"How are you this morning?" asked Warner pleasantly.
"Much better, I thank you, sir."
"Let's have a look. Capital, capital. Now don't move, I'll just touch it up."
Warner, remembering his overnight decision, plunged the brush deeply into the bottle and withdrew it fully charged and dripping.
He began to dab the throat here and there as before. A gurgling sound came from Joseph Johnson's mouth. Warner recognised the warning. He knew his time was distinctly limited. He felt that, if he did not hurry, much of the enormous cavern would remain unpainted. With a rapid movement, like one stirring porridge to save it from burning, he finished the job and stepped back.
Joseph Johnson seemed to explode. Tears forced their way through his tightly closed eyelids. A roar boomed from the painted throat. The patient's condition quite alarmed the doctor. Surely the fool wasn't going to die?
Looking round for inspiration, Warner saw that the native canoe had returned to ferry him across the river. He didn't actually run away, but quickly corking his bottle of iodine he walked briskly to the river bank, entered the canoe and told the crew to paddle to the other side.
He heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped ashore. He looked back, but could see no sign of Joseph Johnson.
Some weeks later his troubled conscience was set at rest by the following letter: