When I was at work
in the evening he would shiver and groan under a blanket by my side;
this, coming night after night, was rather depressing for me, all
alone as I was. At other times he would imagine we were hunting the
wary and elusive PITTA, and would start up crying, "AH! EL TINKALU,
it is there! POR DEOS, shoot, my English, shoot!" or he would imagine
we were after butterflies, and would cry out, "CARAMBA, MARIPOSA AZUL
MUY GRANDE, MUY BUENO, BUENO!" I was forced to do all the cooking for
both of us, though it was quite pathetic to see poor Vic's efforts to
come to my assistance, and his indignation that his "English" should
do such work for him. At one time I half expected that he would die,
but with careful nursing and doctoring I gradually brought him round.
During all the time that he was ill. I did but little collecting,
and no sooner was Vic on the road to recovery than I myself was seized
with it, and Vic repaid the compliment by nursing me in turn. It was
a most depressing illness, especially as I was living on the poorest
fare in a close and dirty hut. When you are ill in civilization, with
nurses and doctors and a good bed, you feel that you are in good hands,
and confidence does much to help recovery.
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