For weeks he had curbed his spirit of fun and had played no practical jokes.
Now he had a chance to frighten the poor savage and Ibrahim at the same time.
That was his only idea. If he had thought poor Klatchman was in any danger he would have been the first to have even risked his life to rescue him; but in the first place he did not believe in the danger, and then he looked upon the savage much as he would upon a Newfoundland dog—one quite as much at home in the water as out of it.
“Never mind what he is,” said Ibrahim, “don’t be heartless, Max. Save the poor wretch.”
Max looked round and saw that the native had resigned himself to his fate.
He had ceased to make any effort to save himself.
“Look, Ib. It’s a whirlpool, by all that’s holy!”
Max was right; Klatchman’s body was being whirled round at a furious rate.
“If only he had a torch in his hand he would look like a Fourth of July pin-wheel,” continued the madcap.
Turning to the Arabs, he said: