DOCTOR RODD
I did get a little sleep that night, with one eye open, but before dawn
I was up again seeing to the feeding of our remaining horse with some
mealies that we carried, and other matters. The oxen we had been
obliged to unyoke that they might fill themselves with grass and water,
since otherwise I feared that we should never get them on to their feet
again. As it was, the poor brutes were so tired that some of them could
scarcely eat, and all lay down at the first opportunity.
Having awakened Footsack and the other boys that they might be ready to
take advantage of the light when it came, for I was anxious to be away,
I drank a nip of Hollands and water and ate a biscuit, making Anscombe
do the same. Coffee would have been more acceptable, but I thought it
wiser not to light a fire for fear of showing our whereabouts.
Now a faint glimmer in the east told me that the dawn was coming. Just
by the wagon grew a fair-sized, green-leaved tree, and as it was quite
easy to climb even by starlight, up it I went so as to get above the
ground mist and take a look round before we trekked. Presently the sky
grew pearly and light began to gather; then the edge of the sun
appeared, throwing long level rays across the world. Everywhere the
mist lay dense as cotton wool, except at one spot about a mile behind
us where there was a little hill or rather a wave of the ground, over
which we had trekked upon the preceding evening. The top of this rise
was above mist level, and on it no trees grew because the granite came
to the surface. Having discovered nothing, I called to the boys to
drive up the oxen, some of which had risen and were eating again, and
prepared to descend from my tree.
As I did so, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something
that glittered far away, so far that it would only have attracted the
notice of a trained hunter. Yes, something was shining on the brow of
the rise of which I have spoken. I stared at it through my glasses and
saw what I had feared to see. A body of natives was crossing the rise
and the glitter was caused by the rays of dawn striking on their spears
and gun-barrels.
I came down out of that tree like a frightened wild cat and ran to the
wagon, thinking hard as I went. The Basutos were after us, meaning to
attack as soon as there was sufficient light. In ten minutes or less
they would be here. There was no time to inspan the oxen, and even if
there had been, stiff and weary as the beasts were, we should be
overtaken before we had gone a hundred yards on that bad road. What
then was to be done? Run for it? It was impossible, Anscombe could not
run. My eye fell upon the horse munching the last of his mealies.
“Footsack,” I said as quietly as I could, “never mind about inspanning
yet, but saddle up the horse. Be quick now.”
He looked at me doubtfully, but obeyed, having seen nothing. If he had
seen I knew that he would have been off. I nipped round to the end of
the wagon, calling to the other two boys to let the oxen be a while and
come to me.
“Now, Anscombe,” I said, “hand out the rifles and cartridges. Don’t
stop to ask questions, but do what I tell you. They are on the rack by
your side. So. Now put on your revolver and let me help you down. Man,
don’t forget your hat.”
He obeyed quickly enough, and presently was standing on one leg by my
side, looking cramped and tottery.
“The Basutos are on us,” I said.
He whistled and remarked something about Chapter No. 2.
“Footsack,” I called, “bring the horse here; the Baas wishes to ride a
little to ease his leg.”
He did so, stopping a moment to pull the second girth tight. Then we
helped Anscombe into the saddle.
“Which way?” he asked.
I looked at the long slope in front of us. It was steep and bad going.
Anscombe might get up it on the horse before the Kaffirs overtook us,
but it was extremely problematical if we could do so. I might perhaps
if I mounted behind him and the horse could bear us both, which was
doubtful, but how about our poor servants? He saw the doubt upon my
face and said in his quiet way,
“You may remember that our white-bearded friend told us to make
straight for his place in case of any difficulty with the Basutos. It
seems to have arisen.”
“I know he did,” I answered, “but I cannot make up my mind which is the
more dangerous, Marnham or the Basutos. I rather think that he set them
on to us.”
“It is impossible to solve problems at this hour of the morning,
Quatermain, and there is no time to toss. So I vote for the Temple.”
“It seems our best chance. At any rate that’s your choice, so let’s
go.”
Then I sang out to the Kaffirs, “The Basutos are on us. We go to Tampel
for refuge. Run!”
My word! they did run. I never saw athletes make better time over the
first quarter of a mile. We ran, too, or at least the horse did, I
hanging on to the stirrup and Anscombe holding both the rifles beneath
his arm. But the beast was tired, also blown out with that morning feed
of mealies, so our progress was not very fast. When we were about two
hundred yards from the wagon I looked back and saw the Basutos
beginning to arrive. They saw us also, and uttering a sort of whistling
war cry, started in pursuit.
