He mumbled the last words in a low voice, and in tones which showed that he was feeling irritable. In fact, his mind was more or less of a blank. He had no idea who was speaking, and he cared less. He felt drowsy, and objected to being disturbed.
"Bueno, Pepito! The water comes in handy, and our young master will thank us for it. Lift his head so. Now I will dash some of the contents of this sack in his face."
On the pampas it was the custom to carry water in a canvas bag, just as it is in Egypt, and in Africa, and in many another country. Pepito, a young gaucho who had been sent for his store, stood by grinning with anxiety, for he had taken a fancy to this young English fellow, while Pietro knelt and lifted Dudley's head. Then the tall gaucho with the melancholy air deliberately dashed some of the water in the face of the half-unconscious youth.
"Here, I say!" gasped Dudley, frantically struggling to sit up, and opening his eyes wide. "Look here! No more of that! If you try the game again I'll——"
He stopped short, his mouth wide open, and his eyes fixed on Pietro's honest face. Up to that very instant his wits had been sadly wandering, and he had imagined himself at school again. This was, so he thought, a game being played at his expense, and——
"Why, it's Pietro, and that's Pepito! What are you grinning for?"
The young gaucho turned his head away in confusion, while Pietro lifted his patient higher.
"Yes, we are here, señor," he said. "Is the señor right in his mind now? Is his head sore? For the fall was a heavy one, and, as I said, the ground is hard."
"Was his head sore?" Dudley sat up suddenly and gazed about him in bewilderment, for he had still no recollection of what had happened a few minutes before. He ran his hands over his head, and then turned to speak again to Pepito, only to feel acute pain in his neck, and give a sudden cry.
"That is queer. My neck feels as if it had been almost broken, or as if some fellow had collared me and given it a firm and friendly screw. Hallo!"