“Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Anything the matter, Nat?” and getting up quickly he struck a match and lit a little wax taper that he always carried in the brass match-box, part of which formed a stick.
He was kneeling by my side directly and had hold of my hand, when at his touch my senses seemed to come back to me.
“Quick!—the guns!” I panted; “wild beasts!—a crocodile, an ape, uncle. I have been hearing them come.”
“Nonsense! my boy,” he said, smiling.
“No, no; it is no nonsense, uncle. Quick!—the guns!”
“No, my dear boy, it is nonsense. There are no noxious or dangerous beasts here. You are quite safe from them. You have been dreaming, Nat.”
“I’ve not been asleep,” I said piteously.
“Haven’t you, my lad?” he said, with one hand on my brow and the other on my wrist; “then you have been fancying all these troubles. Nat, my boy, you have got a touch of fever. I’m very glad you woke me when you did.”
“Fever, uncle?” I gasped, as the horror of my situation increased, and like a flash came the idea of being ill out in that wilderness, away from all human help and comfort; and, ludicrous is it may sound, I forgot all about Uncle Dick, and began to think of Dr Portly, who had a big brass plate upon his door in the Clapham Road.
“Yes, my boy, a touch of fever, but we’ll soon talk to him, Nat; we’ll nip him in the bud. A stitch in time saves nine. Now you shall see what’s in that little flat tin box I brought. I saw you stare at it when I packed up.”