Morning found Winthrope more irritable and peevish than ever. Though he had not been called on watch by Blake until long after midnight, he had soon fallen asleep at his post and permitted the fire to die out. Shortly before dawn, Blake was roused by a pack of jackals, snarling and quarrelling over the half-dried seafowl. To charge upon the thieves and put them to flight with a few blows of his club took but a moment. Yet daylight showed more than half the drying frames empty.
Blake was staring glumly at them, with his broad back to Winthrope, when Miss Leslie appeared. The sudden cessation of Winthrope’s complaints brought his companion around on the instant. The girl stood before him, clad from neck to foot in her leopard-skin dress.
“Well, I’ll be–dashed!” he exclaimed, and he stood staring at her open-mouthed.
“I fear it will be warm. Do you think it becoming?” she asked, flushing, and turning as though to show the fit of the costume.
“Do I?” he echoed. “Miss Jenny, you’re a peach!”
“Thank you,” she said. “And here is the skirt. I have ripped it open. You see, it will make a fine flag.”
“If it’s put up. Seems a pity, though, to do that, when we’re getting on so fine. What do you say to leaving it down, and starting a little colony of our own?”
Miss Leslie raised the skirt in her outstretched hands. Behind it her face became white as the cloth.
“Well?” demanded Blake soberly, though his eyes were twinkling.
“You forget the fever,” she retorted mockingly, and Blake failed to catch the quaver beneath the light remark.
“Say, you’ve got me there!” he admitted. “Just pass over your flag, and scrape up some grub. I’ll be breaking out a big bamboo. There are plenty of holes and loose stones on the cliff. We’ll have the signal up before noon.”
Miss Leslie murmured her thanks, and immediately set about the preparation of breakfast.
When Blake had the bamboo ready, with one edge of the broad piece of white duck lashed to it with catgut as high up as the tapering staff would bear, he called upon Winthrope to accompany him.
“You can go, too, Miss Jenny,” he added. “You haven’t been on the cliff yet, and you ought to celebrate the occasion.”
“No, thank you,” replied the girl. “I’m still unprepared to climb precipices, even though my costume is that of a savage.”
“Savage? Great Scott! that leopard dress would win out against any set of Russian furs a-going, and I’ve heard they’re considered all kinds of dog. Come on. I can swing you into the branches, and it’s easy from there up.”
“You will excuse me, please.”
“Yes, you can go alone,” interposed Winthrope. “I am indisposed this morning, and, what is more, I have had enough of your dictation.”
“You have, have you?” growled Blake, his patience suddenly come to an end. “Well, let me tell you, Miss Leslie is a lady, and if she don’t want to go, that settles it. But as for you, you’ll go, if I have to kick you every step.”
Winthrope cringed back, and broke into a childish whine. “Don’t–don’t do it, Blake–Oh, I say, Miss Genevieve, how can you stand by and see him abuse me like this?”
Blake was grinning as he turned to Miss Leslie. Her face was flushed and downcast with humiliation for her friend. It seemed incredible that a man of his breeding should betray such weakness. A quick change came over Blake’s face.
“Look here,” he muttered, “I guess I’m enough of a sport to know something about fair play. Win’s coming down with the fever, and’s no more to blame for doing the baby act than he’ll be when he gets the delirium, and gabbles.”
“I will thank you to attend to your own affairs,” said Winthrope.
“You’re entirely welcome. It’s what I’m doing.– Do you understand, Miss Jenny?”
“Indeed, yes; and I wish to thank you. I have noticed how patient you have been–”
“Pardon me, Miss Leslie,” rasped Winthrope. “Can you not see that for a fellow of this class to talk of fair play and patience is the height of impertinence? In England, now, such insufferable impudence–”
“That’ll do,” broke in Blake. “It’s time for us to trot along.”
“But, Mr. Blake, if he is ill–”
“Just the reason why he should keep moving. No more of your gab, Win! Give your jaw a lay-off, and try wiggling your legs instead.”
Winthrope turned away, crimson with indignation. Blake paused only for a parting word with Miss Leslie. “If you want something to do, Miss Jenny, try making yourself a pair of moccasins out of the scraps of skin. You can’t stay in this gully all the time. You’ve got to tramp around some, and those slippers must be about done for.”
“They are still serviceable. Yet if you think–”
“You’ll need good tough moccasins soon enough. Singe off the hair, and make soles of the thicker pieces. If you do a fair job, maybe I’ll employ you as my cobbler, soon as I get the hide off one of those skittish antelope.”
Miss Leslie nodded and smiled in response to his jesting tone. But as he swung away after Winthrope, she stood for some time wondering at herself. A few days since she knew she would have taken Blake’s remark as an insult. Now she was puzzled to find herself rather pleased that he should so note her ability to be of service.
When she roused herself, and began singeing the hair from the odds and ends of leopard skin, she discovered a new sensation to add to her list of unpleasant experiences. But she did not pause until the last patch of hair crisped close to the half-cured surface of the hide. Fetching the penknife and her thorn and catgut from the baobab, she gathered the pieces of skin together, and walked along the cleft to the ladder-tree. There had been time enough for Blake and Winthrope to set up the signal, and she was curious to see how it looked.
She paused at the foot of the tree, and gazed up to where the withered crown lay crushed against the edge of the cliff. The height of the rocky wall made her hesitate; yet the men, in passing up and down, had so cleared away the twigs and leaves and broken the branches on the upper side of the trunk, that it offered a means of ascent far from difficult even for a young lady.
The one difficulty was to reach the lower branches. She could hardly touch them with her finger-tips. But her barbaric costume must have inspired her. She listened for a moment, and hearing no sound to indicate the return of the men, clasped the upper side of the trunk with her hands and knees, and made an energetic attempt to climb. The posture was far from dignified, but the girl’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she found herself slowly mounting.
When, flushed and breathless, she gained a foothold among the branches, she looked down at the ground, and permitted herself a merry little giggle such as she had not indulged in since leaving boarding-school. She had actually climbed a tree! She would show Mr. Blake that she was not so helpless as he fancied.
At the thought, she clambered on up, finding that the branches made convenient steps. She did not look back, and the screen of tree-tops beneath saved her from any sense of giddiness. As her head came above the level of the cliff, she peered through the foliage, and saw the signal-flag far over near the end of the headland. The big piece of white duck stood out bravely against the blue sky, all the more conspicuous for the flocks of frightened seafowl which wheeled above and around it.
Surprised that she did not see the men, Miss Leslie started to draw herself up over the cliff edge. She heard Winthrope’s voice a few yards away on her left. A sudden realization that the Englishman might consider her exploit ill-bred caused her to sink back out of sight.
She was hesitating whether to descend or to climb on up, when Winthrope’s peevish whine was cut short by a loud and angry retort from Blake. Every word came to the girl’s ears with the force of a blow.
“You do, do you? Well, I’d like to know where in hell you come in. She’s not your sister, nor your mother, nor your aunt, and if she’s your sweetheart, you’ve both been damned close-mouthed over it.”
There was an irritable, rasping murmur from Winthrope, and again came Blake’s loud retort.
“Look here, young man, don’t you forget you called me a cad once before. I can stand a good deal from a sick man; but I’ll give it to you straight, you’d better cut that out. Call me a brute or a savage, if that’ll let off your steam; but, understand, I’m none of your English kinds.”
Again Winthrope spoke, this time in a fretful whine.
Blake replied with less anger: “That’s so; and I’m going to show you that I’m the real thing when it comes to being a sport. Give you my word, I’ll make no move till you’re through the fever and on your legs again. What I’ll do then depends on my own sweet will, and don’t you forget it. I’m not after her fortune. It’s the lady herself that takes my fancy. Remember what I said to you when you called me a cad the other time. You had your turn aboard ship. Now I can do as I please; and that’s what I’m going to do, if I have to kick you over the cliff end first, to shut off your pesky interference.”
The girl crouched back into the withered foliage, dazed with terror. Again she heard Blake speak. He had dropped into a bitter sneer.
“No chance? It’s no nerve, you mean. You could brain me, easy enough, any night–just walk up with a club when I’m asleep. Trouble is, you’re like most other under dogs–’fraid that if you licked your boss, there’d be no soup bones. So I guess I’m slated to stay boss of this colony–grand Poo Bah and Mikado, all in one. Understand? You mind your own business, and don’t go to interfering with me any more! . . . . Now, if you’ve stared enough at the lady’s skirt–”
The threat of discovery stung the girl to instant action. With almost frantic haste, she scrambled down to the lower branches, and sprang to the ground. She had never ventured such a leap even in childhood. She struck lightly but without proper balance, and pitched over sideways. Her hands chanced to alight upon the remnants of leopard skin. Great as was her fear, she stopped to gather all together in the edge of her skirt before darting up the cleft.
At the baobab she turned and gazed back along the cliff edge. Before she had time to draw a second breath, she caught a glimpse of Blake’s palm-leaf hat, near the crown of the ladder tree.
“O-o-h!–he didn’t see me!” she murmured. Her frantic strength vanished, and a deathly sickness came upon her. She felt herself going, and sought to kneel to ease the fall.
She was roused from the swoon by Blake’s resonant shout: “Hey, Miss Jenny! where are you? We’ve got your laundry on the pole in fine shape!”
The girl’s flaccid limbs grew tense, and her body quivered with a shudder of dread and loathing. Yet she set her little white teeth, and forced herself to rise and go out to face the men. Both met her look with a blank stare of consternation.
“What is it, Miss Genevieve?” cried Winthrope. “You’re white as chalk!”
“It’s the fever!” growled Blake. “She’s in the cold stage. Get a pot on. We’ll–”
“No, no; it’s not that! It’s only–I’ve been frightened!”
“Frightened?”
“By a–a dreadful beast!”
“Beast!” repeated Blake, and his pale eyes flashed as he sprang across to where his bow and arrows and his club leaned against the baobab. “I’ll have no beasts nosing around my dooryard! Must be that skulking lion I heard last night. I’ll show him!” He caught up his weapons and stalked off down the cleft.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Winthrope; “the man really must be mad. Call him back, Miss Genevieve. If anything should happen to him–”
“If only there might!” gasped the girl.
“Why, what do you mean?”
She burst into a hysterical laugh. “Oh! oh! it’s such a joke–such a joke! At least he’s not a hyena–oh, no; a brave beast! Hear him shout! And he actually thinks it’s a lion! But it isn’t–it’s himself! Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?”
“Miss Genevieve, what do you mean? Be calm, pray, be calm!”
“Calm!–when I heard what he said? Yes; I heard every word! In the top of the tree–”
“In the tree? Heavens! Miss–er–Miss Genevieve!” stammered Winthrope, his face paling. “Did you–did you hear all?”
“Everything–everything he said! What shall I do? I am so frightened! What shall I do?”
“Everything he said?” echoed Winthrope.
“You spoke too low for me to hear; but I’m sure you faced him like a gentleman–I must believe it of you–”
Winthrope drew in a deep breath. “Ah, yes; I did, Miss Genevieve–I assure you. The beast! Yet you see the plight I am in. It is a nasty muddle–indeed it is! But what can I do? He is strong as a gorilla. Really, there is only one way–no doubt you heard him taunt me over it. I assure you I should not be afraid–but it would be so horrid–so cold-blooded. As a gentleman, you know–”
“No; it is not that!” broke in the girl. “He is right. Neither of us has the courage–even when he is asleep.”
“My dear Miss Genevieve, this beast instinct to kill–”
“Yes; but think of him. If he is a beast, he is at least a brave one. While we–we haven’t the courage of rabbits. I thought you called yourself an English gentleman. Are you going to stand by, and not lift a finger?”
“Really, now, Miss Genevieve, to murder a man–”
“Self-defence is not a crime–self-preservation. If you have a spark of manhood–”
“My dear–”
“For Heaven’s sake, if you can’t do anything, at least keep still! Oh, I’m sure I shall go mad! If only I had been drowned!”
“Ah, yes, to be sure. But really now, what you ask is a good deal for a man to risk. The fellow might wake up and murder me! Should I take the risk, might I–er–expect some manifestation of your gratitude, Miss Genevieve?”
“Of course! of course! I should always–”
“I–ah–refer to the–the–bestowal of your hand.”
“My hand? I– Would you bargain for my esteem? I thought you a gentleman!”
“To be sure–to be sure! Who says I am not? But all is fair in love and war, you know. Your choice is quite free. I take it, you will not consider his–er–proposals. But if you do not wish my aid, you have another way of escape–that is–at least other women have done it.”
The girl gazed at him, her eyes dilating with horror as she realized his meaning.
“No, no; not that!” she gasped. “I want to live–I’ve a right to live! Why, I’m only just twenty-two–I–”
“Hush!” cautioned Winthrope. “He’s coming back. Be calm! There will be time until I get over this vile malaria. It may be that he himself will have the fever.”
“He will not have the fever,” replied the girl, in a hopeless tone, and she leaned back listlessly against the baobab, as Blake swung himself up, frowning and sullen, and flung his weapons from him.
“Bah!” he grumbled, “I told you that brute was a sneak. I’ve chased clean down to the pool and into the open, and not a smell of him. Must have hiked off into the tall grass the minute he heard me.”
“If only he had gone off for good!” murmured Miss Leslie.
“Maybe he has; though you never can count on a sneak. Even you might be able to shoo him off next time; but, like as not, he’d come along when we were all out calling, and clean out our commissary. Guess I’ll set to and run up a barricade down there where the gully is narrowest. There’re shoals of dead thorn-brush to the right of the pool.”
“Ah, yes; I fancy the vultures will be so vexed when they find your hedge in the way,” remarked Winthrope.
“My! how smart we’re getting!” retorted Blake. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll stow the stuff in Miss Jenny’s boudoir, and I guess the birdies’ll be polite enough to keep out.”
“I must say, Blake, I do not see why you should wish to drag us away from here.”
“There’re lots of things you don’t see, Win, me b’y–jokes, for instance. But what could you expect?–you’re English. Now, don’t get mad. Worst thing in the world for malaria.”
“One would fancy you could see that I am not angry. I’ve a splitting headache, and my back hurts. I am ill.”
Blake looked him over critically, and nodded. “That’s no lie, old man. You’re entitled to a hospital check all right. Miss Jenny, we’ll appoint you chief nurse. Make him comfortable as you can, and give him hot broth whenever he’ll take it. You can do your sewing on the side. Whenever you need help, call on me. I’m going to begin that barricade.”
By nightfall Winthrope was tossing and groaning on the bed of leaves which Miss Leslie had heaped beneath his canopy. Though not delirious, his high temperature, coupled with the pains which racked every nerve and bone in his body, rendered him light-headed. He would catch himself up in the midst of some rambling nonsense to inquire anxiously whether he had said anything silly or strange. On being reassured upon this, he would relax again, and, as likely as not, break into a babyish wail over his aches and pains.
Blake shook his head when he learned that the attack had not been preceded by a chill.
“Guess he’s in for a hot time,” he said. “There is more’n one kind of malarial fever. Some are a whole lot like typhus.”
“Typhus? What is that?” asked Miss Leslie.
“Sort of rapid fire, double action typhoid. Not that I think Win’s got it–only malaria. What gets me is that we’ve only been here these few days, and yet it looks like he’s got the continuous, no-chill kind.”
“Then you think he will be very ill?”
“Well, I guess he’ll think so. It ought to run out in a week or ten days, though. We’ve had good water, and it usually takes time for malaria to soak in deep. Now, don’t worry, Miss Jenny. It’ll do him no good, and you a lot of harm. Take things easy as you can, for you’ve got to keep up your strength. If you don’t, you’ll be down yourself before Win is up.”
“Ill while he is helpless and unable–? Oh, no; that cannot be! I must not give way to the fever until–”
“Don’t worry. You’ll likely stave it off for a couple of weeks or so. You’re lively yet, and that’s a good sign. I knew Win was in for it when he began to grouch and loaf and do the baby act. I haven’t much use for dudes in general, and English dudes in particular; but I’ll admit that, while Win’s soft enough in spots, he’s not all mush and milk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake.”
“You’re welcome. I couldn’t say less, seeing that Win can’t speak for himself. Now you tumble in and get a good sleep. I’ll go on as night nurse, and work at the barricade same time. You’re not going to do any night-nursing. I can gather the thorn-brush in the afternoons, and pile it up at night.”
In the morning Miss Leslie found that Blake had built a substantial canopy over the invalid, in place of the first ramshackle structure.
“It’s best for him to be out in the air,” he explained; “so I fixed this up to keep off the dew. But whenever it rains, we’ll have to tote him inside.”
“Ah, yes; to be sure. How is he?” murmured the girl.
“He’s about the same this morning. But he got a little sleep. Keep him dosed with all the hot broth he’ll take. And say, roust me out at noon. I’ve had my breakfast. Now I’ll have a snooze. So long!”
He nodded, and crawled under the shade of the nearest bush, too drowsy to observe her look of dismay.
At noon, having learned that Winthrope’s condition showed little change, Blake ate a hearty meal, and at once set off down the cleft. He did not reappear until nightfall; though at intervals Miss Leslie had heard his step as he came up the ravine with his loads of thorn-brush.
This course of action became the routine for the following ten days. It was broken only by three incidents, all relating to the important matter of food supply. Winthrope had soon tired of broth, and showed such an insatiable craving for cocoanut milk that the stock on hand had become exhausted within the week.
The day after, Blake took the rope ladder, as he called the tangle of knotted creepers, and went off towards the north end of the cleft. When he returned, a little before dark, the lower part of his trousers was torn to shreds, and the palms of his hands were blistered and raw; but he carried a heavy load of cocoanuts. After a vain attempt to climb the giant palms on the far side of the river, he had found another grove near at hand, in the little plain, and had succeeded in reaching the tops of two of the smaller palms.
Under his directions, Miss Leslie clarified a bowl of bird fat–goose-grease, Blake called it,–and dressed his hands. Yet even with the bandages which she made of soft inner bark and the handkerchiefs, he was unable to handle the thorn-brush the following day. Unfortunately for him, he was not content to sit idle. During the night he had cut a bamboo fishing-pole and lengthened Miss Leslie’s line of plaited cocoanut-fibre with a long catgut leader. In the afternoon he completed his outfit with a hairpin hook and a piece of half-dried meat.
He was back an hour earlier than usual, and he brought with him a dozen or more fair-sized fish. His mouth was watering over the prospective feast, and Miss Leslie showed herself hardly less eager for a change from their monotonous diet. As the fish were already dressed, she raked up the coals and quickly contrived a grill of green bamboos.
When the odor of the broiling fish spread about in the still air, even Winthrope sniffed and turned over, while Blake watched the crisping delicacies with a ravenous look. Unable to restrain himself, he caught up the smallest fish, half cooked, and bolted it down with such haste that he burnt his mouth. He ran over to the spring for a drink, and Winthrope cackled derisively.
Miss Leslie was too absorbed in her cooking to observe the result of Blake’s greediness. She had turned the fish for the last time, and was about to lift them off the fire, when Blake came running back, and sent grill and all flying with a violent kick.
“Salt!” he gasped–“where’s the salt? I’m poisoned!”
“Poisoned?”
“Poison fish! Don’t eat! God!–Where’s the salt?”
The girl stared at him. His agony was so great that beads of sweat were rolling down his face. He writhed, and stretched out a quivering hand–“Salt, quick!–warm water–salt!”
“But there’s none left! You remember, yesterday–”
“God!” groaned Blake, and for a moment he sank down, overcome by a racking convulsion. Then his jaw closed like a bulldog’s, and gritting his teeth with the effort, he staggered up and rushed off down the cleft.
“Stop! stop, Mr. Blake! Where are you going?” screamed the girl.
She started to run after him, but was halted by an outburst of delirious laughter. Winthrope was sitting upright and waving his fever-blotched hands–“Hi, hi! look at ’im run! ’E’s got w’at’ll do for ’im! Run, you swine; you–”
There followed a torrent of cockney abuse so foul that Miss Leslie blushed scarlet with shame as she sought to quiet him. But the excitement had so heightened his fever that he was in a raving delirium. It was close upon midnight before his temperature fell, and he sank into a death-like torpor. In her ignorance, she supposed that he had fallen asleep.
Her relief was short-lived, for soon she remembered Blake. She could see him lying beside the pool or out on the bare plain, his resolute eyes cold and glassy, his powerful body contorted in the death agony. The vision filled her with dismay. With all his coarseness, the man had showed himself so resourceful, so indomitable, that when she sought to dwell upon her reasons to fear him, she found herself admiring his virile manliness. He might be a brute, but he did not belong among the jackals and hyenas. Indeed, as she called to mind his strong face and frank, blunt speech she all but disbelieved what her own ears had heard.
And anyway, without his aid, what should she do? Winthrope had already become as weak as a child. The emaciation of his jaundiced features was a mockery of their former plumpness. Blake had said that the fever might run on for another week, and that even if Winthrope recovered, he would probably be helpless for several days besides.
What was no less serious, though she had concealed the fact from Blake, she herself had been troubled the past week with the depression and lassitude which had preceded Winthrope’s attack. If Blake was dead, and she should fall ill before Winthrope recovered, they would both die from lack of care. And if they did not die of the fever, what of their future, here on this desolate savage coast!
But the very keenness of her mental anguish so exhausted and numbed the girl’s brain that she at last fell into a heavy sleep. The fire burned low, and shadowy forms began to creep from behind the bamboos and the trees and rocks down the gorge. There was no sound; but greedy, wolfish eyes gleamed in the starlight.
Only the day before Blake had told Miss Leslie to store the last rack of cured meat inside the baobab. The two sleepers lay between the fire and the entrance to the hollow. Slowly the embers of the fire died away into gray ashes, and slowly the night prowlers drew nearer. The boldest of the pack crept close to Miss Leslie, and, with teeth bared and back bristling, sniffed at the edge of her skirt. Whether because of her heavy breathing or the odor of the leopard skin, the beast drew away, with an uneasy whine.
There was a pause; then, backed by three others, the leader approached Winthrope. He was still lying in the death-like torpor, and he lacked the protection which, in all likelihood, the leopard skin had given Miss Leslie. The cowardly brutes took him for dead or dying. They sniffed at him from head to foot, and then, with a ferocious outburst of snarls and yells, flung themselves upon him.
Had it not chanced that Winthrope was lying upon his side, with one arm thrown up, he would have been fatally wounded by the first slashing bites of his assailants. The two which sought to tear him were baffled by the thick folds of Blake’s coat, while their leader’s slash at the victim’s throat was barred by the upraised arm. With a savage snap, the beast’s jaws closed on the arm, biting through to the bone. At the same instant the fourth jackal tore ravenously at one of the outstretched legs.
With a shriek of agony, Winthrope started up from his torpor, and struck out frantically in a fury of pain and terror. Startled by the violence of this unexpected resistance, the jackals leaped back–only to spring in again as the remainder of the pack made a rush to forestall them.
Winthrope was staggering to his feet, when the foremost brute leaped upon him. He fell heavily against one of the main supports of his bamboo canopy, and the entire structure came down with a crash. Two of the jackals, caught beneath the roof, howled with fear as they sought to free themselves. The others, with brute dread of an unknown danger, drew away, snarling and gnashing their teeth.
Wakened by the first ferocious yelps of Winthrope’s assailants, Miss Leslie had started up and stared about in the darkness. On all sides she could see pairs of fiery eyes and dim forms like the phantom creatures of a nightmare. Winthrope’s shriek, instead of spurring her to action, only confused her the more and benumbed her faculties. She thought it was his death cry, and stood trembling, transfixed with horror.
Then came the fall of the canopy. His cries as he sought to throw it off showed that he was still alive. In a flash her bewilderment vanished. The stagnant blood surged again through her arteries in a fiery, stimulating torrent. With a cry, to which primeval instinct lent a menacing note, she groped her way to the fallen canopy, and stooped to lift up one side.
“Quick!–into the tree!” she called.
Still frantic with terror, Winthrope struggled to his feet. She thrust him towards the baobab, and followed, dragging the mass of interwoven bamboos. Emboldened by the retreat of their quarry, the snarling pack instantly began to close in. Fortunately they were too cowardly to rush at once, and fear spurred their intended victims to the utmost haste. Groping and stumbling, the two felt their way to the baobab, and Miss Leslie pushed Winthrope headlong through the entrance. As he fell, she turned to face the pack.
The foremost beasts were at the rear edge of the bamboo framework, their eyes close to the ground. Instinct told her that they were crouching to leap. With desperate strength she caught up the canopy before her like a great shield, and drew it in after her until the ends of the cross-bars were wedged fast against the sides of the opening. Though it seemed so firm, she clung to it with a convulsive grasp as she felt the pack leaders fling themselves against the outer side.
But Blake had lashed the bamboos securely together, and none of the beasts was heavy enough to snap the supple bars. Finding that they could not break down the barrier, they began to scratch and tear at the thatch which covered the frame. Soon a pair of lean jaws thrust in and snapped at the girl’s skirt. She sprang back, with a cry: “Help! Quick, Mr. Winthrope! They’re breaking through!”
Winthrope made no response. She stooped, and found him lying inert where he had fallen. She had only herself to depend upon. A screen of sharp sticks which she had made for the entrance was leaning against the inner wall, within easy reach. To grasp it and thrust it against the other framework was the work of an instant.
