"Give them hot drinks," said Jo, in a large way. "Milk or--"
"Milk! There is no milk in Medua," said the sergeant.
"No tinned milk--eggs to be bought?"
"Nothing, no meat; we have not even enough bread, and that is all we
get."
Very depressed, we sent them the remains of our Bovril and some tins of
milk from the tiny hotel store, and bought the last three eggs in the
place.
"Can't you send for more?" we asked.
"The hens are five hours away," said the proprietor, and didn't see why
he should send for eggs even if we paid heavily for them. He had
malaria--and nothing mattered.
We saw our patients daily, and the ones who weren't going to die got a
little better, so this made our reputation. People poured in from the
hills around, and we were much embarrassed. Our white-lipped waiter
confided to each member of the party that he had a lump on his knee.
Every one became very busy and put off looking at it. We discussed it.
What could a lump on the knee be which did not make a busy waiter limp?
And what on earth could we do for him when he wouldn't rest, and we were
reduced to boracic powder and bismuth capsules? We gave him a tube of
quinine, though, for his next attack of malaria.
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