"
And Sheldon knew that when he had counted three he would drop him in his
tracks. The black knew it, too. That was why Sheldon did not have to do
it, for when he had counted one, Astoa reached out his hand and took the
whip. And right well Astoa laid on the whip, angered at his fellows for
not supporting him and venting his anger with every stroke. From the
veranda Sheldon egged him on to strike with strength, till the two triced
savages screamed and howled while the blood oozed down their backs. The
lesson was being well written in red.
When the last of the gang, including the two howling culprits, had passed
out through the compound gate, Sheldon sank down half-fainting on his
couch.
"You're a sick man," he groaned. "A sick man."
"But you can sleep at ease to-night," he added, half an hour later.
CHAPTER III--THE JESSIE
Two days passed, and Sheldon felt that he could not grow any weaker and
live, much less make his four daily rounds of the hospital. The deaths
were averaging four a day, and there were more new cases than recoveries.
The blacks were in a funk. Each one, when taken sick, seemed to make
every effort to die. Once down on their backs they lacked the grit to
make a struggle. They believed they were going to die, and they did
their best to vindicate that belief.
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