Warner was greatly pleased. He looked upon the coming of this wounded man as a stroke of good fortune. Here at last was a straightforward case, all clear and above board. And he knew exactly what to do. Corrosive sublimate, one in ten thousand, wash the blood off, keep the wounds clean, make the man comfortable.
He shouted for his kitchen boys and ordered warm water in large quantities. He had not seen them go, so called the wounded man's companions to build a shelter of grass and branches for him. When he realised that they had gone, he set to work on the shelter himself.
For weeks Warner laboured on those wounds. The man improved slowly. As he grew better he spoke of payment. Warner told him not to bother about it, but he persisted.
"Have you not given me back my life?"
"What of it?"
"Are not those others dead?"
Now, this was true. The other wounded men who went to their homes all died of blood-poisoning, and Warner's reputation grew in consequence.
But no matter what arguments and persuasions were used, Warner would not hear of payment in any shape or form.
The man was obstinate.
"If I receive a gift from a man, must I not give one in return? Am I to be shamed? Is it not the custom that a gift shall be received with a gift? And gifts must be equal. What, then, shall I give to the Great Doctor? What have I, a very poor man, of value equal to the life which the Doctor has given back to me? I have no cattle and no sheep. I have a few goats, very few, and I have some wild cats' skins. But what are these to a life?"