But in vain the Maluka explained and entreated:  the sick man was “all right where he was.”  His mate was worth “ten women fussing round,” he insisted, ignoring the Maluka’s explanations.  “Had he not lugged him through the worst pinch already?” and then he played his trump card:  “He’ll stick to me till I peg out,” he said—­“nothing’s too tough for him”; and as he lay back, the mate deciding “arguing’ll only do for him,” dismissed the Maluka with many thanks, refusing all offers of nursing help with a quiet “He’d rather have me,” but accepting gratefully broths and milk and anything of that sort the homestead could furnish.  “Nothing ever knocks me out,” he reiterated, and dragged on through sleepless days and nights, as the days dragged by finding ample reward in the knowledge that “he’d rather have me”, and when there came that deep word of praise from his stricken comrade:  “A good mate’s harder to find than a good wife,” his gentle, protecting devotion increased tenfold.

Bushmen are instinctively protective.  There is no other word that so exactly defines their tender helpfulness to all weakness and helplessness.  Knowing how hard the fight is out-bush for even the strong and enduring all their magnificent strength and courage stand ready for those who would go to the wall without it.  A lame dog, a man down in his luck, an old soaker, little women any woman in need or sickness—­each and all call forth this protectiveness; but nothing calls it forth in all its self-sacrificing tenderness like the helplessness of a strong man stricken down in his strength.

Understanding this also, we stood aside, and rejoicing as the sick man, benefiting by the comparative comfort and satisfied to have his own way, seemed to improve.  For three days he improved steadily, and then, after standing still for another day slipped back inch by inch to weakness and prostration, until the homestead, without coercion, was the only chance for his life.

But there was a woman there; and as the mate went back to his pleading the woman did what the world may consider a strange thing—­but a man’s life depended on it—­she sent a message out to the sick man, to say that if he would come to the homestead she would not go to him until he asked her.

He pondered over the message for a day, sceptical of a woman’s word—­ surely some woman had left that legacy in his heart—­but eventually decided he wouldn’t risk it.  Then the chief of the telegraph coming in—­a man widely experienced in fever—­and urging one more attempt, the Dandy volunteered to help us in our extremity, and, driving across to the Warlochs in the chief’s buggy worked one of his miracles; he spent only a few minutes alone with the man (and the Dandy alone knows now what passed), but within an hour the sick traveller was resting quietly between clean sheets in the Dandy’s bed.  There were times when the links in the chain seemed all blessing.