His jaws were aching; a queer emptiness in his chest caused him long and perplexing speculation. There were shouting voices aloft, and a gleaming black wall slowly took form above him. He made out the pointed heads of rivets.
"Are you awake?" The voice, low and sibilant, emerged from the candle-white face.
He had been dreaming, too, during this fantastic journey. Once he had plainly distinguished a field of waving corn. He seemed to be back in California.
"Eileen," he murmured, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.
"No, no," came the reply. "It is Romola. I—I am leaving you!"
"Ah! Where is Jen?"
Bellowing inquiry came down to them: "Who is that? What do you want?"
The girl called back: "The wireless operator. He is sick. Drop the ladder. Send down some one to carry him."
The sampan was swinging about, and the coolie was paddling like mad.
"River boat—for Ching-Fu?" Peter gasped.