“You have got your first touch of fever,” he said. “I wonder you've been so long without it. You had better lie down at once.”
A quarter of an hour afterwards Frank was seized with an overpowering heat, every vein appearing to be filled with liquid fire; but his skin, instead of being, as usual, in a state of perspiration, was dry and hard.
“Now, Frank, sit up and drink this. It's only some mustard and salt and water. I have immense faith in an emetic.”
The draught soon took its effect. Frank was violently sick, and the perspiration broke in streams from him.
“Here is a cup of tea,” Mr. Goodenough said; “drink that and you will find that there will be little the matter with you in the morning.”
Frank awoke feeling weak, but otherwise perfectly well. Mr. Goodenough administered a strong dose of quinine, and after he had had his breakfast he felt quite himself again.
“Now,” Mr. Goodenough said, “we will go up to the factories and mission and try and find a really good servant. Everything depends upon that.”
In a short time an engagement was made with a negro of the name of Ostik. He was a Mpongwe man, that being the name of the tribe on the coast. He spoke English fairly, as well as two or three of the native languages. He had before made a journey some distance into the interior with a white traveler. He was a tall and powerfully built negro, very ugly, but with a pleasant and honest face. Frank felt at once that he should like him.
“You quite understand,” Mr. Goodenough explained, “we are going through the Fan country, far into the interior. We may be away from the coast for many months.”
“Me ready, sar,” the man answered with a grin. “Mak no odds to Ostik. He got no wife, no piccanniny. Ostik very good cook. Master find good grub; he catch plenty of beasts.”