“Humph! No! He couldn’t have been, could he, or he wouldn’t have fought for us as he did at first, and then shot that scoundrel yonder? I hope his bandage will come off, and he’ll bleed to death.”
“No, you do not,” said the professor.
“Oh, yes, I do—a dog!”
“No, you do not; and as to Yussuf—well, I need not defend him.”
“Well, I suppose not. Boy seems to be all right, don’t he?”
“Yes, I think so. This warm sunshine is a blessing.”
“Hah, yes, but I’m so stiff and sore I cannot move. Preston, my dear boy, would you mind putting your hand into my pocket and taking out my snuff-box. I suppose it’s all paste, but a bit of that would be, like your sunshine, a blessing. It’s all very well, but I’d rather have a fire, a towel, a warm bath, and some dry clothes. Hah, yes! Thank you. Now for some paste.”
He thrust the little box in and out among the dry sand till the moisture was all gone, and doing this dried and warmed his hands as well before he proceeded to open the lid, when he uttered a cry of satisfaction.
“Bravo, Preston! Dry as dust. Have a pinch, my dear sir?”
“Thanks. No. I am drying a cigar here for my refreshment, in the hot sand. I daresay my matches are all right in their metal box.”