They turned aside from the run-way at a place indicated by Binu Charley,
and, sometimes crawling on hands and knees through the damp black muck,
at other times creeping and climbing through the tangled undergrowth a
dozen feet from the ground, they came to an immense banyan tree, half an
acre in extent, that made in the innermost heart of the jungle a denser
jungle of its own. From out of its black depths came the voice of a man
singing in a cracked, eerie voice.
"My word, that big fella marster he no die!"
The singing stopped, and the voice, faint and weak, called out a hello.
Joan answered, and then the voice explained.
"I'm not wandering. I was just singing to keep my spirits up. Have you
got anything to eat?"
A few minutes saw the rescued man lying among blankets, while fires were
building, water was being carried, Joan's tent was going up, and Lalaperu
was overhauling the packs and opening tins of provisions. Tudor, having
pulled through the fever and started to mend, was still frightfully weak
and very much starved. So badly swollen was he from mosquito-bites that
his face was unrecognizable, and the acceptance of his identity was
largely a matter of faith. Joan had her own ointments along, and she
prefaced their application by fomenting his swollen features with hot
cloths.
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