We swam ashore, to reach it soon after Lomax, who had borne the white, limp figure we had rescued into the dressing shed.
“Boys who can run!” shouted Mr Rebble. “Blankets, quick!”
A dozen boys dashed off, and Lomax panted,—
“You two—work him like this—gently. I’ll relieve you directly.”
He left the two masters rubbing and moving the boy’s arms to their full extent, and pressing them to his sides, while he hurried on some clothes, and, shivering with horror and exhaustion, we followed his example, while, with my ears ringing, I heard Mercer gasp out,—
“Poor old Dicksee! Oh, Frank, I hope he ain’t drowned.”
But as, after our hurried dressing, we saw him lying there rigid and cold, it seemed as if the boy would never say another unkind word to a soul.
By this time Lomax had relieved the two masters, and with all the vigour of his strong arms he was trying to produce artificial respiration somewhat after the fashion that has of late been laid down as a surgical law, but apparently without avail.
The blankets had been brought, the boys, all but we few elder ones, sent back to the school, and a messenger had gone for the nearest medical man, so that nothing more could be done than was in progress.
“I’m afraid it’s a hopeless case,” said Mr Rebble, with a groan.