“And picked out,” said the ensign impatiently.
“Yes, but not before I’d been swimming for a quarter of an hour—good measure. Oh, I say, Tom, didn’t I think of the crocodiles!”
“You’re such a cheeky little beggar, I wonder they didn’t get you,” said Tom, who looked feverish and excited. “I say, Bob Roberts, you know what that chap, that Kling fellow, said to us about the krises.”
“Yes, of course. What then?”
“Do you think they are poisoned?”
“No, not a bit. Do you?”
“Yes,” said the young ensign; “and I am sure this one was, for I can feel the wound throbbing and stabbing, and a curious sensation running to my finger ends.”
“Well, so one did when one had a bad cut,” said Bob sharply. “Bah! poisoned! it’s all rubbish. Why, if you had been poisoned you’d have been sleepy and stupid.”
“I feel so now.”
“What—stupid?” said Bob, grinning. “Well that’s natural: you always were?”