which I am sure quite half my waking hours (not
to mention dream fancies and half waking meditations in bed) were
devoted to thinking out and preparing special little dishes from the
limited range of food-stuffs at my command.

'A s'prise for you this morning, father,' I would say, as I led the
way, proudly, to our dining-table, or, in one of his bad times,
arrived at his bunk-side, carrying the carefully pared sheet of
stringy bark which served us for a tray. There would be elaborate
uncoverings on my side, and sniffs of pretended eagerness from my
father; and, thanks to the unvarying kindliness and courtesy of his
nature, I dare say my poor efforts really were of some value, because
full many a time I am sure they led to his eating when, but for
consideration of my feelings, he had gone unnourished, and so
aggravated his growing weakness.

'God bless my soul, Nick,' he would say, after a taste of my latest
concoction; 'what would they not give to have you at the Langham, or
Simpson's? I believe you are going to be a second Soyer, and control
the destinies of empires from a palace kitchen. Bush cooking,
forsooth! Why this--this latest triumph is nectar--ambrosial stuff,
Nick--more good, hearty body in it than any wines the gods ever
quaffed. You'll see, I shall begin forthwith to lay on fat, like a
Christmas turkey.'

My father could not always rise to such flights, of course; but many
and many a time he took a meal he would otherwise have lacked, solely
to gratify his small cook.

There came a time when my father passed the whole of every morning in
bed, and, later, a time when he left his bunk for no more than an hour
or two each afternoon. The thought of seeking a doctor's help never
occurred to me, and my father never mentioned it. I suppose we had
grown used to relying upon ourselves, to ignoring the resources of
civilisation, which, indeed, for my part, I had almost forgotten. Not
often, I fancy, in modern days has a boy of eleven or twelve years
passed through so strange an experience, or known isolation more
complete.

The climax of it all dates in my memory from an evening upon which I
returned with Jerry from a journey to the road (for stores) to find my
father lying unconscious beside the saloon table, where his paper and
pens were spread upon a blotting-pad. Fear had my very heart in his
cold grip that night. There was, no doubt, a certain grotesqueness,
due to ignorance, about many of my actions. In