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.