“Now, then, you two. Fighting again!” roared the overseer, as he came panting up.
“Fighting, sir!” growled Bart; “rum fighting. He nearly went down.”
“He was trying to escape.”
“Escape!” growled Bart. “Look at him. Sun’s hot.”
The overseer bent down over Abel, whose aspect helped the illusion, for he looked ghastly from his emotion; and he had presence of mind enough to open his eyes, look about, wildly from face to face, and then begin to struggle up, with one hand to his head.
“Is it the fayver, sor?” said one of the soldiers.
“No. Touch of the sun,” said the overseer. “They’re always getting it. There, you’re all right, ar’n’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Abel, slowly, as he picked up his hoe.
“Sit down under the trees there for a few minutes,” said the overseer. “Lend him your water bottle, soldier. And you stop with him till he’s hotter. I’ll come back soon.”
This last was to Bart, playing, as it were, into the prisoners’ hands, for Bart took the water bottle; and as the overseer went off with his guard, Abel was assisted to the edge of the jungle where a huge cotton-tree threw its shade; and here Bart placed him on an old stump, trembling the while, as he held the water to his companion’s lips.