Still she trembled, for the eager beasts had ripped the thatch from the canopy, and their inthrust jaws made short work of the few leaves on her screen. Unaware that even a lion or a tiger is quickly discouraged by the knife-like splinters of broken bamboo, she expected every moment that the jackals would bite their way through her frail barrier.
She remembered the stakes given her by Winthrope, hidden under the leaves and grass of her bed. She groped her way across the hollow, and uncovered one of the stakes. In her haste she cut her hand on its razor-like edge. All unheeding, she sprang back towards the entrance. She was none too soon. One of the smaller jackals had forced its head and one leg between the bars, and was struggling to enlarge the opening.
Fearful that the whole pack was about to burst in upon her, the girl grasped the bamboo stake in both hands, and began stabbing and lunging at the beast with all her strength. The jackal squirmed and snarled and snapped viciously. But the girl was now frantic. She pressed nearer, and though the white teeth grazed her wrist, she drove home a thrust that changed the beast’s snarls into a howl of pain. Before she could strike again, it had struggled back out of the hole, beyond reach.
Tense and panting with excitement, she leaned forward, ready to stab at the next beast. None appeared, and presently she became aware that the pack had been daunted by the experience of their unlucky fellow. Their snarls and yells had subsided to whines, which seemed to be coming from a greater distance. Still she waited, with the bamboo stake upraised ready to strike, every nerve and muscle of her body tense with the strain.
So great was the stress of her fear and excitement that she had not heeded the first gray lessening of the night. But now the glorious tropical dawn came streaming out of the east in all its red effulgence. Above and through the bamboo barrier glowed a light such as might have come from a great fire on the cliff top. Still tense and immovable, the girl stared out up the cleft. There was not a jackal in sight. She leaned forward and peered around, unable to believe such good fortune. But the night prowlers had slunk off in the first gray dawn.
The girl drew in a deep, shuddering sigh, and sank back. Her hand struck against Winthrope’s foot. She turned about quickly and looked at him. He was lying upon his face. She hastened to turn him upon his side, and to feel his forehead. It was cool and moist. He was fast asleep and drenched with sweat. The great shock of his pain and fear and excitement had broken his fever.
With the relief and joy of this discovery, the girl completely relaxed. Not observing Winthrope’s wounds, which had bled little, she sought to force a way out through the entrance. It was by no means an easy task to free the wedged framework, and when, after much pulling and pushing, she at last tore the mass loose, she found herself perspiring no less freely than Winthrope.
She was far too preoccupied, however, to consider what this might mean. Her first thought was of the fire. She ran to her rude stone fireplace and raked over the ashes. They were still warm, but there was not a live ember among them. Yet she realized that Winthrope must have hot food when he wakened, and Blake had carried with him the magnifying glass. For a little she stood hesitating. But the defeat of the jackals had given her courage and resolution such as she had never before known. She returned into the cave, and chose the sharpest of her stakes. Having made certain that Winthrope was still asleep, she set off boldly down the cleft.
At the first turn she came upon Blake’s thorn barricade. It stretched across the narrowest part of the cleft in an impenetrable wall, twelve feet high. Only in the centre was a gap, which could have been filled by Blake in less than two hours’ work. The girl’s eyes brightened. She herself could gather the thorn-brush and fill the gap before night. They no longer need fear the jackals or even the larger beasts of prey. None the less, they must have fire.
Spurred on by the thought, she was about to spring through the barricade when she heard the tread of feet on the path beyond. She crouched down, and peered through the tangle of brush in the edge of the gap. Less than ten paces away Blake was plodding heavily up the trail. She stepped out before him.
“You–you! Are you alive?” she gasped.
“’Live? You bet your boots!” came back the grim response. “You bet I’m alive–though I had to go Jonah one better to do it. The whale heaved him up; I heaved up the whale–and it took about a barrel of sea-water to do it.”
“Sea-water?”
“Sure . . . . I tumbled over twice on the way. But I made the beach. Lord! how I pumped in the briny deep! Guess I won’t go into details–but if you think you know anything about seasickness– Whew! Lucky for yours truly, the tide was just starting out, and the wind off shore. I’d fallen in the water, and the Jonah business laid me out cold. Didn’t know anything until the tide came up again and soused me.”
“I am very glad you’re not dead. But how you must have suffered! You are still white, and your face is all creased.”
Blake attempted a careless laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here, O. K., all that’s left,–a little wobbly on my pins, but hungry as a shark. But say, what’s up with you? You’re sweating like a– Good thing, though. It’ll stave off your spell of fever a while. How ’d you happen to be coming down here so early?”
“I was starting to find you.”
“Me!”
“Not you–that is, I thought you were dead. I was going to make certain, and to–to get the burning-glass.”
“Um-m. I see. Let the fire go out, eh?”
“Do not blame me, Mr. Blake! I was so ill and worn out, and I’ve paid for it twice over, really I have. Didn’t those awful beasts attack you?”
“Beasts? How’s that?” he demanded.
“Oh, but you must have heard them! The horrid things tried to kill us!” she cried, and she poured out a half incoherent account of all that had happened since he left.
Blake listened intently, his jaw thrust out, his eyes glowing upon her with a look which she had never before seen in any man’s eyes. But his first comment had nothing to do with her conduct.
“How’s that?–sorry Win got rousted out of his nice little snooze– Snooze! Why, don’t you know, we’d been all alone in our glory by to-night if it hadn’t been for those brutes. He was in the stupor, and that would have been the end of him if the beasts hadn’t stirred him up so lively. I’ve heard of such a thing before, but I always thought it was a fake. Here you are sweating, too.”
“I feel much better than yesterday. I did not tell you, but I have felt ill for nearly a week.”
“’Fraid to tell, eh?–and you were so scared over the beasts– Scared! By Jiminy, you’ve got grit, little woman! There’s two kinds of scaredness; you’ve got the Stonewall Jackson kind. If anybody asks you, just refer them to Tommy Blake.”
“Thank you, Mr. Blake. But should we not hasten back now to prepare something for Mr. Winthrope?”
“Ditto for yours truly. I’m like that sepulchre you read about–white outside, and within nothing but bare bones and emptiness.”
The fire was soon re-lit, and a pot of meat set on to stew. It had ample time to simmer. Winthrope was wrapped in a life-giving sleep, out of which he did not waken until evening, while Blake, unable to wait for the pot to boil, and nauseated by the fishy odor of the dried seafowl, hunted out the jerked leopard meat, and having devoured enough to satisfy a native, fell asleep under a bush.
