We selected a hulking, big brute as the next victim. He was palpably shamming; he spluttered a bit over his dose, but took the cue from me: patted himself, rolled his eyes, and was recovered.
Genuine plaudits.
"Next," said Jimmy. It reminded me of the brimstone and treacle at Dotheboys Hall.
Applause gave way to regular hilarity, and the blacks were soon ragging each other on the faces they made.
"This is the biggest thing of modern times," said Jimmy as the last man went off grinning and spluttering. "Talk about faith-healing—well, either it's an absolute fact, or else we two are the leading medical stars of the new century."
Then Jimmy and I shook hands, and he tried to whistle "Dolly Day Dreams" again, but couldn't manage it for a minute or two.
There were a few real bad cases still, but they all pulled through.
Then we served out to the men the best rations we could raise and a bit of 'baccy apiece. They cooked away with a will, filled themselves out with breakfast, lay down beneath their wagons, and went to sleep.
Jimmy and I went to sleep too. At sunset we inspanned and made the 10 miles to the farm early. Our doctor met us there.
But I shall never hear "Dolly Day Dreams" again without thinking of bare veldt, black faces, and chlorodyne.