ainst the wall.

"Come, come now! man alive!" exclaimed the doctor, impatiently. "You
must be mad. You know you are not in a fit state to go out. Let the
wardsman help you to undress."

"No!" said Macquarie. "No. If you won't take my dog in you don't take
me. He's got a broken leg and wants fixing up just--just as much as--as
I do. If I'm good enough to come in, he's good enough--and--and better."

He paused awhile, breathing painfully, and then went on.

"That--that there old dog of mine has follered me faithful and true,
these twelve long hard and hungry years. He's about--about the only
thing that ever cared whether I lived or fell and rotted on the cursed
track."

He rested again; then he continued: "That--that there dog was pupped
on the track," he said, with a sad sort of a smile. "I carried him for
months in a billy, and afterwards on my swag when he knocked up.... And
the old slut--his mother--she'd foller along quite contented--and sniff
the billy now and again--just to see if he was all right.... She follered
me for God knows how many years. She follered me till she was blind--and
for a year after. She follered me till she could crawl along through the
dust no longer, and--and then I killed her, because I couldn't leave her
behind alive!"

He rested again.

"And this here old dog," he continued, touching Tally's upturned nose
with his knotted fingers, "this here old dog has follered me for--for
ten years; through floods and droughts, through fair times and--and
hard--mostly hard; and kept me from going mad when I had no mate nor
money on the lonely track; and watched over me for weeks when I was
drunk--drugged and poisoned at the cursed shanties; and saved my life
more'n once, and got kicks and curses very often for thanks; and forgave
me for it all; and--and fought for me. He was the only living thing that
stood up for me against that crawling push of curs when they set onter
me at the shanty back yonder--and he left his mark on some of 'em too;
and--and so did I."

He took another spell.

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