The sun was half down the sky when he sat up and looked around, wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. Miss Leslie was quietly placing an armful of sticks on the fuel heap beside the baobab.
“Hello, Miss Jenny! Hard at it, I see,” he called cheerfully.
“Hush!” she cautioned. “Mr. Winthrope is still asleep.”
“Good thing for him. He’ll need all of that he can get.”
“Then you think–?”
“Well, between you and me, I don’t believe Win was built for the tropics. This fever of his, coming on so soon, wouldn’t have hit nine men in ten half so hard. He’s bound to have another spell in a month or two, and–”
“But cannot we possibly get away from here before then? Is there no way? Surely, you are so resourceful–”
“Nothing doing, Miss Jenny! Give me tools, and I’d engage to turn out a seagoing boat. But as it is, the only thing I could do would be to fire-burn a log. That would take two or three months, and in the end we’d have a lop-sided canoe that’d live about half a second in one of these tropic squalls.”
“Do not the natives sail in canoes?”
“Maybe they do–and they make fire by rubbing sticks. We don’t.”
“But what can we do?”
“Take our medicine, and wait for a ship to show up.”
“But we have no medicine.”
“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.”
“You surely are becoming a splendid archer!”
“Yes; Jim dandy! I could do it again about once in ten thousand shots. All the same, I’ve raked in this peacherino. Trot out your grill and we’ll have something fit to eat.”
“You spoke of beef juice.”
“I’ve a dozen steaks ready to broil. Slap ’em on the fire, and I’ll squeeze out enough juice with my fist to do Win for to-night.”
He made good his assertion, using several of the steaks, which, having lost less than half their juices in the process, were eaten with great relish by Miss Leslie and himself.
Winthrope, after drinking the stimulating beef juice and a quantity of hot water, turned over and fell asleep again while Blake was dressing his wounds. None of these was serious of itself; but Blake knew the danger of infection in the tropics, and carefully washed out the gashes before applying the tallow salve which Miss Leslie had tried out from the antelope fat.
The dressing was completed by torchlight. Blake then rolled the sleeper into a comfortable position, took the torch from Miss Leslie, and left the cave, pausing at the entrance to mutter a gruff good-night. The girl murmured a response, but watched him anxiously as he passed out. A step beyond the entrance he paused and turned again. In the red glare of the torch, his face took on an expression that filled her with fright. Shrouded by the gloom of the hollow, she drew back to her bed, and without turning her eyes away from him, groped for one of her bamboo stakes.
But before she could arm herself, she saw Blake stoop over and grasp with his free hand the mass of interwoven bamboos. He straightened himself, and the framework swung lightly up and over, until it stood on end across the cave entrance. The girl stole around and peered out at him. He had spread open the antelope skin, and was beginning to slice the meat for drying. Though his forehead was furrowed, his expression was by no means sinister. Relieved at the thought that the light must have deceived her, she returned to her bed and was soon sleeping as soundly as Winthrope.
Blake strung the greater part of the meat on the drying racks, built a smudge fire beneath, and stretched the antelope skin on a frame. This done, he took his club and a small piece of bloody meat, and walked stealthily down the cleft to the barricade. Quiet as was his approach, it was met by a warning yelp on the farther side of the thorny wall, and he could hear the scurry of fleeing animals.
He kept on until the barricade loomed up before him in the starlight. From cliff to cliff the wall now stretched across the gorge without hole or gap. But Blake grasped the trunk of a young date-palm which projected from the barricade near the bottom, and pushed it out. The displacement of the spiky fronds disclosed the low passage which he had made in the centre of the barricade. He placed the piece of meat on one side, two or three feet from the hole, and squatted down across from it, with his club balanced on his shoulder.
Half an hour passed–an hour; and still he waited, silent and motionless as a statue. At last stealthy footsteps sounded on the outer side of the thorn wall, and an animal began to creep through the wall, sniffing for the bait. Blake waited with the immobility of an Eskimo. The delay was brief.
With a boldness for which Blake had not been prepared, the beast leaped through and seized the meat. Even in the dim light, Blake could see that he had lured an animal larger than any jackal. But this only served to lend greater force to his blow. As he struck, he leaped to his feet The brute fell as though struck by lightning and lay still.
Blake prodded the inert form warily; then knelt and passed his hands over it. The beast had whirled about just in time to meet the descending club, and the blow had crushed in its skull. Chuckling at the success of his ruse, he drew the palm back into the opening, and swung his prize over his shoulder. When he came to the fire, a glance showed him that he had killed a full-grown spotted hyena.
In the morning, when Miss Leslie appeared, there were two hides stretched on bamboo frames, and the air was dark with vultures streaming down into the cleft near the barricade. Blake was sleeping the sleep of the just, and did not waken until she had built the fire and begun to broil the steaks which he had saved.
Again they had a feast of the fresh antelope meat. But with repletion came more of fastidiousness, and Blake agreed with Miss Leslie when she remarked that salt would have added to the flavor. He set off presently, and spent half a day on the talus of the headland, gathering salt from the rock crannies.
For the next three days he left the cleft only to gather eggs. The greater part of his time was spent in tanning the hyena and antelope skins. Meantime Miss Leslie continued to nurse Winthrope and to gather firewood. Under Blake’s directions, she also purified the salt by dissolving it in a pot of water, and allowing the dirt to settle, when the clarified solution was poured off and evaporated over the fire in one of the earthenware pans.
At first Winthrope had been too weak to sit up. But treated to a liberal diet of antelope broth, raw eggs, hot water, and cocoanut milk, he gained strength faster than Blake had expected. On the fourth day Blake set him to work on the final rubbing of the new skins; on the fifth, he ordered him to go for eggs.
Much to Miss Leslie’s surprise, Winthrope started off without a word of protest. All his peevish irritability and childishness had gone with the fever, and the girl was gratified to see the quiet manner in which he set about a task which seemed an imposition upon his half-regained strength. But the very motive which, seemingly, prevented him from protesting, impelled her to speak for him.
“Mr. Blake!” she exclaimed, “Mr. Winthrope is going off without a word; but I can’t endure it! You have no right to send him on such an errand. It will kill him!”
Blake met her indignant look with a sober stare.
“What if it does!” he said. “Better for him to die in the gallant service of his fellows, than to sit here and rot. Eh, Win?”
“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Genevieve. I hope I shall pull through all right. If not–”
“No, you shall not! I’ll go myself!”
