smith roused mandeville two hours before dawn, and they boiled a quart-pot of tea, for the water would run to no more. they had to husband it. but before they drank smith spoke to his chum seriously.

"do you know the odds are against us, mandy, old boy? i didn't put it right last night. though it's bad going back, that chance is much the best."

"i'll do what you do," said the baker obstinately, brushing away a fly. "it's all one to me, old man."

"i'm going on," said smith, with a curious, hard determination; "and i'll tell you why. i believe in this; i believe i'm going to strike it. i know there's gold out here. yes, i know it as if i'd seen it, mandy."

he drank a little tea, and munched a bit of damper.

"i want it, mandy, bad. there's the devil to pay in england, and no pitch hot. i half-ruined my folks before i was twenty, and i heard last mail that everything was wrong; the old man crazy, and my mother living as she never lived before. and there's another woman in it, too. i'll tell you about it some day."

"but," asked mandeville, "suppose you go under, smith?"

"i sha'n't," said smith; "and if i do, they'll know i'm dead, and can't help 'em. i've been a bad hat, old man, and if i rot in the sun it will serve me right."

mandeville stopped rolling up his swag.

"you may be what you like, but you're a blooming good pal," said he, "and if you're to corpse it here, i'll corpse it too. you stuck by me when i wanted a friend bad in albany and at new find. and that's enough say. if you're in it, i'm on."

he brought up the horses, which were not in such bad case as they might have been.

"they don't look so bloomin' bad," said the baker.

"i'll tell you what, smith, i believe there's a drop o' water round here somewhere. i heard a mosquito this morning, and it's a deal too dry for them if there ain't water."

he went to look, and at the end of the patch of timber, and just under the roots of a tree, he found mud marked with trampling hoofs.

"it's a pity they didn't leave some, and then we could have filled up the bags," said the baker. he went back and told his chum.

"we're in luck's way," said smith, who was in a fever of suppressed excitement. "that saves a quart of water. i'd have given the poor devils a pint apiece, if we'd died ourselves."

and an hour before dawn they got away and travelled fast.

for two or three hours their north-east way led them through much the same country as they had passed through before, for it was as flat as a calm sea, and bare of scrub higher than a horse's knee. but when the sun was two hours up they came to a more rolling country, which was here and there broken by a dried creek bed. yet sign of water was none. it seemed that the heavy rain which had tempted them out had not fallen there. yet right ahead of them was a low range which looked timbered.

"how far is it?" asked the baker.

"i should guess thirty miles," said smith.

"then it's not for to-day?"

"no," said smith.

they rode on for an hour.

"if we get no water to-night, it's all up with the gee-gees," said the baker.

and when they had ridden half a mile, smith spoke.

"yes, you're right," said he.

as he rode, his face twitched, and his expression changed a thousand times. for he was wrought up to a strange pitch, and his nerves were tried. his face, which was thin and brown, and very finely cut, showed every thought in his mind, and the poor baker watched it wonderingly.

"i wonder what's in his 'ead," said he. for just then smith looked very gloomy.

"what's wrong?" he asked.

smith turned in his saddle, and smiled an odd, far-away smile.

"i was thinking of champagne with ice in it. oh, but it's well this moment that i'm not with it," he said.

"you're wonderful h'awkward to deal with when you're blind," said the baker.

and smith nodded.

"it's damned hard lines," said he presently.

"what's 'ard?"

"that my father drank," said smith.

this took mandeville aback.

"what!" he cried. "but i thort you said your father was a clergyman?"

smith nodded.

"there's many a parson doing time," said he.

"what for?" asked the baker in rather contemptuous disbelief.

but smith did not answer.

"shall we drink?" he asked.

and they wetted their parched throats. when the horses heard the terrible sound of pouring water, they turned their heads and whinnied pitifully.

"poor, poor devils," said smith. but he rode a bit harder.

yet he gave them their pint at noon. it only aggravated their thirst, and when, after a little rest, they went on, they showed every sign of terrible distress.

that night they camped in a dry gully in a broken country. with all their searching they could find no sign of water. they rose at midnight, and travelled north-east still, having now a little over a quart of water between them.

the next night they were across the first range, and smith's horse fell and died. they cut the throat of mandeville's horse in the morning, for they had no water left. but they did not speak, and looked half-askance at each other. it seemed an intolerable and brutal murder.

they now walked straight ahead in a fairly timbered country. smith kept his eyes open for any sign of a native well; but he saw nothing.

"it's all a dream, baker," said smith. "i could believe anything. we are where no white man ever was. no one has been within two hundred miles of this place."

"where are the others now?" asked the choking baker.

but smith spat thickly.

"god knows."

and they walked for hours in bitter anguish.

"it's a country of black enchantment," said smith. "i daresay it doesn't exist; perhaps we don't exist. perhaps we are only dreaming. it's devilish hot, baker."

and baker nodded painfully.

"what do you talk for?" he murmured.

"because i must," answered his pal. "and there's gold here; i smell it. but i've brought you to your death, baker."

poor mandeville laid his hand on smith's arm, and looked at him like a dumb animal in pain.

"never mind, old man. but my name's baker, and i'm baked."

he turned blind as he spoke, and stumbled.

"hold up, damn it," cried smith, in agony which sounded like anger.

and he could have cried, if his thickening blood had not sucked every tear out of him. he put his arm round baker, and they stumbled on till they came to a shady tree.

"i'm done," mumbled mandeville, and he fell on his knees.

smith got down by him.

"oh," said the baker, and he was half-unconscious. but he spoke.

smith bent down to catch what he said, but heard nothing.

and smith laughed with a thin, dry laugh, and bending down, he kissed the baker upon the low forehead, which held a faithful little soul now in the valley of the shadow of a horrible death.

then smith shook him.

"rouse up, baker."

and mandeville drew back his mind to the bitter earth.

"yes, old man."

"there may be water within reach, baker. now, listen and get hold of it. i'm going to look for water. if i don't come back, we're done. do you understand?"

the baker nodded, looking wistfully at his mate. smith stooped and kissed him again. and the baker smiled, as smith went off towards the thicker timber.