“Still alive, is he?” demanded Filhiol.
“Yes,” answered Marsh. “But you’ve got no time for more than one experiment.”
“Got it, Filhiol?” choked the captain. His hands twitched with appeal. “Tell me you’ve—got it!”
“Water! The hypodermic needle!” directed Filhiol, his voice a whiplash.
He mixed the powder in a quarter-glass of water, and drew the solution up into the glass barrel of the syringe. Ezra, unable to bear any further strain, sank down in a chair, buried his face in both hands and remained there, motionless. Dr. Marsh, frankly skeptical, watched in silence. The girl, her arm about the captain, was whispering something to him. Through the room sounded a hollow roaring, blent of surf and tempest and wind-buffetings of the great chimney.
Filhiol handed the hypodermic to Marsh.
“Administer this,” he commanded. “Your hands have been sterilized, and mine haven’t. We mustn’t even waste the time for me to scrub up, and I’m taking no chances at all with any non-surgical conditions.”
Marsh nodded. The old man was undoubtedly a little cracked, but it could do no harm to humor him. Marsh quickly prepared an area of Hal’s arm, rubbing it with alcohol. He tossed away the pledget of cotton, pinched up the bloodless skin, and jabbed the needle home.
“All of it?” asked he, as he pushed down the ring.
“All!” answered Filhiol. “It’s a thundering dosage, but this is no time for half measures!”