“Ten swallows. And in five minutes another ten swallows. Will that suit?”
George nodded and eagerly reached for the canteen.
“I’ll count, and at ten you quit,” Terry instructed.
He grabbed the canteen from George’s lips at the eleventh swallow, and George grudgingly yielded.
“Where’s Mr. Bates? Did you find Mr. Bates?” he asked, still a bit thickly. “And my dad?”
“Yes. They’re coming ’round. They’ve asked after you, too. You’re all going to be all right. Tongue more limber, eh? What happened to you fellows? Get lost?”
“I guess so,” George confessed. “Trying to run a line across—for railroad—no water—no water ’t all—three days—awful dry——” and his voice fell off. “Don’t I get ’nother drink?” he wailed.
“Let him have it,” bade the doctor, and turned back.
It was the grandest thing in the world to watch George drink, and drink, and swell with the moisture, and grow stronger.
“Whew!” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I was like an old buffalo carcass lying out for a year or two. Nothing but hide and bones. Now I’m loosening up. Golly, but I’m glad to see you. We all thought we were goners, except Mr. Bates. He said we’d get through, but he was worse off than any of us. I was sorry for dad. Wish I could see ’em. How far’s the railroad in?”