The Blond Spiders. Charles Beadle
look at Sawyer. “Here,” he continued to the boys, “carry him on to my bed; and, Tanuka, get some hot water. Upesi!”
“What’re you trying to give us?” began Sawyer, shooting his chin.
But Plessons, ignoring him, had knelt down by the old man and taken off his hat.
“My God!” muttered Bodiker.
Then, stooping, he stared hard at the fellow’s face. The pupils of the eyes were inverted, and the sun-tanned skin, filthy with sweat and dirt, sagged upon the bony features and prominent nose. From the build of the frame he must have been a powerful man in health.
“Gosh, he looks mighty bad, doesn’t he?” remarked Bodiker, rising with a curious smile on his lips. “I’ll bet he never comes to.” Then quickly: “He hasn’t been able to say anything yet, has he, Plessons?”
“Yus, rarver. Didn’t I tell yer, Mr. Bodiker?” Bodiker stared, apparently anxious. “Sung us ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star!’ Don’t he look it? Here, I wonder what this is naow?”
He indicated a swelling beneath the left eye which resembled a pustule.
“And here’s another —— lumme, he’s as full of ’em as a donkey’s full of ticks!”
“Plague?” queried Bodiker, moving backward accompanied by Sawyer.
“Plague me eye!” grumbled Plessons.
He rose as two natives came and, picking up the inert body, made for the bell tent.
“Say!” exclaimed Sawyer. “None of that! I ain’t goin’ to sleep in the tent wit’ that stiff. Maybe he’s got some kind of a plague like you said. Seen them guys in the Lazar——”
“Sleep in the ruddy bush then!” snapped Plessons over his shoulder.
“ ’S ’nough!” whispered Bodiker as Sawyer started truculently after them. “That isn’t the plague, man. Can’t be in the middle of Africa.”
As Sawyer hesitated, grumbling, came a hail from Tony Westlake reentering the zareba.
“Out of luck, Alick!” he called. “But say, who’s Plessons got there? Saw him coming in.”
Bodiker explained briefly, and they both followed across to the bell tent, where Plessons had already stripped the old man. His body was in a pitiable state; more emaciated than his companion the negro, and literally covered as closely as the measles with angry-looking pustules, some suppurating and emitting a horrible stench.
“Poor ——!” said Tony sympathetically. “I wonder who he is and how on earth he got in this mess.”
“Maybe he had his safari cut up,” suggested Plessons, “and he’s bin wanderin’ abaht with no food but berries and such like.”
“Think he’ll come round?”
“Dunno. Got a —— of a temperature. Maybe it’s just fever. Ain’t blackwater anyhow. And them sores ain’t veld sores. Dunno what they are. The black fella’s got a lot too. Here, ol' man, have a drop o’ this?”
With some difficulty Plessons forced some brandy through the patient’s teeth.
“Oh, he’s a goner,” said Bodiker, watching him intently.
“Oh, I’ve seen fellows looking worse than that pull through,” returned Tony. “There, look!”
At Plessons’ second attempt the eyelids fluttered and followed a faint choking cough as the raw spirit stung the throat.
“That’s the boy!” exclaimed Plessons and fell to massaging over the heart with hot water, soap and permanganate.
Without remark Tony walked out and across to his own tent and presently came back with a small bottle of iodine; after dabbing some on the skinny forearm he stuck in a hypodermic needle.
“If he’s got fever that should bring down the temperature a bit,” he remarked.
“——, wish I’d thought of the needle,” muttered Bodiker as if to himself and, bending low, intently watched the face of the sick man, who indubitably was breathing regularly but faintly.
“You’d better go and ’ave chakula, Mr. Westlaike,” said Plessons. “I’ll look arter him, and if he comes to I’ll give yer a shout.”
“That’s a good idea,” assented Tony. “But say, where’s the nigger you brought in with him?”
“Told Tanuka ter give him some grub. Rummy go,” Plessons added. “Fella’s a Swahili—coast man, y’know, Mr. Westlaike. Must ha’ bin his servnt.”
“Well, I’ll have a look at him. Coming, Alick?”
“What’s the good?” said Bodiker sourly. “He’s dumb.”
Tony glanced at his partner, whose eyes were glued to the sick man’s face with a sharply inquiring expression as he went out.
The mutilated negro he found squatting on his hunkers in the bright moonlight by the camp-fire, the kitchen boys and porters staring at him half inquisitively, half superstitiously. The pustules on his face and body did not seem so far advanced as those of his white master’s.
“Habari gani? How’s things?” said Tony in the little Kiswahili he’d already picked up.
But neither the negro’s head nor his eyes moved in the slightest.
“Shenzie (savages) cut him ear,” explained Wandie, his personal boy, who spoke a little English.
“Good God, the swine!” ejaculated Tony and, bending, looked into the negro’s face.
Immediately the latter’s eyes gleamed, and he nodded his head as if approvingly, making an inarticulate noise, horrible to hear.
TONY returned to the camp table set beneath the big Mbuli tree where, lolling in a camp chair as if he owned the expedition, was Sawyer. Tony sat down and poured out a glass of whisky from the bottle placed on the table every evening just at sundown. Sawyer tentatively moved an empty glass in front of him, made a noise in his throat and said—
“Ain’t that big bum gone yet?”
“No. I think he’ll pull round,” answered Tony, lighting a cigaret.
“Kin I have a shot, Mr. Westlake?” Sawyer asked.
“Sure,” said Tony, pushing the bottle over to him and, noting the wetness of the empty glass, smiled slightly.
“Real stuff that!” stated Sawyer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Feller needs a shot o’ hooch here, I guess.” A pause. “Say, Mr. Westlake!”
“Well?”
“You ain’t mad at me, are yer? Didn’t think I was gettin’ kind o’ fresh nor nothin’?”
“Oh, that’s all right, Sawyer,” replied Tony, giving the man one of his good-natured smiles. “A few months of this country’s liable to get anybody’s nerves on edge.”
“It sure is!” agreed Sawyer heartily. “Didn’t mean nothin’, Mr. Westlake.”
“Forget it. Hullo!” as a hail came from the bell tent.
He rose and hurried over. Sawyer followed him and stood silently at the back of the tent. Bodiker was standing at the head of the cot with a scowl on his face. The sick man’s eyes were open and staring bewilderedly up at Plessons by the light of the hurricane lantern slung to the pole.
“That’s all right, ol’ cock!” Plessons was saying cheerily. “We found yer with a black fella. Don’t you worry. We’ll fix yer.”
The feverish eyes wandered around to Tony and seemed disappointed. They closed momentarily