“Dig,” replied the American, almost in a whisper, and the boys looked about at the beautiful scene spreading around, and shuddered as they felt the full meaning of their neighbour’s words.
“Ah, ’tain’t nice to think about, is it, lads?” continued the American; “much better to stop here and grow yellow oranges—not that I’ve found it so,” he continued, with a sigh. “It’s all been one horrible disappointment. Still one is alive and well, while that poor fellow—”
“But he’s very, very old,” said Chris.
“Old? Awful. Looks old too, from what he’s gone through. I should say he has starved, and been dried-up with thirst, and been hunted by those brutes of plain Indians, and had all his seven senses driven out of him. But maybe I’m all wrong, after all.”
“Oh no: I think you’re right,” said Chris eagerly. “You must be.”
“Must, eh? P’raps it’s all my fancy.”
“How could a man come like that, then?” cried Ned.
“That’s what we’ve got to learn, my lad; but most likely we shall never know, for, take my word, that poor chap has found his way to this place at last as a quiet spot where he may lie down and die.”
“And my father won’t let him,” cried Chris excitedly. “Look, he’s going to do something for the poor fellow now.”
The little group moved towards where the doctor was bending over his new patient; but he motioned to them to keep back, and all waited, watching him for the next ten minutes, when he beckoned to Mr Bourne, who stepped forward, to find the stranger lying motionless and with his eyes closed.