“Have no– Say, Miss Jenny, you really ought to have stayed home from boarding-school and England long enough to learn your own language. I meant, we’ve got to take what’s coming to us, without laying down or grouching. Both are the worst thing out for malaria.”
“You mean that we must resign ourselves to this intolerable situation–that we must calmly sit here and wait until the fever–”
“No; I’ll take care we don’t sit around very much. We’ll go on the hike, soon as Win can wobble. Which reminds me, I’ve got a little hike on hand now. I’m going to close up that barricade before dark. Me for a quiet night!”
Without waiting for a reply, he took his weapons, and swung briskly away down the cleft.
He returned a few minutes before sunset, with what appeared to be a large fur bag upon his back. Miss Leslie was pouring a bowl of broth from the stew-pot, and did not notice him until he sang out to her: “Hey, Miss Jenny, spill over that stuff! No more of that in ours!”
“It’s for Mr. Winthrope. He has just wakened,” she replied, still intent on her pouring.
“And you’d kill him with that slop! Heave it over. He’s going to have beef juice.”
“Oh! what’s that on your back? You’ve killed an antelope!”
“Sure! Bushbuck, I guess they call him. Sneaked up when he was drinking, and stuck an arrow into his side. He jumped off a little way, and turned to see what’d bit him. I hauled off and put the second arrow right through his eye, into his brain. Neatest thing you ever saw.”