After this we had quite an interesting time. I scrambled on to the
horse behind Anscombe, whereon that intelligent animal, feeling the
double weight, reduced its pace proportionately, to a slow tripple,
indeed, out of which it could not be persuaded to move. So I slipped
off again over its tail and we went on as before. Meanwhile the
Basutos, very active fellows, were coming up. By this time the
yellow-wood grove in the swamp, of which I have already written, was
close to us, and it became quite a question which of us would get there
first (I may mention that Footsack & Co. had already attained its
friendly shelter). Anscombe kicked the horse with his sound heel and I
thumped it with my fist, thereby persuading it to a hand gallop.
As we reached the outlying trees of the wood the first Basuto, a lank
fellow with a mouth like a rat trap, arrived and threw an assegai at us
which passed between Anscombe’s back and my nose. Then he closed and
tried to stab with another assegai. I could do nothing, but Anscombe
showed himself cleverer than I expected. Dropping the reins, he drew
his pistol and managed to send a bullet through that child of nature’s
head, so that he went down like a stone.
“And you tell me I am a bad shot,” he drawled.
“It was a fluke,” I gasped, for even in these circumstances truth would
prevail.
“Wait and you’ll see,” he replied, re-cocking the revolver.
As a matter of fact there was no need for more shooting, since at the
verge of the swamp the Basutos pulled up. I do not think that the death
of their companion caused them to do this, for they seemed to take no
notice of him. It was as though they had reached some boundary which
they knew it would not be lawful for them to pass. They simply stopped,
took the dead man’s assegai and shield from the body and walked quietly
back towards the wagon, leaving him where he lay. The horse stopped
also, or rather proceeded at a walk.
“There!” exclaimed Anscombe. “Did I not tell you I had a presentiment
that I should kill a man in this accursed wood?”
“Yes,” I said as soon as I had recovered my breath, “but you mixed up a
woman with the matter and I don’t see one.”
“That’s true,” he replied, “I hope we shan’t meet her later.”
Then we went on as quickly as we could, which was not very fast, for I
feared lest the Basutos should change their minds and follow us. As the
risk of this became less our spirits rose, since if we had lost the
wagon and the oxen, at least we had saved our lives, which was almost
more than we could have expected in the circumstances. At last we came
to that glade where we had killed the wildebeeste not a week before.
There lay its skeleton picked clean by the great brown kites that
frequent the bush-veld, some of which still sat about in the trees.
“Well, I suppose we must go on to Tampel,” said Anscombe rather
faintly, for I could see that his wound was giving him a good deal of
pain.
As he spoke from round the tree whence he had first emerged, appeared
Mr. Marnham, riding the same horse and wearing the same clothes. The
only difference between his two entries was that the first took place
in the late evening and the second in the early morning.
“So here you are again,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes,” I answered, “and it is strange to meet you at the same spot.
Were you expecting us?”
“Not more than I expect many things,” he replied with a shrewd glance
at me, adding, “I always rise with the sun, and thinking that I heard a
shot fired in the distance, came to see what was happening. The Basutos
attacked you at daybreak, did they not?”
“They did, but how did you know that, Mr. Marnham?”
“Your servants told me. I met them running to the house looking very
frightened. You are wounded, Mr. Anscombe?”
“Yes, a couple of days ago on the border of Sekukuni’s country where
the natives tried to murder us.”
“Ah!” he replied without surprise. “I warned you the trip was
dangerous, did I not? Well, come on home where my partner, Rodd, who
luckily has had medical experience, will attend to you. Mr. Quatermain
can tell me the story as we go.”
So we went on up the long slope, I relating our adventures, to which
Mr. Marnham listened without comment.
“I expect that the Kaffirs will have looted the wagon and be on the way
home with your oxen by now,” he said when I had finished.
“Are you not afraid that they will follow us here?” I asked.
“Oh no, Mr. Quatermain. We do business with these people, also they
sometimes come to be doctored by Rodd when they are sick, so this place
is sacred ground to them. They stopped hunting you when they got to the
Yellow-wood swamp where our land begins, did they not?”
“Yes, but now I want to hunt them. Can you give me any help? Those oxen
are tired out and footsore, so we might be able to catch them up.”
