The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a sort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were camped -- Jack Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, very thick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on edge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and a lot of old rags and straw burning inside.
We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day -- swagmen know what that means. We reached the water about two hours "after dark" -- swagmen know what that means. We didn't sit down at once and rest -- we hadn't rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat down we wouldn't want to get up again in a hurry -- that, if we did, our leg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would "draw" like red-hot wire's. You see, we hadn't been long on the track this time -- it was only our third day out. Swagmen will understand.
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