“I say! Was I very ‘dotty’?”
“Pretty well. But that’s only natural under the circs.”
“Talk much, and all that sort of thing—eh, did I?”
“Oh, yes. The usual incoherencies. But that’s nothing. We’re used to it. In fact, we now and then take a turn at it ourselves when this beastly up-country fever strikes us. Eh, doctor?”
“We do,” answered Dr Ahern, turning away to attend to the unpacking and examination of some scientific specimens, but not before he had added:—
“I wouldn’t talk too much if I were you. It won’t hurt you to keep quiet a little longer.”
A fortnight had gone by since the rescue of the solitary fugitive when in his last and desperate extremity; and, indeed, nothing but the most careful tending had availed to save his life even then—that, and his own constitution, which, as Dr Ahern declared, was that of a bull. Several days of raging and delirious fever had delayed the expedition at the place where it had found him, and then it had moved on again, though slowly, carrying the invalid in an improvised litter. At last the fever had left him, and his wounds were healing; by a miracle and the wonderful skill of the doctor he had escaped blood-poisoning.
The latter’s back turned, the convalescent promptly started to disregard his final injunction.
“I say,” he went on, lowering his voice, “it won’t hurt me to talk a little, will it?”
The other, his tall frame stretched upon the ground, his hat tilted over his eyes, and puffing contentedly at a pipe, laughed.