“The fever that men have who are starving,” cried the doctor. “Poor fellow! he has not had food for a week.”
It was after three days’ camping out beside the boat in a rough shanty which the Malays built up, that the Reverend Arthur Rosebury came round sufficiently to be able to recognise and talk to his friends.
“It’s fortunate for you, old fellow, that you had a doctor to find you,” said Bolter. “For—I say it without boasting—if I had not been with Chumbley, you would never have seen Sindang again.”
“And shall I now?” was said in a feeble voice.
“To be sure you will, and the sooner the better,” said the doctor. “I want more nourishing food for you, so we’ll make up a couch in the stern of the boat, and then get on towards home.”
“I’ll try and bear being moved,” he said feebly, “but—but—but—”
“But what?” said the doctor, quietly. “There, don’t worry. I see. You have forgotten what you wanted to say. It will come again. Shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
Arthur Rosebury was so pitifully weak that he was ready to obey anybody; and he sank back and seemed to go to sleep at once with the doctor and Chumbley seated by his side.
“I want some explanation of all this,” said Chumbley, in his drawling way.
“So do I,” said the doctor; “but we must wait, my dear boy. He’s as weak as water, and I can’t trouble him with questions. You see, his brain is affected by his bodily want of tone; but it will soon come right if we are patient.”