His pass in his hand, Weldon clambered drearily on the
train for the long ride back to Kroonstad. Motion of any kind was
better than remaining longer in Johannesburg. Nevertheless, the
jolting of the train was wellnigh unbearable. His shoulder throbbed,
and the dull pain in his head was maddening. He had passed the stage
of weariness, however, where one is conscious of exhaustion. An
ever-tightening strain was upon him. He could not rest now; he must
go on, and on, and on, faster and ever faster, until at last
something should snap and quiet perforce should overtake him.
Early dawn found him at Kroonstad. Sleep had been impossible for
him; he had no appetite for food, and it took an ever-increasing
effort for him to pull himself together. Like a man mounting a
steep, pathless hill, he tried to drag himself up above the
consciousness of his aching head and throbbing wounds; but it was
not to be done. At the station he halted irresolutely. Then of a
sudden he faced towards the great hospital tent.
"I want something to steady me a bit," he said briefly to the first
doctor he met there. "I have two or three scratches, and I am
feeling fagged.
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