"I didn't last night, or rather this morning," said Bob. "I was right into the prahu we tried to take--first man, sir--I mean boy, sir; and I was sawing away at a mat with my knife, when all came down by the run, and I was pitched into the river." "And picked out," said the ensign impatiently. "Yes, but not before I'd been swimming for a quarter of an hour--good measure. Oh, I say, Tom, didn't I think of the crocodiles!" "You're such a cheeky little beggar, I wonder they didn't get you," said Tom, who looked feverish and excited. "I say, Bob Roberts, you know what that chap, that Kling fellow, said to us about the krises." "Yes, of course. What then?" "Do you think they are poisoned?" "No, not a bit. Do you?" "Yes," said the young ensign; "and I am sure this one was, for I can feel the wound throbbing and stabbing, and a curious sensation running to my finger ends." "Well, so one did when one had a bad cut," said Bob sharply. "Bah! poisoned! it's all rubbish. Why, if you had been poisoned you'd have been sleepy and stupid." "I feel so now." "What--stupid?" said Bob, grinning. "Well that's natural: you always were?" "I can't get up and cane you, Bob Roberts," said the ensign, slowly. "Of course you can't, old man. But there, don't you worry; that kris wasn't poisoned, or you'd feel very different to what you do now." "Think so?" "Sure of it." "How do you know?" said Tom Long, peevishly. "You were never wounded by a poisoned weapon." "No, but I've seen somebody else, and watched him." "What was he wounded with?" "Serpent's tooth," said Bob; "Private Gray." "Why, that's a different thing altogether," said Long. "No it isn't, Mr Clevershakes. The snake's poison goes into the blood, don't it, same as that of a kris, and the symptoms would be just the same." Tom Long seemed to think there was something in this, and he lay thinking for a minute. "How did Gray look?" he said. "I don't remember." "Just the same as you don't look," said Bob, sharply; "so don't be a stupid and frighten yourself worse. Malay krises are not poisoned, and it's all a cock-and-bull story." "What is?" said Doctor Bolter, entering the room. "About krises being poisoned, doctor." Doctor Bolter felt his patient's pulse. "Have you been putting him up to thinking his wound was poisoned?" he said, angrily. "No, doctor," said Tom Long, quietly; "it was my idea, and I feel sure it is." "Tom Long," said Doctor Bolter, "you're only a boy, and if you weren't so ill, I'd box your ears. You've been frightening yourself into a belief that you are poisoned, and here's your pulse up, the dickens knows how high. Now look here, sir, what's the use of your placing yourself in the hands of a surgeon, and then pretending to know better yourself?" "I don't pretend, doctor." "Yes, you do, sir. You set up a theory of your own that your blood is poisoned, in opposition to mine that it is not." "But are you sure it is not, doctor?"