"Not infernal," he corrected, mollified; "but supernal. I don't think there's any more to tell. Your stunt is to search till you find it, then follow directions."
"You say it grows anywhere?" I continued, assuming interest.
"Where there's pure air and sunshine," he repeated.
"And grows out of snow, 'Crombie?"
"As well as out of warm soil," he averred, doggedly.
"It appears to me that you're looney, 'Crombie, but I hope you're not, and I'll hunt for your bloomin' life-plant. But the question now is: who is going with me into my hill of refuge?"
"Who's going with you? Nobody! Who would go with you? People nowadays have neither time nor inclination to burrow in the wilderness for a twelve-month!"
I groaned, for I knew that he was right. Martyrdom never has company.
"There's no other way?" I pleaded. "Couldn't I have a native look for this healing flower for me?"
He shook his head. "It withers soon after it is plucked. You had better carry a sealed jar of water with you on your tramps."