“It sounds like Holm,” said Thwaite, walking up to it, “and upon my soul it is Holm. What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?”
“Is that you, Thwaite?” said the voice. “I wish you’d help me out. I want Logan to give me a bed for the night. I’m infernally ill.”
Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not belie the words.
“What is it?” said Thwaite. “Fever or anything smashed?”
“I’ve got a bullet in my leg which has got to be cut out. Got it two days ago when I was out shooting. Some natives up in the rocks did it, I fancy. Lord, how it hurts.” And the unhappy man groaned as he tried to move.
“That’s bad,” said Thwaite sympathetically. “The Logans have got a dance on, but we’ll look after you all right. How did you leave things in Forza?”
“Bad. I oughtn’t to be here, but Andy insisted. He said I would only get worse and crock entirely. Things look a bit wild up there just now. There has been a confounded lot of rifle-stealing, and the Bada-Mawidi are troublesome. However, I hope it’s only their fun.”
“I hope so,” said Thwaite. “You know Haystoun, don’t you?”
“Glad to meet you,” said the man. “Heard of you. Coming up our way? I hope you will after I get this beastly leg of mine better.”
“Thwaite will tell you I have been cross-examining him about your place. I wanted badly to ask you about it, for I got a letter this morning from a man called Marker with some news for you.”