“See here, Miss Leslie,” said Blake, somewhat sternly; “who’s got the responsibility of keeping you two alive for the next month or so? I’ve been in the tropics before, and I know something of the way people have to live to get out again. I’m trying to do my best, and I tell you straight, if you won’t mind me, I’m going to make you, no matter how much it hurts your feelings. You see how nice and meek Win takes his orders. I explained matters to him last night–”
“I assure you, Blake, you shall have no cause for complaint as to my conduct,” muttered Winthrope. “I should like to observe, however, that in speaking to Miss Leslie–”
“There you are again, with your everlasting talk. Cut it out, and get busy. To-morrow we all go on a hike to the river.”
As Winthrope started off, Blake turned to Miss Leslie, with a good-natured grin.
“You see, it’s this way, Miss Jenny–” he began. He caught her look of disdain, and his face darkened. “Mad, eh? So that’s the racket!”
“Mr. Blake, I will not have you talk to me in that way. Mr. Winthrope is a gentleman, but nothing more to me than a friend such as any young woman–”
“That settles it! I’ll take your word for it, Miss Jenny,” broke in Blake, and springing up, he set about his work, whistling.
The girl gazed at his broad back and erect head, uncertain whether she should feel relieved or anxious. The more she thought the matter over, the more uncertain she became, and the more she wondered at her uncertainty. Could it be possible that she was becoming interested in a man who, if her ears had not deceived her– But no! That could not be possible!
Yet what a ring there was to his voice!–so clear and tonic after Winthrope’s precise, modulated drawl. And her countryman’s firmness! He could be rude if need be; but he would make her do what he thought was best for her health. Was it not possible that she had misunderstood his words on the cliff, and so misjudged–wronged–him?–that Winthrope, so eager to stipulate for her hand– But then Winthrope had more than confirmed her dreadful conclusions taken from Blake’s words, and Winthrope was an English gentleman. It could not be possible that an English gentleman–
She ended in a state of utter bewilderment.
As Winthrope had succeeded in dragging himself to and from the headland without a collapse, the following morning, as soon as the dew was dry, Blake called out all hands for the expedition. He was in the best of humors, and showed unexpected consideration by presenting Winthrope with a cane, which he had cut and trimmed during the night.
Having sent Miss Leslie to fill the whiskey flask with spring water, he dropped three cocoanut-shell bowls, a piece of meat and a lump of salt into one of the earthenware pots, and slung all over his shoulder in the antelope skin. With his bow hung over the other shoulder, knife and arrows in his belt, and his big club in hand, he looked ready for any contingency.
“We’ll hit first for the mouth of the river,” he said. “I’m going on ahead. If I’m not in sight when you come up, pick a tree where the ground is dry, and wait.”
“But I say, Blake,” replied Winthrope, “I see animals over in the coppices, and you should know that I am physically unable–”
“Nothing but antelope,” interrupted Blake. “I’ve seen them enough now to know them twice as far off. And you can bet on it they’d not be there if any dangerous beast was in smelling distance.”
“That is so clever of you, Mr. Blake,” remarked Miss Leslie.
“Simple enough when you happen to think of it,” responded Blake. “Yes; the only thing you’ve got to look out for’s the ticks in the grass. They’ll keep you interested. They bit me up in great shape.”
He scowled at the recollection, nodded by way of emphasis, and was off like a shot. The edge of the plain beneath the cliff was strewn with rocks, among which, even with Miss Leslie’s help, Winthrope could pick his way but slowly. Before they were clear of the rough ground, they saw Blake disappear among the mangroves.
The ticks proved less annoying than they had apprehended after Blake’s warning. But when they approached the mouth of the river, they were alarmed to hear, above the roar of the surf, loud snorting, such as could only be made by large animals. Fearful lest Blake had roused and angered some forest beast, they veered to the right, and ran to hide behind a clump of thorns. Winthrope sank down exhausted the moment they reached cover; but Miss Leslie crept to the far end of the thicket and peered around.
“Oh, look here!” she cried. “It’s a whole herd of elephants trying to cross the river mouth where we did, and they’re being drowned, poor things!”
“Elephants?” panted Winthrope, and he dragged himself forward beside her. “Why, so there are; quite a drove of the beasts. Yet, I must say, they appear smaller–ah, yes; see their heads. They must be the hippos Blake saw.”
“Those ugly creatures? I once saw some at the zoo. Just the same, they will be drowned. Some are right in the surf!”
“I can’t say, I’m sure, Miss Genevieve, but I have an idea that the beasts are quite at home in the water. I fancy they enjoy surf bathing as keenly as ourselves.”
“I do believe you are right. There is one going in from the quiet water. But look at those funny little ones on the backs of the others!”
“Must be the baby hippos,” replied Winthrope, indifferently. “If you please, I’ll take a pull at the flask. I am very dry.”
When he had half emptied the flask, he stretched out in the shade to doze. But Miss Leslie continued to watch the movements of the snorting hippos, amused by the ponderous antics of the grown ones in the surf, and the comic appearance of the barrel-like infants as they mounted the backs of their obese mothers.
Presently Blake came out from among the mangroves, and walked across to the beach, a few yards away from the huge bathers. To all appearances, they paid as little attention to him as he to them. Miss Leslie glanced about at Winthrope. He was fast asleep. She waited a few moments to see if the hippopotami would attack Blake. They continued to ignore him, and gaining courage from their indifference, she stepped out from behind the thicket, and advanced to where Blake was crouched on the beach. When she came up, she saw beside him a heap of oysters, which he was opening in rapid succession.
“Hello! You’re just in time to help,” he called. “Where’s Win!”
“Asleep behind those bushes.”
“Worst thing he could do. But lend a hand, and we’ll shuck these oysters before rousting him out. You can rinse those I’ve opened. Fill the pot with water, and put them in to soak.”
“They look very tempting. How did you chance to find them?”
“Saw ’em on the mangrove roots at low tide, first time I nosed around here. Tide was well up to-day; but I managed to get these all right with a little diving. Only trouble, the skeets most ate me alive.”
Miss Leslie glanced at her companion’s dry clothing, and came back to the oysters themselves. “These look very tempting. Do you like them raw?”
“Can’t say I like them much any way, as a rule. But if I did, I wouldn’t eat this mess raw.”
“Yes?”
“This must be the dry season here, and the river is running mighty clear. Just the same, it’s nothing more than liquid malaria. We’ll not eat these oysters till they’ve been pasteurized.”
“If the water is so dangerous, I fear we will suffer before we can return,” replied Miss Leslie, and she held up the flask.
“What!” exclaimed Blake. “Half gone already? That was Winthrope.”
