'Well, let us look at this wound of yours,' he said, getting back to his business. 'Has it been throbbing?'
'Oh, it's not worth bothering about. It'll be as right as rain to-morrow.'
Walker took off his coat and rolled up his sleeve. The doctor removed the bandages and looked at the broad flesh wound. He put a fresh dressing on it.
'It looks as healthy as one can expect,' he murmured. 'It's odd what good recoveries men make here when you'd think that everything was against them.'
'You must be pretty well done up, aren't you?' asked Walker, as he watched the doctor neatly cut the lint.
'Just about dropping. But I've a devil of a lot more work to do before I turn in.'
'The thing that amuses me is to think that I came to Africa thinking I was going to have a rattling good time, plenty of shooting and practically nothing to do.'
'You couldn't exactly describe it as a picnic, could you?' answered the doctor. 'But I don't suppose any of us knew it would be such a tough job as it's turned out.'
Walker put his disengaged hand on the doctor's arm.
'My friend, if ever I return to my native land I will never be such a crass and blithering idiot as to give way again to a spirit of adventure. I shall look out for something safe and quiet, and end my days as a wine-merchant's tout or an insurance agent.'
'Ah, that's what we all say when we're out here. But when we're once home again, the recollection of the forest and the plains and the roasting sun and the mosquitoes themselves, come haunting us, and before we know what's up we've booked our passage back to this God-forsaken continent.'
The doctor's words were followed by a silence, which was broken by Walker inconsequently.
'Do you ever think of rumpsteaks?' he asked.
The doctor stared at him blankly, and Walker went on, smiling.
'Sometimes, when we're marching under a sun that just about takes the roof of your head off, and we've had the scantiest and most uncomfortable breakfast possible, I have a vision.'
'I would be able to bandage you better if you only gesticulated with one arm,' said Adamson.
'I see the dining-room of my club, and myself seated at a little table by the window looking out on Piccadilly. And there's a spotless table-cloth, and all the accessories are spick and span. An obsequious menial brings me a rumpsteak, grilled to perfection, and so tender that it melts in the mouth. And he puts by my side a plate of crisp fried potatoes. Can't you smell them? And then a liveried flunky brings me a pewter tankard, and into it he pours a bottle, a large bottle, mind you, of foaming ale.'