COMRADE, THE SURVEYOR.

Hot Lakes Chronicle, Volume 4, Issue 184, 10 June 1896, Page 3

COMRADE, THE SURVEYOR.

A NEW ZEALAND STORY FotTNTJED ON FACT.

BY victor zeal

chapter iiiAnxiety. «'Ho has been away from the eimp pight days already./' said Wolf Nash moodily, " and if we find him at all, ;t will be mangled at the foot of some "Wolf, you fool!" cried Guy Halcombe. with trembling lips, "Of course we'll find old Comrade, if he fell at a ]l, it is sure to have been on his feet. lie's only waiting for us to come to him, that's all." "Waiting for us," I thought, "not on New Zealand's shore, but in the land, whence, when we do go, none will return." I didn't tell Wolf I nt rreed with him, but Comrade's presentiment, and his coming back to say good-bye, kept surging through my brain, and 1 know the others thought of it too, though they spoke no word Reaching the mountains, we searched all day, cooeeing and calling his name, but our only answer was the roaiinfr of the river ; the whistling of the wind, or tll(3 wilu bird's song. VTh' d daxkress fell, we camped for the night, and with tho rising of the sua next morning, were ready to continue our pitiful ta-k. Wolf wandered towards the edge of n precipice, caused by an immense slip ol shingle from tho mountainside. Suddenly he returned, his face going white and red. "Boys," he said, " I . see something lying in the valley—lt looks like—a man I" He meant, " like Comrade," we guessed he meant that, but could not bring himself to say so. We followed him without a word. Wo looked over the ravine. Yes, something was lying at the foot of the slip,- and it was a num.

With great difficulty we readied the valley. Guy ran forward and bending over the quiet form, cried out, '•0, Comrade, Comrade.!" then, turning away buried bis face in hishands, and sobbed like a child. But Wilfred Nash fell on his knees', ;.<.,{ placed his ear to tho heart, that would nevei beat again. It was a sight never to be forgotten, His face was upturned to the summer sky, a smile on the peaceful mouth, a mouth that had looked almost womanish sometimes in its sweetness of expression. Whatever his sufferings had been before he died, death itself must have been perfect peace and painlessness

" Wolf, dear old fellow," I said, " rise up. Comrade has been dead some time." The boy stirred not. Ho had fainted over the body of his dead friend. Gently we lifted him away, and dashing c.ild water on his face, soon brought him round, lie opened Ins eyes and sighed deeply. 11 Look !" ejaculated Guy. " He has leen alive for some days ! The

grai-s. It was too true. All around the grass had been eaten to the very roots, ay, the roots portly eaten too in some casi s. It was a grass pecu iar t > that part of the i>land, " Matai Kauri," or Wild Irishman, as it is more generally called.

" Yes," said another, who had been examining the body, " both his legs tire broken, but here is his pocketbook, that may toll us something."

lie held out, the book, yet none (laird touch it, till Wolf exclaimed,

" You were his oldest friend Claude. Open it!" 1 took the book. The sad little party seated themselves ou tussocks or shingle near me. I never forgot the i no. The infinitely blue sky above, the rugged mountain breaking into smiles all glorious at the sun's first kiss; the roaring and foaming of tbe river as it swirled by ; the mournful little group around me, and the quiet dead in our midst. CHAI'TER IV. A Dead Mans Diary. Wolf Nash leaned his head against my knee shading his white face with his hand as I opened the book and

Dec. 23rd. 1883. " I do not know if this will ever be found, and my fate made known, 1 know the chances are one in a thousand, still, while I live, I will keep count of the days, till my fingeis can no longer hold a pencil. My name is Hugh Standish. 1 have been out from KngJand a little more than a year. Thank Heaven, there is no mother at home to mourn my lo:-s, but 1 have two sisters, a brother—uud —someone elsa. Their addiess is on a h iter in the breu>t pocket of my coat. Yesterday afternoon I left the camp intending to make for Farnhnin. The darkness came down upon the mountains sooner than I expected,. 1 must have missed luy w;<y and taken the wrong water' shed. This 1 knew not at the time, and alter wandering aimlessly about for some hours, 1 saw, to my great joy, a glimmering light in the distance. 1 made for the light. I knew that a river ran between me and the welcome gleam, for I could bear it roaring, still 1 felt that that difficulty could be easily bridged if once I reached the valley. Thus thinking, 1 stepped forward, and stepped as 1 'bought then, and as I think now — hut with a rest on the way—into J'-'' rniiy. I had literally walked over tin ■ dge of a terrible landslip. I rePii tuber the fist awful sensation of fflhiug (not down a perpendicular

precipice, but an angle of about 4 a deg.) and wildly catching at loose stones and earth, which only rolled clown the mountain-side with me. I don't remember reaching tho valley I must have been stunned somehow, for when I came to myself the sun was high in the heavens, and it was half past ten by my watch." As I readthese words Guy Halcombe uttered an exclamation, and, taking Comrade's watch from his pocket, held it to his ear.

He shook hi 3 head despairingly, is we looked up, saying, " I wonder if he wound it to the Inst ?"

" Eead on, Claude," said Wolf, shuddering. " I was in fearful agon} - and almost screamed with pain when I tried to move. Time indeed to give up all hope, for both my legs were broken. My head ached in groat throbs, and I felt as if I had been smashed about with a flail. It is now 5 (? clock, 1 have been writing at intervals since noon.

2i!th. Christmas Eve! I expected to be in Dunedin to-night, the city I shall never behold. Last night and to day the pain has been great; I have dozed at times, only to awake in agony. Worse than all, I have heard dogs barking; have seen again the light which guided me to death. 0, it is hard to bear.! To die by inches. within reach of help, in sight of a house, yet as far from both as if I wore in the backwoods of Australia. To call is vain, for the river would render the loudest cry, a mere whisper. Thank God, I can reach water, and eat the grass about me. 2.3 th. I know, that at home, ' A Merry Ch: i mias ' has been wished me aud by the dear old boys in c imp. Ah! if they only knew ? If someone would only conio ? Tho pangs of hunger have taken hold of me, and — I suffer.

2Gth. To-day I saw people on the hills. I enlled aloud iu a frenzy, but of no avail. Tho pain is almost unbearable. My God! If there no alternative? Must I die?

12.7t1i. The grass is almost, gone —I am st Irving'—starving—Will no one come?

L'.sth. Six days'! My head swims. I can hardly write. God grant i may die before Igo mad. Release may come to-night. Sisters, brother, Alice, my loved one, Goodbye. 29th. Tho pain is gone. All is peace. Alice, my love! God keep you—The end is near—l am going—going—"Alone—yet nt '

That was all. There was not a dry ej - e in tho group when 1 closed the book. Wolf's whole frame quivered with convulsive sobs, an I when we remonstrated with him, he cried, "0 Comrade!! I loved you! Why then may I not mourn for you ?" " Hush, Wolf," Raid Guy, laying his hand oil tho boy's arm. "We all loved him, and mourn with you, lad." He could say no more, but turned away with brimming eyes. " Has ho any relations out here ?" asked one of tho Dnnedin men. " None," I replied, "he often said so.''

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