“Nonsense!” cried Norman. “Come and have a good breakfast. Plenty damper, plenty tea, and you’ll be better.”
“Baal damper—baal big tea,” said the black, rubbing himself. “Boomer mumkull Tam o’ Shanter. Mine go bong.”
He laid himself gently down on the grass, rolled a little and groaned, and then stretched himself out, and shut his eyes.
“Oh, it’s only his games,” said Rifle.—“Here, Shanter, old chap, jump up and say thanky, thanky to Marmi Tim for saving your life.”
“Marmi Tim baal save Tam o’ Shanter. All go along bong.”
“I’m afraid he is bad,” said Norman, going down on one knee to pass his hand over the poor fellow’s ribs, with the result that he uttered a prolonged moan; “but I don’t think there are any bones broken. Let’s get some breakfast ready. He’ll be better after some hot tea.”
They threw a pile of wood on the embers, in which a damper was soon baking; and as soon as the billy boiled, a handful of tea was thrown in and the tin lifted from the fire to stand and draw. But though they took Tam a well-sweetened pannikin of the refreshing drink he would not swallow it, neither would he partake of the pleasant smelling, freshly-baked cake.
“I say, I’m afraid the poor chap is bad,” whispered Tim.
“Not he,” said Rifle. “His ribs are sore with the hugging the boomer gave him, but he’s only shamming. I’ll rouse him up.”
He made a sign to Norman, who looked very anxious, and when the lads were a few yards away, Rifle made them a sign to watch their patient, who lay quite still with his eyes shut, and then suddenly shouted: