When Jack came to himself it seemed to him that he was in a shaded room by an open window, for the air gently fanned his temples, and he saw a wide stretch of blue sky. He turned his aching head.
"Hullo!" said a voice in English.
"Hullo!" murmured Jack in reply, automatically, not knowing what he said. He looked with puzzlement at the speaker, a tall, stout young fellow in guerrilla costume.
"There, I wagered you wouldn't know me in this rig. Don't you remember Dugdale, at Salamanca—Percy Dugdale, don't you know?"
"The Grampus!" whispered Jack.
"The very same. I might have bet you'd know Grampus better than my good old respectable honoured ugly name. Here, drink this."
He held a cup to Jack's lips. After drinking, Jack closed his eyes and fell asleep.
"Where am I?" he asked, waking an hour later.
"Feel better? That's grand. Where are you? High up among the hills, in a sort of cave, lying on a pile of blankets, with a splendid outlook over—well, nowhere in particular."
"In the hills!" repeated Jack feebly. "How did I get there? I can't remember. Is anything wrong with me? I don't seem to be able to move. I don't feel right."