I was quite right, as I found when I reached the spot, followed by all the little camp: the doctor was performing an operation, and the Australian was upon his knees now, his feet then, capering about, and appealing for mercy.
For the instrument with which the doctor was performing his operation was the stout cane I had previously seen in his hand, one that he had cut in the jungle, and then sent me away so as to spare my feelings and keep me from witnessing the painful sight.
To my utter astonishment Jimmy was apparently free from all traces of his late ailment, and catching sight of me he bounded to me, getting behind me to avoid the hail of blows that the doctor was showering upon his unprotected person.
“Doctor!” I shouted.
“The dose to be repeated,” he said, “when necessary,” and he reached round me with the cane, giving Jimmy two or three very sharp cuts. “See how this takes down the swelling. For outward application only. One dose nearly certain to cure.”
“What are you doing?” I cried.
“Doing? Performing a wonderful cure. Hasn’t Jimmy here been horribly ill, and alarmed the whole camp?”
Every time he could he gave Jimmy a smart cut, and the black shrieked with pain.
“How are you now, my man?” he said mockingly.
“Jimmy quite as well. Ever so better. All rightums. Tank you better,” yelled the black, and he sheltered himself again behind my back.