He shook his head. “We have very few people here, and by the time that
you could get assistance from the Camp at Barberton, if the Commandant
is able and willing to give you any, which I rather doubt, they will be
far away. Moreover,” he added, dropping his voice, “let us come to an
understanding. You are most welcome to any help or hospitality that I
can offer, but if you wish to do more fighting I must ask you to go
elsewhere. As I have told you, we are peaceful men who trade with these
people, and do not wish to be involved in a quarrel with them, which
might expose us to attack or bring us into trouble with the British
Government which has annexed but not conquered their country. Do I make
myself clear?”
“Perfectly. While we are with you we will do nothing, but afterwards we
hold ourselves at liberty to act as we think best.”
“Quite so. Meanwhile I hope that you and Mr. Anscombe will make
yourselves comfortable with us for as long as you like.”
In my own mind I came to the conclusion that this would be for the
shortest time possible, but I only said—
“It is most kind of you to take in complete strangers thus. No, not
complete,” I added, looking towards Anscombe who was following on the
tired horse a few paces behind, “for you knew his father, did you not?”
“His father?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “No. Oh! I remember, I
said something to that effect the other night, but it was a mistake. I
mixed up two names, as one often does after a lapse of many years.”
“I understand,” I answered, but remembering Anscombe’s story I
reflected to myself that our venerable host was an excellent liar. Or
more probably he meant to convey that he wished the subject of his
youthful reminiscences to be taboo.
Just then we reached the house which had a pretty patch of well-kept
flower-garden in front of it, surrounded by a fence covered with wire
netting to keep out buck. By the gate squatted our three retainers,
looking very blown and rather ashamed of themselves.
“Your master wishes to thank you for your help in a dark hour,
Footsack, and I wish to congratulate you all upon the swiftness of your
feet,” I said in Dutch.
“Oh! Baas, the Basutos were many and their spears are sharp,” he began
apologetically.
“Be silent, you running dog,” I said, “and go help your master to
dismount.”
Then we went through the gate, Anscombe leaning on my shoulder and on
that of Mr. Marnham, and up the path which was bordered with fences of
the monthly rose, towards the house. Really this was almost as charming
to look at near at hand as it had been from far away. Of course the
whole thing was crude in detail. Rough, half-shaped blocks of marble
from the neighbouring quarry had been built into walls and columns.
Nothing was finished, and considered bit by bit all was coarse and
ugly. Yet the general effect was beautiful because it was an effect of
design, the picture of an artist who did not fully understand the
technicalities of painting, the work of a great writer who had as yet
no proper skill in words. Never did I see a small building that struck
me more. But then what experience have I of buildings, and, as Anscombe
reminded me afterwards, it was but a copy of something designed when
the world was young, or rather when civilization was young, and man new
risen from the infinite ages of savagery, saw beauty in his dreams and
tried to symbolize it in shapes of stone.
We came to the broad stoep, to which several rough blocks of marble
served as steps. On it in a long chair made of native wood and seated
with hide rimpis, sat or rather lolled a man in a dressing-gown who was
reading a book. He raised himself as we came and the light of the sun,
for the verandah faced to the east, shone full upon his face, so that I
saw him well. It was that of a man of something under forty years of
age, dark, powerful, and weary—not a good face, I thought. Indeed, it
gave me the impression of one who had allowed the evil which exists in
the nature of all of us to become his master, or had even encouraged it
to do so.
In the Psalms and elsewhere we are always reading of the righteous and
the unrighteous until those terms grow wearisome. It is only of late
years that I have discovered, or think that I have discovered, what
they mean. Our lives cannot be judged by our deeds; they must be judged
by our desires or rather by our moral attitude. It is not what we do so
much as what we try to do that counts in the formation of character.
All fall short, all fail, but in the end those who seek to climb out of
the pit, those who strive, however vainly, to fashion failure to
success, are, by comparison, the righteous, while those who are content
to wallow in our native mire and to glut themselves with the daily
bread of vice, are the unrighteous. To turn our backs thereon wilfully
and without cause, is the real unforgiveable sin against the Spirit. At
least that is the best definition of the problem at which I in my
simplicity can arrive.
