"I'll tell him
to go slow at first, with beef-tea and milk, and to-morrow he can
start the works up with a dose of champagne. But I'll drop in
to-morrow, to make sure. The wound?--Oh, it's a dog-bite, safe
enough, and a rather badly lacerated one. But we cauterised it in
time last night, and it shows no 'anger,' as the saying is. Has he
told you how he came by it?"
"No," said I. "He has been lying in this lethargy ever since you
left him. He wakes up and takes his medicine from Jephson, and then
drops back into a doze. I thought it best not to worry him."
"Quite right, too. . . . And I'll not ask questions, either, beyond
putting it that he's a friend of yours, gone under, and you're
playing the Samaritan. . . . Well, you can go back to duty, and
Jephson and I will see this through. It's queer, too. . . . I seem
to have seen his face somewhere. . . . But what's queerer is that he
isn't dead. He must have had some practice at fasting, poor fellow.
I should say that his stomach hadn't known food for a week."
I duly 'phoned the doctor's report to Constantia.
Pages:
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495