“No, sir!”—“No, sir!”
The first hail loudly from close by, the other from far away where the blue-lights shone.
“Bless my soul!” cried Mr Reardon, with an angry stamp. “I can’t understand it. He must have come up again.”
“Unless his pockets were heavily laden,” said the captain, going to where Mr Reardon stood. “These men carry a great deal about them under their long loose clothes. Some heavy copper money, perhaps. A very little would be enough to keep a struggling man down.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Mr Reardon, while I shivered at the idea of poor old Ching coming to so terrible an end.
“A glass here!” cried Mr Reardon, and one was handed up to him.
“Try the life-buoy,” cried the captain.
“Bless me, sir, I was going to,” retorted the lieutenant irritably; “but the idiot who uses this glass ought to be turned out of the service for being short-sighted. I shall never get it to the right focus.”
The captain gave a dry cough, and I turned round sharply, expecting to hear some angry exclamation.
“No,” cried Mr Reardon, “he is not clinging to the life-buoy. I wouldn’t for anything that it should have happened. Poor fellow! Poor fellow!”