“Exactly. What of that?” he replied.
“Then if my poor father were anywhere a prisoner, he would have been sure to have found some means of communicating with the traders if he had not escaped.”
“Your old argument, Joe,” he said. “Are you tired of the quest?”
“Tired? No!” I cried excitedly.
“Then recollect the spirit in which we set about this search. We said we would find him.”
“And so we will: my mind is made up to find him—if he be living,” I added mournfully.
“Aha!” said the doctor, bending forward and looking at me by the light of the burning wood, “I see, my fine fellow, I see. We are a bit upset with thinking and worry. Nerves want a little tone, eh? as we doctors say. My dear boy, I shall have to feel your pulse and put you to bed for a day or two. This is a nice high and dry place: suppose we camp here for a little, and—”
“Oh no, no, doctor,” I cried.
“But I say, Oh yes, yes. Why, Joe, you’re not afraid of a dose of physic, are you? You want something, that’s evident. Boys of your age don’t have despondent fits without a cause.”
“I have only been thinking a little more about home, and—my poor father,” I said with a sigh.