“Oh, yes.”

 

“Well, we reckoned we’d strike another river soon, d’ye see. But there was

somethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin’, and it didn’t turn up. Water

ran out. Just except a little drop for the likes of you and—and——”

 

“And you couldn’t wash yourself,” interrupted his companion gravely, staring up

at his grimy visage.

 

“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the fust to go, and then Indian Pete, and

then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your mother.”

 

“Then mother’s a deader too,” cried the little girl dropping her face in her

pinafore and sobbing bitterly.

 

“Yes, they all went except you and me. Then I thought there was some chance of

water in this direction, so I heaved you over my shoulder and we tramped it

together. It don’t seem as though we’ve improved matters.

 

There’s an almighty small chance for us now!”

 

“Do you mean that we are going to die too?” asked the child, checking her sobs,

and raising her tear-stained face.