the boys? Get Frenchy especially; he knows
something about bandaging and that. It's a case with the leg, I think."

"All right, dear," said Billjim; and the "dear" slipped out unawares,
but she went on hurriedly to cover the slip: "Yes, I'll get Frenchy and
Travers, Tate and Micky the Rat; they all live close together. You won't
faint again, Jack, will you? See, I'll leave this pannikin here with
water. Keep up your pecker, we shan't be long," and she was gone to hide
the tears in her eyes, and the choke in her voice. "It's a case with the
leg" was too much for her.

She was at Frenchy's camp in a very short time. Frenchy was at his fire,
dreaming. When he saw who his visitor was he was startled, to say the
least of it.

"What, Billjim the Beautiful? At this hour of night? Why, what in the
name of...?" were his incoherent ejaculations.

And Billjim for the first time in that eventful night really gave way.
She sat down and sobbed out:

"Oh, Frenchy.... Come.... Poor Jack.... Two mile ... crushed and
bleeding to death, Frenchy.... I saw the blood oozing out.... Oh, dear
me!... Get the boys ... come...."

Frenchy's only answer was a long, melodious howl, which was promptly
re-echoed from right and left and far away back in the scrub, and from
all sides forms hurried up clad in all sorts of strange night costumes.

Some shrank back into the shadows again on seeing a woman sitting at the
fire sobbing, but one and all as they hurried up asked:

"What's up? Niggers?"

They were told, and each hurried back for clothes. Frenchy got his
bandages together, and fetched his bunk out of his tent.

"We'll take this," he said; "it's as far from Jack's camp to the two
mile as it is from here. Now then, Billjim, off we go."

Her followers had to keep moving to keep near her, loaded as they were,
but at last they arrived at the scene of Jack's disaster.

Jack was conscious when they arrived, and Frenchy whipped out a brandy
flask and put it in Billjim's hand, saying:

"Give him a dose every now and again while we mend matters. Sit down
there facing him. That's right. Now, chaps!"

With a will the great piece of granite was moved from off the crushed
and bleeding limb. With deft fingers Frenchy had the trouser leg ripped
up above the knee, and then appeared a horribly crushed, shattered
thigh. Frenchy shook his head dolefully. "Any one got a small penknife?
Ivory or smooth-handled one for preference," he demanded.

"You