These words all seemed to reach the ears of Roberts from somewhere far away, and then the water was thundering in them again, and he began once more to struggle for life. Then again he seemed to get his breath in a half-choking confused way, as he heard the gruff tones begin again.
“I’d better cut, sir, on’y my knife won’t open.”
“No, no, Tom; we can manage. Keep his head well up.”
“All right, sir. That was the beggar’s flurry. Dessay he’s turning up his white.”
“Hooray!” came like another echo, along with the splash of oars, and then half consciously Roberts felt himself dragged over the side of the boat. There was another cheer, and a strange sound as of a fish beating the planks rapidly with its tail, while Murray’s breathless voice, sounding a long way off, said—
“My word, he is a strong one! I am glad we’ve got him.”
Then several other voices seemed to be speaking together, but in a confused way, and Roberts felt as if he had been asleep, till some one whose voice sounded like the doctor’s said—
“Oh, he’s all right now, sir.”
“Who’s all right now?” thought the lad; and he opened his eyes, to find himself lying upon the deck with the doctor upon one knee by his side, and pretty well surrounded by the officers and men.
“Nice wet fellow you are, Roberts,” said the doctor.