Not all of the circulation had returned to Dawson's wrists and his arms from finger tips to shoulder sockets felt stabbed by a billion needles as he shifted over on his back, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He heard Freddy Farmer gasp as he, too, sat up. He shot a quick glance at his English-born pal, saw that he was suffering the same kind of pain, and then looked at the food. It was of the Hawaiian variety and didn't look bad at all. His prime interest at the moment, however, was not in food, regardless of the growling that had started up in his stomach. He looked at the two raggedly clad brown men, of very uncertain origin no doubt. They returned his look with all the intelligence of a bottle fly showing in their high cheek-boned faces.
"Where are we?" Dawson asked, and smiled at them.
Like a rehearsed act the two brown men shook their heads, and pointed long forefingers at the tray of food.
"You eat," they said in the same breath.
Dawson shook his head, smiled again, and made a gesture with his tingling right arm that included the house where they were.
"What place is this?" he said slowly, spacing his words. "Where is boss man? Me make talk with boss fella, yes. You savvy?"
The two brown men, with jet black hair, shook their heads as one again and pointed.
"Okay, skip it!" Dawson said quickly. "I get the idea. Me eat. Okay, me eat."
He turned to the tray of food, picked up something that looked like a messy salad and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted surprisingly good. In fact, it tasted exactly like a highly spiced salad.
"Not bad," he grunted.