"Been sick with fever -- Queensland fever. Just come through
from the North. Been out on the Diamantina last."

"Ay. I was there mysel'," said M'Gregor. "Hae ye the fever on ye still?"

"Yes -- goin' home to get rid of it."

A man can only get Queensland fever in a malarial district, but he can
carry it with him wherever he goes. If he stays, it will sap his strength
and pull him to pieces; if he moves to a better climate, the malady moves
with him, leaving him by degrees, and coming back at regular intervals
to rack, shake, burn, and sweat its victim. Gradually it wears itself out,
often wearing its patient out at the same time. M'Gregor had been through
the experience, and there was a slight change in his voice as he went on
with his palaver.

"Whaur are ye makin' for the noo?"

"Monaro -- my people live in Monaro."

"Hoo will ye get to Monaro gin ye sell the horrse?"

"Coach and rail. Too sick to care about ridin'," said the drover,
while a wan smile flitted over his yellow-grey features.
"I've rode him far enough. I've rode that horse a thousand miles.
I wouldn't sell him, only I'm a bit hard up. Sellin' him now
to get the money to go home."

"Hoo auld is he?"