“Yes, you do, sir. You set up a theory of your own that your blood is poisoned, in opposition to mine that it is not.”
“But are you sure it is not, doctor?”
“Am I sure? Why, by this time if that kris had been poisoned you would have had lock-jaw.”
“And Locke on the Understanding,” put in Bob.
“Yes,” laughed the doctor; “and been locked up altogether. There, there, my dear boy, keep yourself quiet, and trust me to bring you round. You, Bob Roberts, don’t let him talk, and don’t talk much yourself. You’d better go to sleep, Long.”
“Wound pains me too much, doctor. It throbs so. Isn’t that a sign of poison?”
“I’ll go and mix you up a dose of poison that shall send you to sleep for twelve hours, my fine fellow, if you don’t stop all that nonsense. Your wound is not poisoned, neither is that of any other man who came back from the expedition; and if it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, you’ve got the ugliest dig of any man—I mean boy—amongst the wounded.”
The doctor arranged the matting-screen so as to admit more air, and bustled towards the door—but stopped short on hearing a buzzing sound at the open window, went back on tiptoe, and cleverly captured a large insect.
“A splendid longicorn,” he said, fishing a pill-box from his pocket, and carefully imprisoning his captive. “Ah, my dear boys, what a pity it is that you do not take to collecting while you are young! What much better men you would make!”
“There,” said Bob, as soon as they were alone, “how do you feel about your poison now?”