"''Tain't no use,' says the doctor, breakin' in with a 'orrid sorter laugh. ''E'll be too late. Ye'll both 'ave the cholera in 'alf an hour unless I gives yer the hantydote.'"
"Wot's that?" demanded Sam.
"Kinder secret medicine," explained Mr. Parbury. "Jest like each microbe's got 'is special poison, so each poison's got 'is special hantydote. Bein', as I said afore, a hedjicated man, the guv'nor sees the force of wot the doctor says.
"'Ye wouldn't murder us, man?' he says.
"'I ain't got no grudge against you,' answers the doctor. 'If ye promises me on yer word as a English orficer yell let me keep the microbe an' won't take no further notice o' this hincident, I'll save yer life.'
"'An' wot about me?' cried Jackson, as was already beginnin' to feel a bit un'appy like inside.
"'Oh, you'll 'ave to go through it.'
"Jackson busts out a-sobbin', and the guv'nor draws 'isself up proud.
"'A English orficer don't desert 'is subordinates,' 'e says. 'You must attend to 'im, too—after you done me.'
"'Right y'are,' says the doctor; 'in that case you'll 'ave to put in a application to 'ave my sentence rejooced.'