“Try—try again, Smith,” groaned Panton. “Give me your hand. I think I am stronger now.”
“Not you, sir,” replied the sailor. “Here, hi! Billy Wriggs, whatcher doing on?”
For the man had slowly raised himself upon his feet again, and was tottering toward the mist.
“I’m a-going, matey, to fetch that there young natooralist out o’ yonder if I dies for it: that’s what I’m a-going to do.”
He spoke in a low muttering growl, and the man’s looks and actions as he reeled and groped his way along were those of one stupefied by some strong narcotic.
“But yer can’t do it, lad,” cried Smith, rising to his knees. “Come back.”
“I’m a-going to fetch out that there young natooralist,” muttered Wriggs, as he staggered on.
“But I tell yer yer can’t,” shouted Smith.
“Quick, let’s try again,” said Panton, struggling to his feet once more, and now with Smith also erect and grasping his hand, they two came on in Wriggs’ track, just as Drew rolled over quite insensible.
They did not advance a dozen paces, for Wriggs, who had tottered on strong in his determination to do that which his nature forbade, gave a sudden lurch and fell heavily, head in advance, and the others knew that he must be within the influence of the mephitic vapour.