“Ah, you keep to your old belief in the lancet, then, Doctor,” came in the Resident’s pleasant, firm tones.
“In a case like this, certainly, sir. All the better for losing a little of their hot, fiery blood. Set of quarrelsome, jealous fools. Here we are, thousands of miles from home and Ould Ireland, amongst these tribes, all of them spoiling for a fight.”
“Yes, Doctor,” said the Resident, slowly approaching as he crossed the room; “but I hope to get them tamed down in time.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the Doctor, as the two gentlemen came in sight.—“Hear him, Minnie! What’s the quotation—‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast?’”
“I forget uncle.”
“More shame for you.—Hope away, Dallas; but you will never tame the fighting spirit out of a Malay.—Morning, Archie, my lad. What do you say?”
“I say that Rajah Hamet is tame enough, only one ought not to talk about him as if he were a wild beast.—Good-morning, Sir Charles?”
“Morning, my lad,” replied the Resident, with a peculiar smile. “Have you got a head on this morning?”
“No, sir, I haven’t got a head on this morning,” cried the boy angrily, and with his sun-browned cheeks flushing up.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you had come to see the Doctor.”