“Let’s see, Samuel,” said the doctor quietly, and he followed his man into the next room, to find Frank talking wildly.
He seemed to recognise his friend directly, and caught him by the arm.
“Look here,” he said, “I have no time to advise you, Hal. Be thrown from a horse; cut your forehead, or your leg. Do something that they can see looks bad—something that will stain your white things with blood. They will believe it then, and beg that you may be taken to the Hakim.—Ah, what are you doing here? Why are you not curing the Baggara’s white slave?”
The doctor had taken his young friend’s wrist and laid a cool hand upon his burning, throbbing brow, with excellent effect, for Frank’s loud talking grew broken, then indistinct, and rapidly sank into a low, incoherent babbling, as he closed his eyes.
“Hah!” said Sam softly; “it’s wonderful, sir. To do that with just a touch of your hands. But what is it, sir? One of those horrible African fevers? ’Tain’t catching, is it?” he added excitedly.
“If you feel alarmed,” replied the doctor coldly, “keep away from the room. Mr Landon and I will nurse him.”
Sam turned upon him with a reproachful look.
“Likely, sir!” he said scornfully, and he bent over the angareb and began giving little touches to the pillow, making a point of passing his hand over Frank’s face and leaning quite close so as to feel his breath play upon his cheek, before laying a hand upon the sufferer’s. “I don’t care if it is ketching,” he said; “I’m not going to leave Master Frank in a hole like that. If I get it he’ll get better and help me. Breath’s hot, sir, but it don’t smell nasty and fevery. P’r’aps it’s only being too much in the sun, after all.”
“Thank you, Samuel,” said the doctor, in his quiet, grave way, and he patted the man gently on the shoulder.
“Thank me, sir?—Oh, here’s Mr Landon, sir.”