“You needn’t think you’re going to boss me,” Rickard flared with impotent resistance. “Mustard! I’ve not taken that since I was a small boy. I’m not going to put my foot in it, do you hear?”
Ling would not hear. He was moving noiselessly around the tent, blind and deaf to scowls and grumbling. Rickard watched him collect blankets and towels. His rebellion was deflected. What an amusing race it was, at cooking, nursing or diplomacy equally facile!
“Who was that outside the door?” The hand suddenly reassured to him.
“Mlister Godfley.” Ling, the laconic, went on with his preparations. When he had finished, he stopped suddenly in front of the bed. Rickard was off guard.
“Here you, ketchem bath. Hop.”
“A bath, get in that? Not on your life,” defied Rickard. But he knew he was as putty in Ling’s hands.
“Hop, velly quick,” commanded Ling.
As Rickard did not hop, he was pulled out of bed by soft Chinese, work-wrinkled fingers. After a sputtering resistance to the sting of the hot mustard, he lay back, an unexpected relaxation meeting his supineness. The first sting over, the pain began to melt from his bones, from his strained aching muscles. His irritability began to dissolve. He decided to forgive Ling, who had left the tent.
His eyes closed. He caught an instant’s doze. Ling’s entrance wakened him.
“This salad water’s all right! I’m going to stay here all night.”