Samba saw it all. He remained dauntless by his grandfather's side until a bullet put an end to the old chief's life; then he too fled into the forest, to find his father and mother, his brothers and sisters. But he had delayed too long; one of the sentinels fired at him as he ran: his left arm was struck. He struggled on, but his friends were now out of reach: he could not find them. For several days he wandered about, supporting his life on roots and herbs in the vain search for his people. Then, growing hourly weaker, he crept back to his village, hoping that by and by the survivors would return to their desolated homes, to rebuild their huts, and sow new crops. But none came. He was alone! And he had lain down among the trees—as he thought, to die.
"Poor little fellow!" said Mr. Martindale. "How old is he, Nando?"
"He say ten three years, sah," replied Nando after consulting the boy.
"Thirteen. He looks older. This is a pretty kettle of fish. What can we do with him?"
"We must take him with us, uncle!" said Jack.
"Take him with us, indeed! What can we do with him? We can't hunt for his father and mother: he'd be of no use to us in our job. He wants doctoring: he might die on our hands."
"I learnt a little doctoring in the hospital, sorr," said Barney. "Sure I think I could mend his arm."
"Well, well, Nando and the other man had better bring him along to the canoe—gently, you know. Don't make him squeal."
The two negroes lifted the boy, and the party set off to return to the river.
"A fine responsibility you have let me in for, Jack," said Mr. Martindale as they went along. "I've no notion of a Crusoe and Friday relationship."