At this its first coming, neither spoke of it. There was only a gasp from each as each was shaken. It did not seem to be returning.
After a space, "Boy!" said Mr. Puddlebox again.
"Well? ... well?"
"That's all right, boy."
He clung with his left hand to the scrub. He brought over his right and rested it upon Mr. Wriford's that held the ledge. "Is the pain bad, boy?"
"I'm past pain. I don't feel my legs at all."
"Cold, boy?"
"I don't feel anything. I keep dreaming. I think it's dreaming."
"That's all right, boy."
Again, and again suddenly, that sweeping movement swept them—stronger in force, greater in volume. It swept Mr. Wriford towards Mr. Puddlebox. It almost dislodged him. He was pressed back and down by Mr. Puddlebox's hand, and again the water came. They were scarcely recovered, and once again it struck and shook them.