“I’m going to try and get some, Nat. I am starving.”
“Think of that now!” cried Nat, feebly. “Why, I’ve got some here. Master Scar! Now, let me think. I’m all in a muddle like in the head, and can’t tell what’s been dreaming and what isn’t; but I’ve got a sort o’ notion that some one come in the dark, and talked to me or talked about me, and then said they’d leave me something to eat.”
“Dreaming, Nat, my poor fellow! Your loss of blood has made you a little off your head.”
“Well, then, if I was dreaming, there aren’t nothing to eat, Master Scar. But if I warn’t dreaming, there’s something close by me here, and— There, Master Scar, it warn’t a dream!”
“Nat!” cried Scarlett, joyfully, as the poor fellow feebly brought forth the food Fred and Samson had left. “May—may I take some?” he faltered.
“Take it all, my dear lad, take it all, and yeat it. I couldn’t yeat anything now. Shouldn’t mind a big mug o’ water. That’s about my tune.”
In spite of himself, Scarlett broke off a piece of the bread cake, and began to eat ravenously.
But he recollected himself directly, and placed some to the wounded man’s lips.
“Thank ye, lad, no,” said Nat, sadly; “but if you could get me a drop o’ water, I’d be ’bliged, for I feel just like a flower a-drying up in the sun.”
Poor Nat did not look it, whatever he might feel; but almost before he had ceased speaking, Scarlett had slipped through the hole as the safest way, gone to the opening by the lake, dipped his hat three-parts full of water, and borne it back, placing it safely between two boughs at the side of the top, while he climbed out; and the next minute he was holding the dripping felt to Nat’s lips.