Such thoughts have often occurred to me in considering the character of
Dr. Rodd and some others whom I have known; indeed the germ of them
arose in my mind which, being wearied at the time and therefore
somewhat vacant, was perhaps the more open to external impressions, as
I looked upon the face of this stranger on the stoep. Moreover, as I am
proud to record, I did not judge him altogether wrongly. He was a
blackguard who, under other influences or with a few added grains of
self-restraint and of the power of recovery, might have become a good
or even a saintly man. But by some malice of Fate or some evil
inheritance from an unknown past, those grains were lacking, and
therefore he went not up but down the hill.
“Case for you, Rodd,” called out Marnham.
“Indeed,” he answered, getting to his feet and speaking in a full
voice, which, like his partner’s, was that of an educated Englishman.
“What’s the matter. Horse accident?”
Then we were introduced, and Anscombe began to explain his injury.
“Um!” said the doctor, studying him with dark eyes. “Kaffir bullet
through the foot some days ago. Ought to be attended to at once. Also
you look pretty done, so don’t tire yourself with the story, which I
can get from Mr. Quatermain. Come and lie down and I’ll have a look at
you while they are cooking breakfast.”
Then he guided us to a room of which the double French windows opened
on to the stoep, a very pretty room with two beds in it. Making
Anscombe lie down on one of these he turned up his trouser, undid my
rough bandage and examined the wound.
“Painful?” he asked.
“Very,” answered Anscombe, “right up to the thigh.”
After this he drew off the nether garments and made a further
examination.
“Um,” he said again, “I must syringe this out. Stay still while I get
some stuff.”
I followed him from the room, and when we were out of hearing on the
stoep inquired what he thought. I did not like the look of that leg.
“It is very bad,” he answered, “so bad that I am wondering if it
wouldn’t be best to remove the limb below the knee and make it a job.
You can see for yourself that it is septic and the inflammation is
spreading up rapidly.”
“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “do you fear mortification?”
He nodded. “Can’t say what was on that slug or bit of old iron and he
hasn’t had the best chance since. Mortification, or tetanus, or both,
are more than possible. Is he a temperate man?”
“So far as I know,” I answered, and stared at him while he thought.
Then he said with decision,
“That makes a difference. To lose a foot is a serious thing; some might
think almost as bad as death. I’ll give him a chance, but if those
symptoms do not abate in twenty-four hours, I must operate. You needn’t
be afraid, I was house surgeon at a London Hospital—once, and I keep my
hand in. Lucky you came straight here.”
Having made his preparations and washed his hands, he returned,
syringed the wound with some antiseptic stuff, and dressed and bandaged
the leg up to the knee. After this he gave Anscombe hot milk to drink,
with two eggs broken into it, and told him to rest a while as he must
not eat anything solid at present. Then he threw a blanket over him,
and, signing to me to come away, let down a mat over the window.
“I put a little something into that milk,” he said outside, “which will
send him to sleep for a few hours. So we will leave him quiet. Now
you’ll want a wash.”
“Where are you going to take Mr. Quatermain?” asked Marnham who was
seated on the stoep.
“Into my room,” he answered.
“Why? There’s Heda’s ready.”
“Heda might return at any moment,” replied the doctor. “Also Mr.
Quatermain had better sleep in Mr. Anscombe’s room. He will very likely
want some one to look after him at night.”
Marnham opened his mouth to speak again, then changed his mind and was
silent, as a servant is silent under rebuke. The incident was quite
trifling, yet it revealed to me the relative attitude of these two men.
Without a doubt Rodd was the master of his partner, who did not even
care to dispute with him about the matter of the use of his daughter’s
bedroom. They were a queer couple who, had it not been for my anxiety
as to Anscombe’s illness, would have interested me very much, as indeed
they were destined to do.
Well, I went to tidy up in the doctor’s room, and as he left me alone
while I washed, had the opportunity of studying it a little. Like the
rest of the house it was lined with native wood which was made to serve
as the backs of bookshelves and of cupboards filled with medicines and
instruments. The books formed a queer collection. There were medical
works, philosophical works, histories, novels, most of them French, and
other volumes of a sort that I imagine are generally kept under lock
and key; also some that had to do with occult matters. There was even a
Bible. I opened it thoughtlessly, half in idle curiosity, to see
whether it was ever used, only to replace it in haste. For at the very
page that my eye fell on, I remember it was one of my favourite
chapters in Isaiah, was a stamp in violet ink marked H. M.‘s
Prison—well, I won’t say where.
