smith.

"and you?" asked the cockney.

"i'm going on."

"then what the blazes did you wake a chap for?" asked the baker, and he lay down again.

"you mean it, smith?" asked tom.

"i guess so," replied smith.

"so long then, and we wish you well through it," said hicks. "it seems mean, perhaps, smith, but i'm not so keen on it as you. i don't know what life's worth to you. but it's worth more than this to me."

smith reached out his hand.

"don't apologise, old son. it's my look-out and mandy's here. if we don't make it we shall do the other thing."

"so long," said hicks.

"so long," said smith.

"baker," cried tom, half crying.

but the baker was fast asleep, and didn't answer. and the two who travelled by night rode slowly to the south-west.