For all that the town became distasteful to him.  He bought a cheap revolver—­for there was a talk of bushrangers in the neighborhood—­and started to walk to George Fielding’s farm.  He reached it in the evening.

“There is no George Fielding here,” was the news.  “He left this more than six months ago.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not I.”

Robinson had to ask everybody he met where George Fielding was gone to.  At last, by good luck, he fell in with George’s friend, McLaughlan, who told him it was twenty-five miles off.

“Twenty-five miles? that must be for to-morrow, then.”

McLaughlan told him he knew George Fielding very well.  “He is a fine lad.”  Then he asked Robinson what was his business.  Robinson took down a very thin light board with ornamented words painted on it.

“That is my business,” said he.

At the sight of a real business the worthy Scot offered to take care of him for the night, and put him on the road to Fielding’s next morning.  Next morning Robinson painted his front door as a return for bed and breakfast.  McLaughlan gave him somewhat intricate instructions for to-morrow’s route.  Robinson followed them and soon lost his way.  He was set right again, but lost it again; and after a tremendous day’s walk made up his mind he should have to camp in the open air and without his supper—­when he heard a dog baying in the distance.  “There is a house of some kind anyway,” thought Robinson, “but where?—­I see none—­better make for the dog.”

He made straight for the sound, but still he could not see any house.  At last, however, coming over a hill he found a house beneath him, and on the other side of this house the dog was howling incessantly.  Robinson came down the hill, walked round the house, and there sat the dog on the steps.

“Well, it is you for howling anyway,” said Robinson.

“Anybody at home?” he shouted.  No one answered, and the dog howled on.

“Why, the place is deserted, I think.  Haven’t I seen that dog before?  Why, it is Carlo!  Here, Carlo, poor fellow, Carlo, what is the matter?”

The dog gave a little whimper as Robinson stooped and patted him, but no sign of positive recognition, but he pattered into the house.  Robinson followed him, and there he found the man he had come to see—­stretched on his bed—­pale and hollow-eyed and grisly—­and looking like a corpse in the fading light.

Robinson was awestruck.  “Oh! what is this?” said he.  “Have I come all this way to bury him?”

He leaned over and felt his heart; it beat feebly but equably, and he muttered something unintelligible when Robinson touched him.  Then Robinson struck a light, and right glad he was to find a cauldron full of gelatinized beef soup.  He warmed some and ate a great supper, and Carlo sat and whimpered, and then wagged his tail and plucked up more and more spirit, and finally recognized Tom all in a moment somehow