I may state, however, that the clue enabled me in after years to learn
an episode in this man’s life which had brought about his ruin. There
is no need to repeat it or to say more than that gambling and an evil
use of his medical knowledge to provide the money to pay his debts,
were the cause of his fall. The strange thing is that he should have
kept the book which had probably been given to him by the prison
chaplain. Still everybody makes mistakes sometimes. Or it may have had
associations for him, and of course he had never seen this stamp upon
an unread page, which happened to leap to my eye.
Now I was able to make a shrewd guess at his later career. After his
trouble he had emigrated and began to practise in South Africa. Somehow
his identity had been discovered; his past was dragged up against him,
possibly by rivals jealous of his skill; his business went and he found
it advisable to retire to the Transvaal before the Annexation, at that
time the home of sundry people of broken repute. Even there he did not
stop in a town, but hid himself upon the edge of savagery. Here he
foregathered with another man of queer character, Marnham, and in his
company entered upon some doubtful but lucrative form of trade while
still indulging his love of medicine by doctoring and operating upon
natives, over whom he would in this way acquire great influence.
Indeed, as I discovered before the day was over, he had quite a little
hospital at the back of the house in which were four or five beds
occupied by Kaffirs and served by two male native nurses whom he had
trained. Also numbers of out-patients visited him, some of whom
travelled from great distances, and occasionally, but not often, he
attended white people who chanced to be in the neighbourhood.
The three of us breakfasted in a really charming room from the window
of which could be studied a view as beautiful as any I know. The
Kaffirs who waited were well trained and dressed in neat linen
uniforms. The cooking was good; there was real silver on the table,
then a strange sight in that part of Africa, and amongst engravings and
other pictures upon the walls, hung an oil portrait of a very beautiful
young woman with dark hair and eyes.
“Is that your daughter, Mr. Marnham?” I asked.
“No,” he replied rather shortly, “it is her mother.”
Immediately afterwards he was called from the room to speak to some
one, whereon the doctor said—
“A foreigner as you see, a Hungarian; the Hungarian women are very good
looking and very charming.”
“So I have understood,” I answered, “but does this lady live here?”
“Oh, no. She is dead, or I believe that she is dead. I am not sure,
because I make it a rule never to pry into people’s private affairs.
All I know about her is that she was a beauty whom Marnham married late
in life upon the Continent when she was but eighteen. As is common in
such cases he was very jealous of her, but it didn’t last long, as she
died, or I understand that she died, within a year of her daughter’s
birth. The loss affected him so much that he emigrated to South Africa
with the child and began life anew. I do not think that they correspond
with Hungary, and he never speaks of her even to his daughter, which
suggests that she is dead.”
I reflected that all these circumstances might equally well suggest
several other things, but said nothing, thinking it wisest not to
pursue the subject. Presently Marnham returned and informed me that a
native had just brought him word that the Basutos had made off homeward
with our cattle, but had left the wagon and its contents quite
untouched, not even stealing the spare guns and ammunition.
“That’s luck,” I said, astonished, “but extremely strange. How do you
explain it, Mr. Marnham?”
He shrugged his shoulders and answered—
“As every one knows, you are a much greater expert in native habits and
customs than I am, Mr. Quatermain.”
“There are only two things that I can think of,” I said. “One is that
for some reason or other they thought the wagon tagati, bewitched you
know, and that it would bring evil on them to touch it, though this did
not apply to the oxen. The other is that they supposed it, but not the
oxen, to belong to some friend of their own whose property they did not
wish to injure.”
He looked at me sharply but said nothing, and I went on to tell them
the details of the attack that had been made upon us, adding—
“The odd part of the affair is that one of those Basutos called out to
us that some infernal scoundrel of a white had warned Sekukuni of our
coming and that he had ordered them to take our guns and cattle. This
Basuto, who was wounded and praying for mercy, was drowned before he
could tell me who the white man was.”
“A Boer, I expect,” said Marnham quietly. “As you know they are not
particularly well affected towards us English just now. Also I happen
to be aware that some of them are intriguing with Sekukuni against the
British through Makurupiji, his ‘Mouth’ or prime-minister, a very
clever old scamp who likes to have two stools to sit on.”
“And doubtless will end by falling between them. Well, you see, now
that I think of it, the wounded Kaffir only said that they were ordered
to take our guns and oxen, and incidentally our lives. The wagon was
not mentioned.”
“Quite so, Mr. Quatermain. I will send some of our boys to help your
servants to bring everything it contains up here.”
