“I’m glad to feel you,” drawled a well-known voice. “I can’t see you. How are you, Joe Carstairs? Where have you been?”
“Jack, old fellow, I’m glad!” I cried, and I grasped his hands.
“That will do,” said the doctor sternly. “Are the savages after you, Joe?”
“Yes, in full pursuit, I think,” I said. “But my guide. I can’t leave him.”
“Your guide? Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He was here just now. He brought us here.”
“Jimmy-Jimmy say um goes back along,” said the black. “He no top, big fright. Gyp bite um.”
“One of the blacks, Joe?” said the doctor.
“No, no!” I said, so excited that I could hardly speak coherently. “A white man—a prisoner among the blacks—like a savage, but—”
“No, no,” said Jimmy in a disgusted tone; “no like savage black fellow-fellow. Got a dust in head. No tink a bit; all agone.”