“No, no; it’s all right, Mas’ Don. I meant you to lie down and rest, only he might ha’ offered to toss for first go.”
“Call me then, at the end of an hour.”
“All right, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, going through the business of taking out an imaginary watch, winding it up, and then looking at its face. “Five and twenty past seven, Mas’ Don, but I’m afraid I’m a little slow. These here baths don’t do one’s watch any good.”
“You’ll keep a good look out, Jem.”
“Just so, Mas’ Don. Moment I hear or see anything I calls you up. What time would you like your shaving water, sir? Boots or shoes this morning?”
“Ah, Jem,” said Don, smiling, “I’m too tired to laugh.”
And he lay back and dropped off to sleep directly, Ngati’s eyes having already closed.
“Too tired to laugh,” said Jem to himself. “Poor dear lad, and him as brave as a young lion. Think of our coming to this. Shall we ever see old England again, and if we do, shall I be a cripple in this arm? Well, if I am, I won’t grumble, but bear it all like a man; and,” he added reverently, “please God save us and bring us back, if it’s only for my poor Sally’s sake, for I said I’d love her and cherish her, and keep her; and here am I one side o’ the world, and she’s t’other; and such is life.”