ON THE MARCH 



end F. added to that triple dose of medicine a spoon- 

 ful of Chutney, one of Worcestershire sauce, a few 

 grains of quinine. Sparklets water and a crystal or 

 so of permanganate to turn the mixture a beautiful 

 pink. This assortment the patient drank with 

 gratitude — and the tears running down his 

 cheeks. 



**He will carry a load to-morrow," F. told the at- 

 tentive M'ganga. 



The next patient had fever. This one got twenty 

 grains of quinine in water. 



''This man carries no load to-morrow," was the 

 direction, "but he must not drop behind." 



Two or three surgical cases followed. Then a big 

 Kavirondo rose to his feet. 



"Nini?" demanded F. 



"Homa — fever," whined the man. 



F. clapped his hand on the back of the other's neck. 



"I think," he remarked contemplatively in Eng- 

 lish, "that you're a liar, and want to get out of 

 carrying your load." 



The clinical thermometer showed no evidence of 

 temperature. 



"I'm pretty near sure you're a liar," observed F. 

 in the pleasantest conversational tone and still in 

 English, "but you may be merely a poor diagnos- 

 tician. Perhaps your poor insides couldn't get away 



83 



