“Say, Mas’ Don, it do feel comf’table. Why, he’s quite a doctor, eh?”
“What?” continued Jem, staring, as Ngati made signs.
“He wants you to bathe his wounds. Your arm’s painful, Jem; I’ll do it.”
Ngati lay down by the pool, and, pulling up some moss, Don bathed a couple of ugly gashes and a stab, that was roughly plugged with fibre. The wounds were so bad that it was a wonder to both that the great fellow could keep about; but he appeared to bear them patiently enough, smiling with satisfaction as his attendant carefully washed them, and in imitation of what he had seen, applied bruised leaves and moss, and finally bound them up with native flax.
Don shuddered more than once as he performed his task, and was glad when it was over, Jem looking on calmly the while.
“Why, Mas’ Don, a chap at home would want to go into hospital for less than that.”
“Yes, Jem; but these men seem so healthy and well, they heal up quickly, and bear their hurts as if nothing was wrong.”
“Sleep,” said Ngati, suddenly; and he signed to Don to lie down and to Jem to keep watch, while he lay down at once in the mossy nook close to the river, and hidden by overhanging canopies of ferns.
“Oh, all right, Mas’ Don, I don’t mind,” said Jem; “only I was just as tired as him.”
“Let me take the first watch, Jem.”