When I came to my senses, he was fanning me with a corner of his blanket, and moistening my numb lips with brandy. Presently I was able to sit up against a pine tree, though still weak, and take notice.
“Are you—?” I stammered. “Are you civilised?”
“No,” returned the Indian, with well-bred composure. “Are you?”
I could not tell whether I was or not, and with the swift, silent movements peculiar to his race, Mr. Baldwin emptied out the contents of my knapsack. He squeezed the lemon over the sardines, rubbing the mixture to a paste, cut the bread in very thin slices, and expeditiously made a pile of sandwiches. He brought me one on a burdock leaf.
“How,” he said. “Fishy-Can-Dish make paleface strong. Heap good sandwich.”
Trembling, I ate, and the stony features relaxed into a smile. “What part of the country did you come from?” he asked.
“All over it,” I answered. “The world is my country, humanity my people, and studying Natural History my job.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Baldwin. “I see. There was one of those blokes at Carlisle, but the boys chased it out of him.”
I would fain have risen to my feet, but I was held back. “Don’t get excited, partner,” continued my friend, who had one of his huge paws laid on my shoulder in a way that implied intimacy. “Whose cabin is this?”
“It was mine,” I explained, “until you came. Now it is yours.”