"You shall not wreck the expedition," said Lionel. "You're as ignorant as a cow. You haven't even examined the ruin."
Roger paid no attention to him. He bade the men moor the boat and unload her.
"Naldrett," said Lionel, "if you persist in this—when I'm sick and can't stop you—it's the end of our working together. We part company. Put down that box, Merrylegs. Leave those things in the boat."
Roger had more strength left in him than his companion. The boat was unloaded. The bearers, leaving a pile of boxes by the river, formed an Indian file and marched with their burdens of necessaries towards the hill. Lionel walked, supported by Roger. He did not speak. His face worked with the impotent anger of a sick man. Presently Roger noticed that he was crying from mere nervous weakness. He felt that it would be well to say nothing. Lionel's petulance was the result of fever. If he said anything, the petulant mood would surely twist it into a cause of offence. He said nothing. Lionel, after pausing a minute, said something in a faint voice about the heat. Roger had not noticed the heat. He had a glowing lime-kiln within him. He stopped, and asked if it were very hot. "God!" said Lionel disgustedly. They walked on, following the bearers. Presently Lionel stopped and swore at the heat. Roger waited. Each moment of waiting was torture to him. Each moment of physical effort racked him. He wanted to fling himself down and let the fever run its course.
"God Almighty!" said Lionel, turning on him. "Can't you answer me?"
"I didn't know you spoke to me."
"You don't know anything."
"You were not speaking to me, you were swearing at the heat."
"What if I were."
"If you could manage to keep quiet till we are camped," said Roger, "you'd feel better. I'm doing my best for you."