“He was very thirsty. Could we not boil a potful of the river water?”
“Yes, when the ebb gets strong, if we run too dry. First, though, we’ll make a try for cocoanuts. Let’s hit out for the nearest grove now. The main thing is to keep moving.”
As he spoke, Blake caught up the pot and his club, and started for the thorn clump, leaving the skin, together with the meat and the salt, for Miss Leslie to carry. Winthrope was wakened by a touch of Blake’s foot, and all three were soon walking away from the seashore, just within the shady border of the mangrove wood.
At the first fan-palm Blake stopped to gather a number of leaves, for their palm-leaf hats were now cracked and broken. A little farther on a ruddy antelope, with lyrate horns, leaped out of the bush before them and dashed off towards the river before Blake could string his bow. As if in mockery of his lack of readiness, a troupe of large green monkeys set up a wild chattering in a tree above the party.
“I say, Miss Jenny, do you think you can lug the pot, if we go slow? It isn’t far now.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good for you, little woman! That’ll give me a chance to shoot quick.”
They moved on again for a hundred yards or more; but though Blake kept a sharp lookout both above and below, he saw no game other than a few small birds and a pair of blue wood-pigeons. When he sought to creep up on the latter, they flew into the next tree. In following them, he came upon a conical mound of hard clay, nearly four feet high.
“Hello; this must be one of those white anthills,” he said, and he gave the mound a kick.
Instantly a tiny object whirred up and struck him in the face.
“Whee!” he exclaimed, springing back and striking out. “A hornet! No; it’s a bee!”
“Did it sting you?” cried Miss Leslie.
“Sting? Keep back; there’s a lot more of ’em. Sting? Oh, no; he only hypodermicked me with a red-hot darning needle! Shy around here. There’s a whole swarm of the little devils, and they’re hopping mad. Hear ’em buzz!”
“But where is their hive?” asked Winthrope, as all three drew back behind the nearest bushes.
“Guess they’ve borrowed that ant-hill,” replied Blake, gingerly fingering the white lump which marked the spot where the bee had struck him.
“Wouldn’t it be delightful if we had some honey?” exclaimed Miss Leslie.
“By Jove, that really wouldn’t be half bad!” chimed in Winthrope.
“Maybe we can, Miss Jenny; only we’ll need a fire to tackle those buzzers. Guess it’ll be as well to let them cool off a bit also. The cocoanuts are only a little way ahead now. Here; give me the pot.”
They soon came to a small grove of cocoanut palms, where Blake threw down his club and bow and handed his burning-glass to Miss Leslie.
“Here,” he said; “you and Win start a fire. It’s early yet, but I’m thinking we’ll all be ready enough for oyster stew.”
“How about the meat?” asked Miss Leslie.
“Keep that till later. Here goes for our dessert.”
Selecting one of the smaller palms, Blake spat on his hands, and began to climb the slender trunk. Aided by previous experiences, he mounted steadily to the top. The descent was made with even more care and steadiness, for he did not wish to tear the skin from his hands again.
“Now, Win,” he said, as he neared the bottom and sprang down, “leave the cooking to Miss Leslie, and husk some of those nuts. You won’t more’n have time to do it before the stew is ready.”
Winthrope’s response was to draw out his penknife. Blake stretched himself at ease in the shade, but kept a critical eye on his companions. Although Winthrope’s fingers trembled with weakness, he worked with a precision and rapidity that drew a grunt of approval from Blake. Presently Miss Leslie, who had been stirring the stew with a twig, threw in a little salt, and drew the pot from the fire.
“En avant, gentlemen! Dinner is served,” she called gayly.
“What’s that?” demanded Blake. “Oh; sure. Hold on, Miss Jenny. You’ll dump it all.”
He wrapped a wisp of grass about the pot, and filled the three cocoanut bowls. The stew was boiling hot; but they fished up the oysters with the bamboo forks that Blake had carved some days since. By the time the oysters were eaten, the liquor in the bowl was cool enough to drink. The process was repeated until the pot had been emptied of its contents.
“Say, but that was something like,” murmured Blake. “If only we’d had pretzels and beer to go with it! But these nuts won’t be bad.”
When they finished the cocoanuts, Winthrope asked for a drink of water.
“Would it not be best to keep it until later?” replied Miss Leslie.
“Sure,” put in Blake. “We’ve had enough liquid refreshments to do any one. If I don’t look out, you’ll both be drinking river water. Just bear in mind the work I’d have to carve a pair of gravestones. No; that flask has got to do you till we get home. I don’t shin up any more telegraph poles to-day.”
“Would it not be best for Mr. Winthrope to rest during the noon hours?”
“’Fraid not, Miss Jenny. We’re not on t’other side of Jordan yet, and there’s no rest for the weary this side.”
“What odd expressions you use, Mr. Blake!”
“Just giving you the reverse application of one of those songs they jolly us with in the mission churches–”
“I’m sure, Mr. Blake–”
“Me, too, Miss Jenny! So, as that’s settled, we’ll be moving. Chuck some live coals in the pot, and come on.”
He started off, weapons in hand. Winthrope made a languid effort to take possession of the pot. But Miss Leslie pushed him aside, and wrapping all in the antelope skin, slung it upon her back.
“The brute!” exclaimed Winthrope. “To leave such a load for you, when he knew that I can do so little!”
The girl met his outburst with a brave attempt at a smile. “Please try to look at the bright side, Mr. Winthrope. Really, I believe he thinks it is best for us to exert ourselves.”
“He has other opinions with which we of the cultured class would hardly agree, Miss Leslie. Consider his command that we shall go thirsty until he permits us to return to the cliffs. The man’s impertinence is intolerable. I shall go to the river and drink when I choose.”
“Oh, but the danger of malaria!”
“Nonsense. Malaria, like yellow fever, comes only from the bite of certain species of mosquitoes. If we have the fever, it will be entirely his fault. We have been bitten repeatedly this morning, and all because he must compel us to come with him to this infected lowland.”
“Still, I think we should do what Mr. Blake says.”
“My dear Miss Genevieve, for your sake I will endeavor not to break with the fellow. Only, you know, it is deuced hard to keep one’s temper when one considers what a bounder–what an unmitigated cad–”
“Stop! I will not listen to another word!” exclaimed the girl, and she hurried after Blake, leaving Winthrope staring in astonishment.
“My word!” he muttered; “can it be, after all I’ve done–and him, of all the low fellows–”
He stood for several moments in deep thought. The look on his sallow face was far from pleasant.