CHAPTER XIV.

"BUCK UP, SCHOOL!"

It was night, and everything was very dark. Somewhere, a million miles away, was a pinpoint of light. He kept his eyes fixed upon it, because it seemed the one thing in the world where there was any hope. Someone was swinging him backwards and forwards through space, sometimes bringing him near the light and then drawing him steadily back until it seemed that he would never reach it. He could not put out a hand to touch it, even when it drew near, and he knew that the pain that wrapped him round would be gone if he could but grasp it. There were sharp cords holding him tightly, cutting into him; and all the time the ceaseless swinging, swinging. He tried to cry out, but no sound would come.

Then a hand came on his brow, so cool, so gentle, that the formless blackness wavered and melted, and the light grew stronger. The utter helplessness was still there; but the sense of being gripped by something mercilessly cruel faded, and it was as though something infinitely pitiful was holding him quietly. He gasped, "Don't let me swing!" and the soft touch held him closer until he was still and quiet. The light came nearer. Pain was there yet, but pain was as nothing compared to the relief of stillness. Nothing mattered, if only those soft hands would hold him--would keep him from swinging into space again.

Gradually the darkness melted. Things took shape in a kind of dim twilight; he looked long at a strange silver ball, floating in space, before he knew that it was but the knob on his bed-post. The window of his room came out of the dimness; through it he could see gum leaves on boughs that fluttered softly in the breeze. These things he saw because they were in front of him; to turn his head was a task much too hard to be thought of, no matter what might be there. It troubled him that he could not, because he felt something beside him that he wanted desperately to see--something soft that nestled close to his cheek. If it moved, he grew afraid, and cried to it to come back, and it always came quickly and gently, so that he was not afraid any more. Still nestling to it, he drifted into sleep.

"You can get up." The doctor was bending over Mrs. Lester, whispering, "He's asleep."

"He might wake if I moved." Her lips formed the words almost without sound. She could not bear him to cry to her again, in his agony, for the help that only the touch of her lips against his cheek had seemed able to give.

"He won't--yet. The medicine has taken effect." The doctor's face was almost as ghastly as her own; together they had fought death in the little room for thirty-six hours.

He helped her to her feet gently. John Lester slipped an arm about her, putting her into a chair. Her eyes asked the question that her lips could not frame.

"Good, as far as it goes," the doctor answered. "That the sleep has come at all is a big thing; now, we can only hope that it will last long enough to rest him. He wants it, poor little chap."

"You want it, too," her husband said gently. "Come and lie down while he sleeps."

"I won't leave him." She shrank back pitifully.

"You needn't, dear. Lie down on the sofa. I'll call you if he stirs. I promise, Jean."

She let him put her on the sofa, wrapping a rug about her, and taking off her slippers. The doctor went out, after whispering a few directions, and John Lester sat down beside his son.

He did not know much about the outside world since they had come racing home in the car on Thursday evening, to find Dick's broken body, mercifully unconscious, awaiting them. The car had turned back within five minutes, breaking speed records to bring a doctor from the nearest town, sixty miles away; and since that they had never left the boy's side. To the stupor of unconsciousness had succeeded delirium, when he had struggled with unseen enemies and urged on unseen horses, fighting blindly with pain that robbed him of all sense. The doctor, a young country practitioner, acknowledged his helplessness; the thing was beyond him, and until a surgeon and nurses could arrive from Perth he could only administer narcotics and opiates, that had until now been of little effect. There was injury to the head, that was certain; beyond that he feared that the spine was affected. The spear wound, once relieved of the terror that the barb might have been poisoned, was comparatively simple. But John Lester's face was old and haggard as he stared at his son.

Out in the bush, north of the run, infuriated men were scouring the ranges for the flying blacks, dealing out swift justice without waiting for black trackers and police, whose slower methods were little satisfaction to a district that clamoured for revenge. From fifty miles around men had come to help to hunt down the slayers, until Narrung resembled a huge camp when night brought the hunters home to the head station. In another room lay Merle, ill from shock and exhaustion. She had clung to Conqueror's mane until the grey horse came to a standstill at the gate of the home paddock. Downes and old Harry had found them there, and had had to use force to unclasp her fingers. But the Lesters knew nothing of these things. The world, for them, began and ended round Dick's bed.

The slow hours passed, and still Dick and his mother slept. Now and then Mrs. Warner, as haggard as they, tiptoed to the door, bringing food or offering help; but John Lester would not leave the room. He ate mechanically, knowing that he must eat; but his eyes scarcely wandered from the dark head on the pillow, half hidden in its ice-pack. He prayed, desperately, muttering thanks for every moment of the blessed sleep that meant freedom from pain---that might bring healing in its wings. All the while he watched for any change--for any shade of colour to creep into the still, white face. But no change came; and the day dragged on to evening.

Mrs. Lester woke with a start, trembling. Her husband was beside her in a flash, holding her, whispering.

"No change--and he has slept all this time! Oh, thank God!" Her pale lips quivered--and then she clung to him, starting up. "John--you are sure it is really sleep?"

"It's really sleep," he told her. "Now you go--get a bath and some food. No, you must do it, Jean--remember, this isn't going to be a short business, and you will need all your strength. I'll call you if he moves." Mrs. Warner came in answer to his finger on the electric bell, and took her away.

It was an hour later that Dick's eyes opened, and he looked at his mother wearily.

"Mother," he said. The voice was weak, but his eyes were clear.

She kissed him gently.

"Don't worry, old son." The doctor was beside him, raising his head ever so little.

"Take this, lad."

Dick drank obediently and lay without speaking while they busied themselves over him. When he spoke again his voice was steady, but his lips were grey with pain.

"What's up, father? Am I going to die?"

"Not you!" said the doctor hastily. The boy's glance went past him, to his father.

"Am I, father?"

"No, my son, I think not. But you're badly hurt. You have got to help us to get you better, Dick."

Dick pondered that, his fingers closed round his mother's. Then memory came back to him with a flash.

"Did we get in all right? Is Merle hurt?"

"No; only knocked up. You brought her in."

"I?" said Dick. There was a sorry little ghost of his old smile. "I didn't have any say in it. Conqueror bolted."

"Well, you went out for her, and you brought her back," the doctor said. "And now you mustn't talk any more. Go to sleep, if you can."

But sleep was gone for Dick. He lay in silence, with his eyes closed; so quietly that after a while his father gave way to entreaties and went off to find the rest he so badly needed. Twilight gave place to darkness, and only a shaded lamp lit the little room. The doctor moved in and out, presently coming to whisper that he was going for a walk. Mrs. Lester nodded, glad that he should have the opportunity. Silence brooded everywhere.

It was a little later that she saw that Dick's eyes were open. His fingers moved towards her, on the counterpane. She bent over him swiftly.

"What is it, my son? A drink?"

"No." The word came with difficulty. "If I--if I could hold your hand."

She put her hand in his, and felt hot fingers close round it tightly. So he lay, and then a stifled moan broke from him.

"Is the pain bad, Dick?"

"Pretty stiff," he said. "I'm--I'm sorry, mother." She saw his lips tighten, and he clutched at her fingers desperately. "My aunt!" he gasped presently; and then she heard a whisper, as if to himself--"Buck up, School!"

She bent over him, murmuring broken words of love and pity. It was almost more than she could bear to see the motionless struggle. He lay, unable to stir; and agony gripped him until his hair lay dark on his wet forehead, and great drops of sweat ran down his grey face. And no cry came. He clung to her hand as if it were the one thing left him in the world, and his lips moved in the school call that surely went straight to God as a prayer for courage and endurance--"Buck up, School!"

She slipped her hand away presently.

"Just a second, Dick--I want to send a message."

She pressed the bell until she heard someone running to answer it, and then sprang to the door.

"The doctor, quick! Find him--he's in the paddock."

Dick's eyes were looking for her desperately as she ran back to him. He clutched at her hand.

"I thought you'd gone," he gasped, "Don't let me go, mother--mother!"

"I won't, my darling," she said. "Hold tight to me. Oh, Dick, cry out--it may help you."

She saw his head move in the ghost of what had been his old, decided shake.

"Can't do that," he muttered. His voice died away to an anguished whisper. "Buck up!" was all she could hear; and once he carried her hand to his mouth, holding it against his lips as though with it he might hold back the cries to utter which would have been crueller to him than pain itself.

It seemed an eternity before she heard the gate of the yard bang, and quick strides across the verandah. The doctor came in, switching on another light. His eyes dwelt pityingly for a moment on the boy's ravaged face.

