“Thump—thump—thump,, thump rrrrrrrrrrrr” it came, with martial swing and fervour, and crawling nearer, Rolf spied the drummer, pompously strutting up and down a log some forty yards away. He took steady aim, not for the head—a strange gun, at forty yards—for the body. At the crack, the bird fell dead, and in Rolf's heart there swelled up a little gush of joy, which he believed was all for the sake of the invalid, but which a finer analysis might have proved to be due quite as much to pride in himself and his newly bought gun.
Night was coming on when he got back, and he found the Dutch parents in some excitement. “Dot Indian he gay no bring Annette indoors for de night. How she sleep outdoors—like dog—like Bigger—like tramp? Yah it is bad, ain't it?” and poor old Hendrik looked sadly upset and mystified.
“Hendrik, do you suppose God turns out worse air in the night than in the day?”
“Ach, dunno.”
“Well, you see Quonab knows what he's doing.”
“Yah.”
“Well, let him do it. He or I'll sleep alongside the child she'll be all right,” and Rolf thought of those horrible brown crawlers under the bedding indoors.
Rolf had much confidence in the Indian as a doctor, but he had more in his own mother. He was determined to give Annette the quinine, yet he hesitated to interfere. At length, he said: “It is cool enough now; I will put these thin curtains round her bed.”
“Ugh, good!” but the red man sat there while it was being done.
“You need not stay now; I'll watch her, Quonab.”