The boy’s idea was shared by all present, as the doctor stepped forward to their visitor.
“That’s how he looked at me when he came up,” said their American neighbour. “He can’t say a word—only point and make signs.”
“But where does he come from?”
“Over yonder,” said the American, nodding south-east. “I caught sight of him when I first woke this morning, ever so far away, and then forgot all about him for hours, when I saw him again, and he had crawled nearer, about a hundred yards an hour, I should say. He looked so queer that I went over to him, and tried, as soon as I had got over the first look, to find out who and what he was.”
“Well,” said Christopher eagerly; “who is he?”
“You know as much as I do, squire, and that’s nothing,” was the reply; “but I guess.”
“Yes: what?” cried Ned.
“Strikes me, young sir, that, he’s some poor chap who has been regularly swallowed up in the great desert of salt plains over yonder. Lost his way, and his wits too, seemingly. Lots have been in my time.”
“What, crossing the plains?” said Chris.
“Yes. It’s like getting into quicksands. I never knew of any one before getting back again after once getting well in. It’s going straight away to death to go there. This one’s crawled out, poor chap, but it’s only to die. Look at him; he’s as good as dead now, all but his eyes.”