"Having a bad time, old man?" he said quietly. "Let's see if we can help you."

He asked a few questions, his hands busy with Dick's arm. There was a prick with a hypodermic needle, and presently it was as though a merciful hand had sponged the lines of agony from Dick's face. His lips relaxed their grim line, and the torment died out of his eyes. Mrs. Lester felt his clutching fingers curl themselves loosely in her palm.

"That's ripping!" he murmured sleepily. "Thanks, ever so!" His eyelids drooped and closed.

Mrs. Lester's head went down on the bed-side. She was shaking with suppressed sobs.

"The trouble is, I haven't enough of the stuff," the doctor told Mr. Warner presently on the verandah. "I'd had a sudden run on my stock--unusual series of cases, and a fool of a maid smashed a bottle in dusting the surgery. I wired Perth for more just before your car came, but I hadn't much to bring up here with me. Brereton will bring some with him, of course, but he can't get here before morning."

"And you haven't enough to keep the boy out of pain?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Not nearly. I've been using it most cautiously all the time; there'd be none left now but for that splendid sleep he had during the day. Now--well, we can only hope that he may sleep again."

In the early dawn John Lester came out on the verandah, staggering as he walked. Mr. Warner, who had sat there throughout the night, jumped up, catching him by the arm, but the father shook him off blindly, dropping into a chair a little way off, his whole frame shaking with tearless, rending sobs. Mr. Warner watched him for a moment, and then hurried away noiselessly. He was back almost instantly, a glass of brandy in his hand.

"Drink this," he said authoritatively

John Lester took the draught at a gulp.

"He's asleep," he said. "It will only be for a moment, of course--the pain will wake him. My God, Warner, it would be easier to see him dead!"

"I know," Robert Warner said.

"If he'd cry out!" the father groaned. "He lies there and holds on to us--I tell you my hand is sore from his poor fingers; and his eyes ask us for help, and we can't do a thing. And he will not give in. Just 'Buck up, School!' when the pain is almost beyond endurance. It's too much strain for him--it would ease him, I believe, if he would scream. We've begged him to let himself go, but he won't."

"And his mother?"

"She just kneels there and holds his hand, and tries to help him through. I don't know how she stands it. It's been ghastly for the last half-hour--poor little son, he asked for pity at last. 'Can't you put me to sleep, doctor?' he said. And there's not a drop of stuff left. It cut the doctor to the heart to tell him."

"And then?"

"He didn't say anything---only tried to smile. And then I suppose God had pity, for he fell asleep suddenly." He stopped, sitting erect to listen. "There's his mother's voice--he's awake again." He stumbled back into Dick's room, and Mr. Warner heard him speaking, his deep tones wrung with pity and love: "Hold on to me, old son."

The big man went out with hasty strides across the yard, with tears running unheeded down his cheeks. To and fro he paced; and then, as though the yard were not big enough, he opened the gate with a gesture of helpless impatience, and went down the track. Dawn was breaking after the endless night; the trees were black against a sky that began to turn to palest primrose. Half way down the paddock Mr. Warner stopped suddenly, listening to a sound from very far away--only a bushman's ear could have heard the dull whirr. Then, as he looked, far across the dim plain came a flash--the twin lamps of a motor.

He began to run, uttering a great gasp of relief, thankful to be able to help by even so little as opening a gate. The lights grew in size, speeding across the plain to meet him as he ran down the track, until they were great eyes of fire. He swung the gate open as the car came up, slowing down. A keen-eyed man looked out at him from beside the driver. In the tonneau he could see two nurses in uniform.

"This is Narrung Downs? Hullo, is that you, Warner?"

"Don't stop!" Robert Warner uttered, panting. "Room with the light, off the verandah. And for God's sake, Brereton, have something ready to put him to sleep."

Dr. Brereton spoke to the chauffeur, and the car whizzed on. They heard it in the sick room; and the Westown doctor, with a gesture of relief, went out hurriedly. Presently Dick, in the grip of pain, almost beyond endurance, saw a new face by his side--dark eyes that looked into his weary ones with compassion, and a voice with a ring of quiet strength. He felt again the divinely merciful prick on his arm. Agony and fear slowly slipped away from him. His fingers grew limp in his mother's clasp. She put her cheek against his, and, with a little contented sigh, he fell asleep.