“Then your head’s not healed. Now, my dear boys, experience has told me that in this country very slight injuries develop into terrible ulcers and other blood-poisoning troubles. That renegade beast you tell me about is to answer for your limbs being in a very bad condition, and it will take all I know to set them right.”
“But, doctor, I wouldn’t have cared if they were good honest wounds.”
“All wounds are wounds, sir, and injuries are injuries, to a surgeon. Frankly, neither of you must put a foot to the ground for weeks.”
“Oh doctor!” we exclaimed together.
“My dear boys, trust me,” he said. “I want to see you stout men, not cripples on crutches, and— How dare you, you black-looking scoundrel!”
“Joeboy!” we shouted together excitedly. “Jump in. Hurrah!”
As the doctor had spoken we noticed Joeboy’s black face, with gleaming eyes and grinning mouth, rising above the big box at the end of the wagon. He wanted no further orders, but swung himself in lightly.
“Um?” he exclaimed. “Boss Val, Boss Denham right?”
“Yes,” I cried, holding out my hand, which he took. “Joeboy, you frightened me; I thought you were killed.”
“Um? Joeboy killed? What for? Been look all among the dead ones and broken ones; um dead quite.”