And then I felt the
scratching on my boot.
"I caught hold of the sides of the hammock, but it was some time
before I could manage to pull myself up. Then I looked down.
"A man was lying on the floor, face down, just as he had crawled into
my hut and fallen. The yellowish fingers of one hand clawed on my
boot, and that was the only sign that he was alive. He lay quite
still, except for the slow working of his fingers; and I sat still,
also, staring down at him with the infinite leisure that follows a
temperature of one hundred and five. It was only by slow degrees
that I realized that this was Derek Scott come back, and that he was
probably dying.
"I got to my feet and bent over him, but I wasn't strong enough to
raise him, of course. I was afraid he'd die before any one came. So I
took my revolver and aimed as well as I could at that tin roof beneath
which my man Pedro was eating his dinner. The barrel went up and down
with the walls of the hut, but I must have hit the roof, for the next
thing there was a lot of smoke and noise, and Pedro's face, eyes, and
mouth open, rushing out of it. There seemed no interval before I found
myself sitting in the hammock and saying over and over again, 'But
where's the little chap? Where's the little French chap?'
"Scott was still on the floor, but his head was on my man's shoulder,
and Pedro was gently feeding him with sips of brandy and condensed
milk. He turned and looked at me, and his eyes were clear and
considering as ever, though his answer didn't sound quite sane.
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