“Can’t you lend me a team of oxen,” I asked, “to drag it to the house?”
“No, we have nothing but young cattle left. Both red-water and
lung-sickness have been so bad this season that all the horned stock
have been swept out of the country. I doubt whether you could beg,
borrow or steal a team of oxen this side of Pretoria, except from some
of the Dutchmen who won’t part.”
“That’s awkward. I hoped to be able to trek in a day or two.”
“Your friend won’t be able to trek for a good many days at the best,”
broke in the doctor, who had been listening unconcernedly, “but of
course you could get away on the horse after it has rested.”
“You told me you left a span of oxen at Pretoria,” said Marnham. “Why
not go and fetch them here, or if you don’t like to leave Mr. Anscombe,
send your driver and the boys.”
“Thanks for the idea. I will think it over,” I answered.
That morning after Footsack and the voorlooper had been sent with some
of the servants from the Temple to fetch up the contents of the wagon,
for I was too tired to accompany them, having found that Anscombe was
still asleep, I determined to follow his example. Finding a long chair
on the stoep, I sat down and slumbered in it sweetly for hours. I
dreamt of all sorts of things, then through my dreams it seemed to me
that I heard two voices talking, those of our Marnham and Rodd, not on
the stoep, but at a distance from it. As a matter of fact they were
talking, but so far away that in my ordinary waking state I could never
have heard them. My own belief is that the senses, and I may add the
semi-spiritual part of us, are much more acute when we lie half bound
in the bonds of sleep, than when we are what is called wide awake.
Doubtless when we are quite bound they attain the limits of their power
and, I think, sail at times to the uttermost ends of being. But
unhappily of their experiences we remember nothing when we awake. In
half sleep it is different; then we do retain some recollection.
In this curious condition of mind it seemed to me that Rodd said to
Marnham—
“Why have you brought these men here?”
“I did not bring them here,” he answered. “Luck, Fate, Fortune, God or
the Devil, call it what you will, brought them here, though if you had
your wish, it is true they would never have come. Still, as they have
come, I am glad. It is something to me, living in this hell, to get a
chance of talking to English gentlemen again before I die.”
“English gentlemen,” remarked Rodd reflectively, “Well, Anscombe is of
course, but how about that other hunter? After all, in what way is he
better than the scores of other hunters and Kaffir traders and
wanderers whom one meets in this strange land?”
“In what way indeed?” thought I to myself, in my dream.
“If you can’t see, I can’t explain to you. But as I happen to know, the
man is of blood as good as mine—and a great deal better than yours,” he
added with a touch of insolence. “Moreover, he has an honest name among
white and black, which is much in this country.”
“Yes,” replied the doctor in the same reflective voice, “I agree with
you, I let him pass as a gentleman. But I repeat, Why did you bring
them here when with one more word it would have been so easy—” and he
stopped.
“I have told you, it was not I. What are you driving at?”
“Do you think it is exactly convenient, especially when we are under
the British flag again, to have two people who, we both admit, are
English gentlemen, that is, clean, clear-eyed men, considering us and
our affairs for an indefinite period, just because you wish for the
pleasure of their society? Would it not have been better to tell those
Basutos to let them trek on to Pretoria?”
“I don’t know what would have been better. I repeat, what are you
driving at?
“Heda is coming home in a day or two; she might be here any time,”
remarked Rodd as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
“Yes, because you made me write and say that I wanted her. But what of
that?”
“Nothing in particular, except that I am not sure that I wish her to
associate with ‘an English gentleman’ like this Anscombe.”
Marnham laughed scornfully. “Ah! I understand,” he said. “Too clean and
straight. Complications might ensue and the rest of it. Well, I wish to
God they would, for I know the Anscombes, or used to, and I know the
genus called Rodd.”
“Don’t be insulting; you may carry the thing too far one day, and
whatever I have done I have paid for. But you’ve not paid—yet.”
“The man is very ill. You are a skilled doctor. If you’re afraid of
him, why don’t you kill him?” asked Marnham with bitter scorn.
“There you have me,” replied Rodd. “Men may shed much, but most of them
never shed their professional honour. I shall do my honest best to cure
Mr. Anscombe, and I tell you that he will take some curing.”
Then I woke up, and as no one was in sight, wondered whether or no I
had been dreaming. The upshot of it was that I made up my mind to send
Footsack to Pretoria for the oxen, not to go myself.