_ CHAPTER TWELVE. A DISCUSSION UPON WOUNDS
"Avast there! what cheer, my hearty? Heave ahead, my military swab. How goes it!" cried Bob, as Tom raised himself a little on his couch, evidently very glad to see his old companion.
"Oh, not quite killed," he said. "Gently; don't shake a fellow to pieces."
"Where's the wound?" cried Bob. "Ain't going to send in the number of your mess, are you?"
"No, I'm not," cried Tom Long, flushing up; "and if I ever do come across the chief fellow who gave me such a nasty dig, he'll remember it to the end of his days."
"What was it--a spear or a kris?" said Bob.
"Kris, right through my left shoulder. Doctor Bolter says if it had been four inches lower it would have been fatal."
"Bother!" cried Bob. "If it had been four inches higher it would have missed you altogether."
"Yes, of course," said Tom; "but it's precious unpleasant to have a fellow stick his skewer right through you."
"Well, I don't know," said Bob, who had made up his mind that the proper thing was to try and cheer the ensign, and not to let him think he was very bad. "I think I'd just as soon have it right through as only half-way."
"Oh, it's nothing to laugh at, I can tell you," said Tom Long, "I don't see why you mightn't just as well have had it as me. You always get off all right."
"I didn't last night, or rather this morning," said Bob. "I was right into the prahu we tried to take--first man, sir--I mean boy, sir; and I was sawing away at a mat with my knife, when all came down by the run, and I was pitched into the river."
"And picked out," said the ensign impatiently.
"Yes, but not before I'd been swimming for a quarter of an hour--good measure. Oh, I say, Tom, didn't I think of the crocodiles!"
"You're such a cheeky little beggar, I wonder they didn't get you," said Tom, who looked feverish and excited. "I say, Bob Roberts, you know what that chap, that Kling fellow, said to us about the krises."
"Yes, of course. What then?"
"Do you think they are poisoned?"
"No, not a bit. Do you?"
"Yes," said the young ensign; "and I am sure this one was, for I can feel the wound throbbing and stabbing, and a curious sensation running to my finger ends."
"Well, so one did when one had a bad cut," said Bob sharply. "Bah! poisoned! it's all rubbish. Why, if you had been poisoned you'd have been sleepy and stupid."
"I feel so now."
"What--stupid?" said Bob, grinning. "Well that's natural: you always were?"
"I can't get up and cane you, Bob Roberts," said the ensign, slowly.
"Of course you can't, old man. But there, don't you worry; that kris wasn't poisoned, or you'd feel very different to what you do now."
"Think so?"
"Sure of it."
"How do you know?" said Tom Long, peevishly. "You were never wounded by a poisoned weapon."
"No, but I've seen somebody else, and watched him."
"What was he wounded with?"
"Serpent's tooth," said Bob; "Private Gray."
"Why, that's a different thing altogether," said Long.
"No it isn't, Mr Clevershakes. The snake's poison goes into the blood, don't it, same as that of a kris, and the symptoms would be just the same."
Tom Long seemed to think there was something in this, and he lay thinking for a minute.
"How did Gray look?" he said. "I don't remember."
"Just the same as you don't look," said Bob, sharply; "so don't be a stupid and frighten yourself worse. Malay krises are not poisoned, and it's all a cock-and-bull story."
"What is?" said Doctor Bolter, entering the room.
"About krises being poisoned, doctor."
Doctor Bolter felt his patient's pulse.
"Have you been putting him up to thinking his wound was poisoned?" he said, angrily.
"No, doctor," said Tom Long, quietly; "it was my idea, and I feel sure it is."
"Tom Long," said Doctor Bolter, "you're only a boy, and if you weren't so ill, I'd box your ears. You've been frightening yourself into a belief that you are poisoned, and here's your pulse up, the dickens knows how high. Now look here, sir, what's the use of your placing yourself in the hands of a surgeon, and then pretending to know better yourself?"
"I don't pretend, doctor."
"Yes, you do, sir. You set up a theory of your own that your blood is poisoned, in opposition to mine that it is not."
"But are you sure it is not, doctor?"
"Am I sure? Why, by this time if that kris had been poisoned you would have had lock-jaw."
"And Locke on the Understanding," put in Bob.
"Yes," laughed the doctor; "and been locked up altogether. There, there, my dear boy, keep yourself quiet, and trust me to bring you round. You, Bob Roberts, don't let him talk, and don't talk much yourself. You'd better go to sleep, Long."
"Wound pains me too much, doctor. It throbs so. Isn't that a sign of poison?"
"I'll go and mix you up a dose of poison that shall send you to sleep for twelve hours, my fine fellow, if you don't stop all that nonsense. Your wound is not poisoned, neither is that of any other man who came back from the expedition; and if it's any satisfaction to you to know it, you've got the ugliest dig of any man--I mean boy--amongst the wounded."
The doctor arranged the matting-screen so as to admit more air, and bustled towards the door--but stopped short on hearing a buzzing sound at the open window, went back on tiptoe, and cleverly captured a large insect.
"A splendid longicorn," he said, fishing a pill-box from his pocket, and carefully imprisoning his captive. "Ah, my dear boys, what a pity it is that you do not take to collecting while you are young! What much better men you would make!"
"There," said Bob, as soon as they were alone, "how do you feel about your poison now?"
"He says it is not, just to cheer me up," said Tom Long, dolefully. "I say, Bob Roberts, if I die--"
"If you what?" cried Bob, in a tone of disgust.
"I say, if I die."
"Oh, ah, of course. Now then, let's have it. Do you want me to write a verse for your tombstone?"
"They'd pitch me overboard," said Long, dolefully.
"Not they," said Bob. "This promising young officer, who had taken it into his head that he had been wounded by a poisoned kris, was buried under a palm tree, to the great relief of all who knew him, for they found him the most conceited--"
"Bob Roberts!"
"Consequential--"
"I tell you what it is--"
"Cocky--"
"I never heard--"
"Unpleasant fellow that ever wore Her Majesty's uniform."
"Just wait till I get well, Master Bob Roberts," said Tom Long, excitedly, "and if I don't make you pay for all this, my name's not what it is."
"Thought you had made up your mind to die," said Bob, laughing. "There, it won't do, young man; so now go to sleep. I've got another half-hour, and I'll sit here and keep the flies from visiting your noble corpus too roughly; and when you wake up, if you find I am not here it is because I am gone. D'ye hear?"
"Yes," said Tom Long, drowsily; and in five minutes he was fast asleep, seeing which Bob sat till the last minute, and then went out on tiptoe to run and learn whether the boat was waiting by the landing-stage. _