The relief was almost instantaneous. I never experienced such a quick cure
in my life. I carried the bottle in my swag for a long time afterwards,
with an idea of getting it analysed, but left it behind at last in a camp.

Mitchell scratched his head thoughtfully, and watched me for a while.

"I think I'll wait a bit longer," he said at last, "and if it doesn't
blind you I'll put some in my eyes. I'm getting a touch of blight myself now.
That's the fault of travelling with a mate who's always catching something
that's no good to him."

As it grew dark outside we talked of sandy-blight and fly-bite,
and sand-flies up north, and ordinary flies, and branched off to Barcoo rot,
and struck the track again at bees and bee stings. When we got to bees,
Mitchell sat smoking for a while and looking dreamily backwards
along tracks and branch tracks, and round corners and circles
he had travelled, right back to the short, narrow, innocent bit of track
that ends in a vague, misty point -- like the end of a long, straight,
cleared road in the moonlight -- as far back as we can remember.

. . . . .

"I had about fourteen hives," said Mitchell -- "we used to call them `swarms',
no matter whether they were flying or in the box -- when I left home
first time. I kept them behind the shed, in the shade,
on tables of galvanised iron cases turned down on stakes;
but I had to make legs later on, and stand them in pans of water,
on account of the ants. When the bees swarmed -- and some hives sent out
the Lord knows how many swarms in a year, it seemed to me --
we'd tin-kettle 'em, and throw water on 'em, to make 'em believe