“That you, Mr Mark?” groaned the keeper. “Oh, all over, and I’m afraid my leg’s broke.”
“Let me come,” said the doctor. “Knives here: cut back some of these thorns. Now then, try to bear it, my lad,” he continued, as he knelt beside the injured man, who was half invisible amongst the thick growth.
“Oh!” groaned the keeper.
“There, I will not hurt you more than I can help, but I must find where you are injured.”
“Oh!” groaned the man again.
“Come, your leg’s not broken. Yes, no doubt it hurts you, but it’s only a sprain. Keep up your spirits. You are not going to die this time.”
“But I am hurt all over, sir. The bullocks trampled me: came all in a rush.”
“But how came you here, mate?” asked Dan, pausing from his busy task of slashing away at the undergrowth with the big sheath knife which he used for skinning and cutting up.
“I dunno, mate. It all seems like a dream.”
“Like a dream?” said Mark, as he recalled his own awakening.