“Gahle—gahle!” said the other, “and that means ‘no hurry.’ A little at a time is what’ll meet your case. Here you are;” and he filled him out a small measure. But so tremulous were the sufferer’s hands with eagerness and weakness combined that he spilled half its contents.
“That won’t do, sonny. This stuffs too valuable till we get clear of the mopani belt. Here—give it to me.” And he held it to the other’s lips.
“More—more.”
“No; that’s enough to go on with. Well—a little more, then. Now, pull yourself together and come along with me. What? Starving? Oh ay. Well, chew at this chunk o’ biscuit. It ain’t soft tack but it’s better than nothing, and I’m too old a sailor—prospector, I mean—to be navigating these seas without a shot in the locker.”
The other munched fiercely at the brown, uninviting bit of biscuit. His succourer looked approvingly on.
“That’s right,” he said. “Now we’ll serve out some more water. Then I’ll put you on my horse—he’s anchored t’other side of the sluit—and we’ll shape a course for my donkey-carts. They’re out-spanned on the road.”
“The road? Are we near the road?” stammered the other.
“Mile or so. But keep your tongue down, sonny, until we get there. You don’t want to talk a lot till you’ve had some proper skoff.”