“Quite well, thank you, Jem, only I can’t lift up my head.”
“And don’t you try, Mas’ Don. Oh, the Lord be thanked! The Lord be thanked!” he muttered. “What should I ha’ done?”
“Have—have I been ill, Jem?”
“I’ll, Mas’ Don? Why, I thought you was going to die, and no doctor, not even a drop of salts and senny to save your life.”
“Oh, nonsense, Jem! I never thought of doing such a thing! Ah, I remember now. I felt poorly. My head was bad.”
“Your head bad? I should think it was bad. Dear lad, what stuff you have been saying.”
“Have I, Jem? What, since I lay down among the ferns this morning?”
“This morning, Mas’ Don! Why, it’s close upon a month ago.”
“What?”
“That’s so, my lad. We come back from cutting wood to find you lying under a tree, and when we got here it was to find poor old ‘my pakeha’ with a shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs.”