“Thank God,” he muttered, in a low, subdued tone, “he’s not dead! Quick, Ralph—the brandy-flask.”
I instantly poured a little of the spirit into the silver cup attached to the flask, and handed it to Peterkin, who, after moistening Jack’s lips, began assiduously to rub his chest and forehead with brandy. Kneeling down by his side I assisted him, while I applied some to his feet. While we were thus engaged we observed that our poor friend’s arms and chest had received several severe bruises and some slight wounds, and we also discovered a terrible gash in his right thigh which had evidently been made by the formidable horn of the rhinoceros. This, and the other wounds which were still bleeding pretty freely, we stanched and bound up, and our exertions were at length rewarded by the sight of a faint tinge of colour returning to Jack’s cheeks. Presently his eyes quivered, and heaving a short, broken sigh, he looked up.
“Where am I, eh? Why, what’s wrong? what has happened?” he asked faintly, in a tone of surprise.
“All right, old boy. Here, take a swig of this, you abominable gorilla,” said Peterkin, holding the brandy-flask to his mouth, while one or two tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.
Jack drank, and rallied a little.
“I’ve been ill, I see,” he said gently. “Ah! I remember now. I’ve been hurt—the rhinoceros; eh, have you killed it? I gave it a good shot. It must have been mortal, I think.”
“Whether you’ve killed it or not I cannot tell,” said I, taking off my coat and putting it under Jack’s head for a pillow, “but it has pretty nearly killed you. Do you feel worse, Jack?”
I asked this in some alarm, observing that he had turned deadly pale again.
“He’s fainted, man; out o’ the way!” cried Peterkin, as he applied the brandy again to his lips and temples.
In a few seconds Jack again rallied.