“He will carry a load to-morrow,” F. told the attentive M'ganga.
The next patient had fever. This one got twenty grains of quinine in water.
“This man carries no load to-morrow,” was the direction, “but he must not drop behind.”
Two or three surgical cases followed. Then a big Kavirondo rose to his feet.
“Nini?” demanded F.
“Homa-fever,” whined the man.
F. clapped his hand on the back of the other's neck.
“I think,” he remarked contemplatively in English, “that you're a liar, and want to get out of carrying your load.”
The clinical thermometer showed no evidence of temperature.
“I'm pretty near sure you're a liar,” observed F. in the pleasantest conversational tone and still in English, “but you may be merely a poor diagnostician. Perhaps your poor insides couldn't get away with that rotten meat I saw you lugging around. We'll see.”