He drank--lap, lap, lap, lap--for a very long time. It
seemed incredible that any mere dog--or canvas bath-tub--could hold so
much water. The steady repetition of this sound long after it should
logically have ceased was worse than the shenzi gathering around the
fire. Each lap should have been the last, but it was not. The shenzi
convention had been abated with firebrands, but the dog was strictly
within his rights. The poor pups had had a long day with little water,
and they could hardly be blamed for feeling a bit feverish now. At last
Ben ceased. Next morning Captain D. claimed vehemently that he had drunk
two hours forty-nine minutes and ten seconds. With a contented sigh Ben
lay down. Then Ruby got up, shook herself, and yawned. A bright idea
struck her. She too went over and had a drink. After that I, personally,
went to sleep. But in the morning I found Captain D. staring-eyed and
strung nearly to madness, trying feverishly to calculate how seven dogs
drinking on an average of three hours apiece could have finished by
morning. When Harold Hill innocently asked if he had slept well, the
captain threw the remaining but now extinct firebrand at him.
One of the safari boys, a big Baganda, had twisted his foot a little,
and it had swelled up considerably. In the morning he came to have it
attended to. The obvious treatment was very hot water and rest; but it
would never do to tell him so.
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