“I was afraid to leave him—he is so weak. I have had to give him a stimulant every hour to keep him alive. There, go now, and don’t talk. I want him to sleep.”
Chris stole away, and then stood thinking whether he should rouse up Ned to go to one of the pools higher up the nearly-dry river, and bale it out on the chance of getting a few fish after all.
But on second thoughts he let his comrade rest and went into the lean-to on the other side of the shanty, where he busied himself in lighting a fire upon the stone and setting the kettle over it, after which he went cautiously indoors, to return again with a tin canister, which upon being opened sent forth a fragrant odour.
A few minutes later he was busy over further preparations, but only to be interrupted by the sound of some one at the door giving three or four sharp sniffs in rapid succession. Then—“Pig!” came from inside. “Oh, I say, what a shame! Might have woke a fellow up to have some too.”
“’Tisn’t for me,” said Chris gruffly.
“Oh no! I suppose not. Who’s it for, then?”
“The dad: he has been sitting up all night with that poor fellow. I thought he’d like a cup of coffee.”
“Good boy,” said Ned. “I’ll take pig back.”
A few minutes later the two boys were making their way through the rapidly broadening morning, bearing a steaming mug of milkless coffee towards the shed, but only to stop short on hearing a strangely harsh voice talking slowly and solemnly for a few moments, before stopping suddenly, to be followed by a few words from the doctor.
Then all was silent for some little time, before Chris whispered sharply—