The men hung listlessly on the gate, drinking in the cool air and
watching the blue cigar smoke wreathe and fade. Suddenly down the road
there came the sound of wheels.
"That's a tonga," said Thwaite. "Wonder who it is."
"Do tongas travel this road?" Lewis asked.
"Oh yes, they go ten miles up to the foot of the rocks. We use them for
sending up odds and ends to the garrisons. After that coolies are the
only conveyance. Gad, I believe this thing is going to stop."
The thing in question, which was driven by a sepoy in bright yellow
pyjamas, stopped at the Logans' gate. A peevish voice was heard giving
directions from within.
"It sounds like Holm," said Thwaite, walking up to it, "and upon my soul
it is Holm. What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?"
"Is that you, Thwaite?" said the voice. "I wish you'd help me out. I
want Logan to give me a bed for the night. I'm infernally ill."
Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not
belie the words.
"What is it?" said Thwaite. "Fever or anything smashed?"
"I've got a bullet in my leg which has got to be cut out. Got it two
days ago when I was out shooting. Some natives up in the rocks did it,
I fancy. Lord, how it hurts." And the unhappy man groaned as he tried
to move.
"That's bad," said Thwaite sympathetically. "The Logans have got a
dance on, but we'll look after you all right.
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