He stood a moment, vacant, only trembling. His senses fluttered back to him, and gone, so they informed him, something that before their flight had occupied them. What? In his shaken state he was again a vacant space searching for it before he realised. Then he knew. There was no sound of breathing....
Trembling he listened for it, staring at the figure. Still; there was no sound. Suddenly he heard it. Dreadfully it came. Feebly, a moaning inspiration: stillness again—then a very little sigh, very gentle, very tiny, and the prone figure quivered, relaxed.
Dead? Again, as on the table rock, afraid to call aloud, "Loony!" Mr. Puddlebox whispered. "Hey, boy!"
No answer. Swelling about him came the creeping water, swayed him, swelled and swayed again: high to his chest, higher now and moving him—moving, sucking, drawing. Here was death: ah, well, wait a moment, for there was death—that piteous thing face downwards there. He spoke softly: "Hey, boy, are you gone?" The water rocked him. He cried brokenly, loudly: "Loony! Are you gone, boy?"
Again, again, life out of death, joy's tumult out of fear!
He saw Mr. Wriford draw down his arms, press on his elbows, raise, then turn towards him his face, most dreadfully grey, most dreadfully drawn in pain.
Who so vile, so base?
Swift, swift revulsion to gladness out of dread. "Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox in a very loud voice.
Mr. Wriford said: "Have you come?"
"Why, here I am, boy!" He steadied his feet.