A man wasted by
starvation to skin and bone, blackened, almost, by months of
exposure to scorching suns; clad in the shreds of what had
once been a shirt, torn by every kind of convict labour,
stained by mud and the sweat and sores of mules; the rags of
a shooting coat to match; no head covering; hands festering
with sores, and which for weeks had not touched water - if
they could avoid it. Such an object, in short, as the genius
of a Phil May could alone have depicted as the most repulsive
object he could imagine.
'Who the devil are you?'
'An English gentleman, sir, travelling for pleasure.'
He smiled. 'You look more like a wild beast.'
'I am quite tame, sir, I assure you - could even eat out of
your hand if I had a chance.'
'Is your name Coke?'
'Yes,' was my amazed reply.
'Then come with me - I will show you something that may
surprise you.'
I followed him to a neighbouring tent. He drew aside the
flap of it, and there on his blanket lay Fred Calthorpe,
snoring in perfect bliss.
Our greetings were less restrained than our parting had been.
We were truly glad to meet again. He had arrived just two
days before me, although he had been at Salt Lake City. But
he had been able there to refit, had obtained ample supplies
and fresh animals.
