"No, Dad, no!" he squealed, straining and kicking like an old man kangaroo. Anderson stuck to him, though, and with Sal's assistance held his finger on the block till Dad carefully rested the chisel on it and brought the hammer down. It did n't sever the finger—it only scraped the nail off—but it did make Joe buck. He struggled desperately and got away.
Anderson could n't run at all; Dad was little faster; Sal could run like a greyhound in her bare feet, but, before she could pull her boots off, Joe had disappeared in the corn.
"Quick!" Dad shouted, and the trio followed the patient. They hunted through the corn from end to end, but found no trace of him. Night came The search continued. They called, and called, but nothing answered save the ghostly echoes, the rustling of leaves, the slow, sonorous notes of a distant bear, or the neighing of a horse in the grass-paddock.
At midnight they gave up, and went home, and sat inside and listened, and looked distracted.
While they sat, "Whisky," a blackfellow from Billson's station, dropped in. He was taking a horse down to town for his boss, and asked Dad if he could stay till morning. Dad said he could. He slept in Dave's bed; Dave slept on the sofa.
"If Joe ain't dead, and wuz t' come in before mornm'," Dave said, "there won't be room for us all."
And before morning Joe did come in. He entered stealthily by the back-door, and crawled quietly into bed.
