"Yes," said the doctor, "and they would have done more wisely if they had sat down at once and waited till Mak came to them. This he would have done, of course. But it is wonderful what an instinct these people born in the wilds display under such circumstances. But this is a splendid slice of luck. One has heard and read of the pigmy inhabitants of Africa--Pliny, wasn't it, who wrote about them?--and there were the bushmen of farther south. I once saw one of them, a little tawny yellow-skinned fellow, a slightly made little chap about as big as a boy eleven years old, a regular pony amongst men, and as strong and active as a monkey. But you say these miniature men you saw were black?" "Oh, yes. They seemed in the darkness there darker than soot." "Well, Sir James, we must have a look at them," continued the doctor. "I wonder whether they are the same race as our explorers have described." "Oh, they may or may not be, sir. There's plenty of room in Africa for such tribes. What do you think about them?" "I am most interested," said Sir James, "and as the boys say that as soon as the little fellows found that Mark's intentions were friendly they were quiet enough--" "Yes, father; in a dull, stupid, heavy sort of way they seemed quite disposed to be friends. Besides, Mak seemed to do what he liked with them." "That's satisfactory," said Sir James. "We don't want to set the doctor to work extracting arrows from any of us, and I am thoroughly averse to our using our weapons against any of these people, big or little. We had better have a halt here, doctor, for some hours, and make Mak understand that we want to visit the tribe." "Then you will come too, father?" "Certainly, my boy; I shall go with the doctor and have a look at them myself." "Go with the doctor?" "Yes. Well, I suppose you have seen enough of them?" "No," said Mark; "I wanted to take Dr Robertson myself, and get him to see if he could do anything for that poor little fellow's wound." "I was thinking of that myself," said the doctor; "but from your description, Mark, I am afraid that we are too late." "Yes," said Dean gravely; "I think he's dying." "Why too late?" said Mark. "It's only a wound." "Only a wound," said the doctor, smiling. "It must have been a very bad one." "It's horrible," cried Dean. "That's why I say that I'm afraid it's too late," said the doctor. "These savage people, living their simple open-air life, heal up in a way that is wonderful. Nature is their great surgeon." "Then why didn't this one heal up?" said Mark. "I am not a surgeon," replied the doctor, "and I do not know what may be wrong, but I should say that the wild beast which seized him crushed some bone, with the result that splinters are remaining in the wound, causing it to fester. But we shall see." "Then you will look, doctor?" cried Mark excitedly. "Certainly, if I find our little patient amenable to treatment." "Hurrah!" cried Mark. "When will you go?"