“I have been trying for hours, Dan—ever since I lay down; and then as I couldn’t I got out of the waggon and came to have a chat with you; and then—it wasn’t you, because it was—because it was—is that you, Dan?”
“Yes, my dear lad; it’s me. What is it you want?”
“I don’t know, Dan, only I feel as if I couldn’t think and talk properly. Who’s that?”
“Buck Denham, my lad. How goes it?” said the big fellow.
“I don’t know, Buck, only that—oh, Dan said that you got hurt with a spear.”
“Oh, yes, my lad; a bit of a dig—made me so wild I brought the butt of my rifle down on that nigger’s head, and it was too dark to see, but I felt him roll over, and I trod on him.”
“Look here—look here, Buck; I’m hurt.”
“Yes, my lad; but just you lie quiet and try to sleep it off.”
“Now you are talking the same. I want the doctor to come and see to Dan; and you had better let him see to you too. I say, Buck, whose father was it somebody was asking for?”
“Whose father, my lad?”