ly could to
cheer him, but he gradually sank lower and lower. I would say, "Cheer
up, Gibson. Why, when you are able to walk we will make tracks
straightway for civilisation. I am sure you know the way, for now you
are as right as I am." But nothing interested the dying man. Shortly
before the end his eyes assumed a strained look, and I could see he was
rapidly going. The thought of his approaching end was to me a relief; it
would be untrue if I were to say otherwise. For weeks past I had seen
that the man could not live, and considering that every day brought its
battle for life, you will readily understand that this poor helpless
creature was a terrible burden to me. He had such a tender skin that at
all times I was obliged to keep him clothed. For some little time his
old shirt and trousers did duty, but at length I was compelled to make
him a suit of skins. Of course, we had no soap with which to wash his
garments, but we used to clean them after a fashion by dumping them down
into a kind of greasy mud and then trampling on them, afterwards rinsing
them out in water. Moreover, his feet were so tender that I always had
to keep him shod with skin sandals.

His deathbed was a dramatic scene--especially under the circumstances.
Poor Gibson! To think that he should have escaped death after those
fearful waterless days and nights in the desert, to live for two years
with a white protector, and yet then die of a wasting and distressing
disease!

He spent the whole day in the open air, for he was very much better when
in the sun. At night I carried him back into his hut, and laid him in
the hammock which I had long ago slung for him. Yamba knew he was dying
even before I did, but she could do nothing.

We tried the effect of the curious herb called "pitchori," but it did not
revive him. "Pitchori," by the way, is a kind of leaf which the natives
chew in moments of depression; it has an exhilarating effect upon them.

On the last day I once more made up a bed of eucalyptus leaves and rugs
on the floor of Gibson's hut. Surrounding him at the last were his
wife--a very good and faithful girl--Yamba, myself, and Bruno--who, by
the way, knew perfectly well that his friend was dying. He kept licking
poor Gibson's hand and chest, and then finding no response would nestle
up close to him for half-an-hour at a time. Then the affectionate
creature would retire outside and set up a series of low, melancholy
howls