chap, as Willie was called.
He meant to save the child if possible, and he had fought many a fight with grim Death and beaten him. Nothing gave Dr Tom more satisfaction than to rescue a patient from danger. It was not so much that he loved his profession as that he desired to overcome obstacles.
'Get up!' said the doctor, and laid the lash across the backs of his horses. 'It will ruin my pair, but I don't mind that. They are not accustomed to this pace.'
'You can take the best pair I have,' said Jim.
'I know that. You are not like the bulk of my patients. Cross words is the most I get from some of them,' said the doctor.
Jim Dennis smiled faintly. He knew Dr Tom did not exaggerate.
The buggy swayed from side to side and bumped up and down in a manner suggestive of an early turn over.
It was a rough country and there was only a track, made by the mail coach, which ran past Jim Dennis's place twice a week.
The doctor's buggy, however, was made to bear plenty of wear and tear, and, although it looked anything but elegant, it could stand a lot of knocking about. The last time it had been washed the Swamp Creek folk were so surprised that they turned out en masse to look at the unfamiliar operation. Dr Tom, who said he disliked publicity, had not since repeated the operation. The harness had several suspicions of bits of rope about it, and the horses were accustomed to do most of their own grooming by rolling in the stable yard. Altogether the turnout was not one to inspire confidence, but it was, nevertheless, a welcome sight to many a sufferer round Swamp Creek.
'We'll be there soon, Jim. Cheer up, old man. Don't let the little chap see you with a downcast face. Whom have you left with him?'
'Sal!'
'What! the half-caste?'
'Yes. She's a good sort.'
'Humph!' said the doctor.
'Who else could I leave?'
'No one, of course,' and Dr Tom applied the whip vigorously.
A cloud of dust rose around the buggy and they came to a stop; the sudden jerk nearly threw them out.
One of the horses was down. With a muttered curse, Jim Dennis jumped out and urged the animal to rise. The tired horse struggled to his feet and, as Jim sprang into the buggy, moved on again.
'Dead beat,' said Dr Tom; 'but he'll last to your place.'
In half an hour they saw Dennis's homestead in the distance, and again the lash came down on the horses' backs, wielded by Dr Tom's vigorous arm.
It was a moment of terrible suspense to Jim Dennis when the buggy pulled up, and Dr Tom, springing out with more activity than might have been expected, hurried into the cottage.
Jim was almost afraid to follow him.
If the little chap was dead he felt he could not bear the blow.
The minute or two he stood outside waiting seemed an eternity.
Then came a relief that was well-nigh as insupportable. It was Dr Tom who called out, —
'Come in, Jim, the little chap's alive. I'll pull him through. He's not so bad after all.'
'Thank God!' said Jim Dennis, whose prayers had been few and far between.
CHAPTER II
BLACK SAL
Jim Dennis's homestead was anything but an enticing place. He had built the bulk of it himself, and said it was good enough. The boards were fairly weather-beaten and the galvanised iron roof was torn at the ends by wind and rain. A small verandah in front was reached by five rickety steps, and some of the piles on which the house was built afforded a fine refuge for white ants. These insects were so industrious that one stump was a crumbling mass, so laboriously had it been honeycombed.
Around the homestead was the stable yard, a dull, dreary-looking place, consisting of two or three sheds hurriedly run up, a heap of refuse, a dirty old dog kennel, home made, a sheep pen, and a few etceteras, that men who have known such places will imagine.
For all that, however, Jim Dennis had a fair station. He had purchased it in the rough from the Government and obtained it on easy terms. All payments had been kept up and the land was his own.
Jim Dennis was never known to repudiate debts. His name was 'good' with the storekeepers for miles round, but he was more feared than respected. No one seemed able to understand him. He had an inscrutable face, and was seldom seen to smile except when the little chap was with him.
'He's a bad lot,' was the Swamp Creek opinion.
'And let me tell you, you "bounders,"' said Dr Tom, 'that half of you are not fit to black Jim Dennis's boots.'
'He never has 'em blacked, doc.'
'Then you're not fit to scrape the dirt off 'em, never mind the blacking,' was the retort.
Inside Wanabeen, the name of Jim's place, the little chap lay gasping on a camp bedstead, with the half-caste Sal crooning near him.
Sal was not so black as the aborigine, and had been brought up on a mission station. She was not a bad-looking woman, about four or five-and-twenty.
How came she there?
It happened in this wise. Sal was the offspring of a rich squatter. Her only disgrace was her birth, not to her, but to the man who begot her. She lived with the blacks on the station for several years. She grew up in wild, unrestricted freedom. She was lithe and active as any young black on the run, and her fleetness of foot had more than once stood her in good stead.
Sal had dark brown liquid eyes, a nose somewhat too large for her face, but not unprepossessing, full cheeks, a forehead well set on, small ears, thickish lips, and a mass of dark curly hair that never seemed to be out of order. She had small hands and small feet, and her supple limbs were graceful.
When the 'boss' of the station went to England to spend the money others had made for him, Sal was annexed by the mission people.
Not that these good folk meant any harm, quite the contrary, they took the girl for the good of her health and her soul.
It so happened that Sal did not know the meaning of the word soul, but it was explained to her. She thought it curious that a certain portion of her body when she died would go to regions far away. If she happened to be good her soul would revel above the blue sky in unrestricted freedom for evermore; if she by any chance turned out badly – well, there was another place where her soul would suffer torments suitable to her misdeeds.
Sal argued this matter out with herself, and commenced to take observations. She saw much in the conduct of her preceptors which caused her to wonder whether their souls were destined for the blue skies or the other place.
Having white blood in her veins, Sal had an imagination far beyond her dull, thick-skulled people. She had a mind and a will of her own. The former suggested to her that she ought to run away from the mission, and the latter carried it out. In a word, Sal 'bolted.'
For several years she wandered about with the members of her own tribe, loathing the savage, uncouth part of their nature, yet loving the liberty
