“It’s only my leg!” said another one, which I recognized as Perkins’s. “Where’s master?” he cried.
“Here I am,” I answered, but they did not seem to hear me. They were all bending over something which lay in front of the car.
Stanley laid his hand upon my shoulder, and his touch was inexpressibly soothing. I felt light and happy, in spite of all.
“No pain, of course?” said he.
“None,” said I.
“There never is,” said he.
And then suddenly a wave of amazement passed over me. Stanley! Stanley! Why, Stanley had surely died of enteric at Bloemfontein in the Boer War!
“Stanley!” I cried, and the words seemed to choke my throat—“Stanley, you are dead.”
He looked at me with the same old gentle, wistful smile.
“So are you,” he answered.