“Murie has temperature of one hundred and five,” put in Lieutenant Bupendranath Chatterji. “He has fever probably.”
“Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” observed the Major dryly. “What are you giving him?”
“Oah, he will be all right,” was the reply.
“I’ve got three fresh limes I pinched from that shamba,” [173] said Augustus. “If he had those with a quart of boiling water and half a tin of condensed milk, he might be able to do a good sweat and browse a handful of quinine.”
“No more condensed milk,” said Berners. “Greene had the last tin last night, and the hog didn’t bring any with him.”
“I shall be delighted to contribute the remainder of it,” said Bertram, looking into his tin. “There’s quite three-quarters of it left.”
“Good egg,” applauded Augustus. “If you drink your tea from the tin, you’ll get the flavour of milk for ever so long,” and Ali having been despatched to the cook-house for a kettle of boiling water, Augustus fetched his limes and the two concocted the brew with their condensed milk and lime-juice in an empty rum-jar.
“What about a spot of whisky in it?” suggested Vereker.
“Better without it when fever is violent,” opined the medical attendant, and Augustus, albeit doubtfully, accepted the obiter dicta, as from one who should know.
“Shall I shove it into him through the oil-funnel if he is woozy?” he asked, and added: “Better not, p’r’aps. Might waste half of it down his lungs and things . . .” and he departed, in search of his victim.