He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of his friend.
“Precious dark!” he said. “Now where has old Hilton hidden himself? Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder what old Bolter would say?”
For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a figure lying apparently asleep.
Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping figure.
“Here—hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don’t lie there!”
There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch the figure.
“’Tisn’t Hilton!” he said to himself. “One of the servants, perhaps, keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong side.”
“Hallo! you sir!” he cried aloud. “’Tisn’t safe to lie there; do you hear?” and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over. “Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?”
“Help me up,” came in reply, spoken in good English.
Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower, he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while.