"Don't be an ass, Bones!" said Sanders irritably. "Your job is to make these beggars work. They'll simply sit and die unless you start them on drainage work. Cut a few ditches with a fall to the river; kick Ranabini for me; take up a few kilos of quinine and dose them."
Nevertheless, Bones managed to smuggle on board quite a respectable amount of scientific apparatus, and came in good heart to the despondent folk of the Lower Isisi.
Three weeks after Bones had taken his departure, Sanders was sitting at dinner in a very thoughtful mood.
Patricia had made several ineffectual attempts to draw him into a conversation, and had been answered in monosyllables. At first she had been piqued and a little angry, but, as the meal progressed, she realized that matters of more than ordinary seriousness were occupying his thoughts, and wisely changed her attitude of mind. A chance reference to Bones, however, succeeded where more pointed attempts had failed.
"Yes," said Sanders, in answer to the question she had put, "Bones has some rough idea of medical practice. He was a cub student at Bart.'s for two years before he realized that surgery and medicines weren't his forte."
"Don't you sometimes feel the need of a doctor here?" she asked, and Sanders smiled.
"There is very little necessity. The military doctor comes down occasionally from headquarters, and we have a native apothecary. We have few epidemics amongst the natives, and those the medical missions deal with—sleep-sickness, beri-beri and the like. Sometimes, of course, we have a pretty bad outbreak which spreads——Don't go, Hamilton—I want to see you for a minute."
Hamilton had risen, and was making for his room, with a little nod to his sister.
At Sanders's word he turned.
"Walk with me for a few minutes," said Sanders, and, with an apology to the girl, he followed the other from the room.