"Er, I say, if you please, where am I,
and what has been happening?"

"Happening?" exclaimed his companion, with elevated eyebrows. "Oh,
nothing at all. You acted like a madman, they tell me. You dived into
the surf, and, as a result, the surf threw you back as if it objected to
you. It threw you hard, too, and wet sand is heavy stuff to fall on.
You've a broken arm, and may thank your stars that that is all. It
ought, by rights, to have been a broken neck and hardly a whole bone in
your body. Where are you? Why, at the Governor's, of course. In
clover, my boy."

The jovial individual laughed as he spoke, and came close to the bed.

"You've been an ass," he said bluntly, and with a laugh. "Seriously, my
lad, you've done a fine thing. You went into the surf and brought out
those two drowning men. It was a fine thing to do, but risky. My word,
I think so!"

He took Dick's hand and squeezed it, while the bantering smile left his
lips.

"A nigger is at home sometimes in the surf," he explained; "but when you
know the coast as I do, you will realise that to get into those breakers
means death to most white men. You want to be a fish in the first
place, and you need to be made of cast iron in the second. I'm not
joking. I've seen many a surf-boat splintered into bits as she bumped
on the beach. Men are thrown ashore in the same way, and they get
broken. Your arm is fractured, and a nice little business it has been
to get it put up properly. The Dutchman is still unconscious, and I
fancy he swallowed a deal of salt water. Mr Pepson, the other
individual whom you saved, is quite recovered. He's one of those
fellows who is as hard as nails. But there, that'll do. I'm talking
too much. Lie down quietly and try to sleep like a good fellow."

So it was real after all. He had not dreamed it. He had gone into the
surf, and the Dutchman was saved.

"And who's this Mr Pepson?" thought Dick. "And this fellow here must
be the doctor. One of the army surgeons, I suppose. Fancy being at the
Governor's house. Phew! That ought to get me the billet aboard the
ship." Suddenly he recollected that his fractured arm would make hard
work out of the question for a time, and he groaned at the thought.

"Pain?" asked the surgeon. "No? Then worry? What's wrong?"

Dick told him in a few words.

"Then don't bother your head," was the answer. "The Governor is not
likely to turn you out while you are helpless