"Yes, open it. We did a very foolish thing, Roger. We ought to have packed each box as a miniature equipment, so as to minimise the importance of any losses. It's in my mind that all our atoxyl is in one case."
"No," said Roger. "It was in three cases. One of them, I know, was in the boat. I was sitting on it most of yesterday."
"Well. Open that one, and let's see where we stand."
The well-fixed screws were drawn. The box lay open to the sun, exuding a faint, cleanly smell of camphor.
Lionel looked over the drug pots, muttering the names: "Mercury bi-chlor, sodium carb, sodium chlor, sodium cit, corrosive sublimate, quinine, quinine, quinine, potassium bromide—we shan't want much of that—absolute alcohol, carbolic, first-aid dressings, chlorodyne, morphia, camphorated chalk for the teeth, what's this?—digitalis. What the devil did they send that for? There's no atoxyl here."
"Nor that other stuff, the dye, trypanroth?"
"No. We didn't order any. It wasn't altogether a success with me, and it wasn't being so well spoken of."
"That's unfortunate. But wait a minute. I see another drug case. Over there, against the wall. Isn't that a drug case?"
"It is. Chuck the jemmy over." He did not wait to draw the screws. He prized the lid off with two quick wrenches of the jemmy. He looked inside.
"A quaker," he said grimly, after one look. "It's a quaker case."