Then he drew in his breath, shut his teeth hard, shouldered his swag,
stepped into the doorway, and faced round again.

The dog limped out of the corner and looked up anxiously.

"That there dog," said Macquarie to the hospital staff in general,
"is a better dog than I'm a man--or you too, it seems--and a better
Christian. He's been a better mate to me than I ever was to any
man--or any man to me. He's watched over me; kep' me from getting
robbed many a time; fought for me; saved my life and took drunken
kicks and curses for thanks--and forgave me. He's been a true,
straight, honest, and faithful mate to me--and I ain't going to desert
him now. I ain't going to kick him out in the road with a broken leg.
I--Oh, my God! my back!"

He groaned and lurched forward, but they caught him, slipped off the
swag, and laid him on a bed.

Half an hour later the shearer was comfortably fixed up.

"Where's my dog!" he asked, when he came to himself.

"Oh, the dog's all right," said the nurse, rather impatiently.
"Don't bother. The doctor's setting his leg out in the yard."




GOING BLIND