“What!” cried Frank angrily.
“It’s true, sir. You’re fretting yourself into a sick bed, and though I’d sit up o’ nights, and do anything in the way of nursing you, sir, we can’t afford to have you ill.”
“Why not, Sam?” said the young man bitterly. “It is all hopeless. Poor Harry is dead, and the sooner I follow him the better.”
“Mr Frank—Ben Eddin, I mean—I do wonder at you! It don’t seem like you speaking. Never say die, sir! What, talk about giving up when we’ve got to the place we were trying for! There, I know. You’re done up with being out in the sun. But cheer up, sir. You come and have something to eat, and then have a good night’s rest. You’ll feel different in the morning. Why, we’ve hardly begun yet. You knew before you started that Mr Harry’s up here somewhere. Well, we’ve got to find him, and we will.”
“If I could only think so,” groaned Frank.
“Think so, then, sir,” said Sam earnestly. “Why look at me, sir. ’Bout a month ago I used to groan to myself and think what a fool I was to leave my comfortable pantry in Wimpole Street to come on what I called a wild-goose chase; but I came round and made up my mind as it was a sort o’ duty to the guv’nor and you gents, and though I can’t say I like it, for the smells are horrid, and the way the people live and how they treat other people disgusting, I’m getting regular used to it. Why, if you gentlemen were to call me to-morrow and to say that the job seemed what you called it just now, hopeless, and you were going back, I should feel ashamed of you all. You take my advice, sir, and stick to it like a man. It’s like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, I know; but the needle’s there, and you’ve got to pick out the hay bit by bit till there’s nothing left but dust—it’s sand here—then you’ve got to blow the dust away, and there’s the needle.”
“That’s good philosophy, Sam,” said Frank, smiling.
“Is it, sir? Well, I am glad of it. I only meant it for good advice.”