The Madrassee telegraph-clerk did not approve of a large, gaunt man falling over him in a dead faint, not so much because of the weight, as because of the names and blows that Faiz Ullah dealt him when he found the body rolled under a bench.  Then Faiz Ullah took blankets and quilts and coverlets where he found them, and lay down under them at his master’s side, and bound his arms with a tent-rope, and filled him with a horrible stew of herbs, and set the policeman to fight him when he wished to escape from the intolerable heat of his coverings, and shut the door of the telegraph-office to keep out the curious for two nights and one day; and when a light engine came down the line, and Hawkins kicked in the door, Scott hailed him weakly, but in a natural voice, and Faiz Ullah stood back and took all the credit.

‘For two nights, Heaven-born, he was pagal’ said Faiz Ullah.  ’Look at my nose, and consider the eye of the policeman.  He beat us with his bound hands; but we sat upon him, Heaven-born, and though his words were tez, we sweated him.  Heaven-born, never has been such a sweat!  He is weaker now than a child; but the fever has gone out of him, by the grace of God.  There remains only my nose and the eye of the constabeel.  Sahib, shall I ask for my dismissal because my Sahib has beaten me?’ And Faiz Ullah laid his long thin hand carefully on Scott’s chest to be sure that the fever was all gone, ere he went out to open tinned soups and discourage such as laughed at his swelled nose.

‘The district’s all right,’ Scott whispered.  ’It doesn’t make any difference.  You got my wire?  I shall be fit in a week.  ’Can’t understand how it happened.  I shall be fit in a few days.’

‘You’re coming into camp with us,’ said Hawkins.

‘But look here—­but—­’

’It’s all over except the shouting.  We sha’n’t need you Punjabis any more.  On my honour, we sha’n’t.  Martyn goes back in a few weeks; Arbuthnot’s returned already; Ellis and Clay are putting the last touches to a new feeder-line the Government’s built as relief-work.  Morten’s dead—­he was a Bengal man, though; you wouldn’t know him.  ’Pon my word, you and Will—­Miss Martyn—­seem to have come through it as well as anybody.’

‘Oh, how is she?’ The voice went up and down as he spoke.

’She was in great form when I left her.  The Roman Catholic Missions are adopting the unclaimed babies to turn them into little priests; the Basil Mission is taking some, and the mothers are taking the rest.  You should hear the little beggars howl when they’re sent away from William.  She’s pulled down a bit, but so are we all.  Now, when do you suppose you’ll be able to move?’

‘I can’t come into camp in this state.  I won’t,’ he replied pettishly.

’Well, you are rather a sight, but from what I gathered there it seemed to me they’d be glad to see you under any conditions.  I’ll look over your work here, if you like, for a couple of days, and you can pull yourself together while Faiz Ullah feeds you up.’