“I’m sure mineralogy is not,” retorted Prose, throwing down his crowbar from exhaustion.
Fortunately for Prose, by the directions of the interpreter, the baggage elephant who carried the tent, and the natives accompanying it, now halted opposite to the rock, on the side where Prose was, for the wish expressed by Macallan to remain there had been construed by the interpreter as a selection of the place where the refreshments should be prepared. One of the natives, perceiving what Prose was about when he threw away the crowbar, offered his assistance, which was readily accepted, and the labour was continued.
“Well, Mr Prose, how do you get on now?”
“Oh—capitally.”
“Don’t you find it very warm?” continued Macallan, who stopped to wipe the streams of perspiration from his own face.
“Oh, no,” answered Prose, chuckling.
“Well, I do, I can assure you,” answered the doctor, who, not wishing to show symptoms of flagging while Prose was working so hard, recommenced his labour.
Another quarter of an hour, and the doctor was quite exhausted; wishing for an excuse to leave off himself, he called again to Prose—
“An’t you tired, Mr Prose?”
“Not the least, doctor.”