“Come, howd up, brave lad,” said a rough voice.
“Here, drink a tot o’ this, Master Lisle, sir,” said another, and a pannikin was held to his lips.
“Seems to me he wants the doctor, too,” said another.
“Nay, he’ll be all right directly. That’s it, my lad. That’s the real stuff to put life into you. Now you can walk home, can’t you? A good rub and a run, and you’ll be all right. I’ve been drownded seven times, I have, and a drop of that allus brought me to.”
“That’s very strong,” gasped Chris, as he coughed a little.
“Ay, ’tis,” said the rough seaman, who had administered the dose. “It’s stuff as the ’cise forgot to put the dooty on.”
“I can stand now,” said Chris, as the sense of confusion and giddiness passed off; and when he rose to his feet, the first thing he caught sight of was Glyddyr’s gig, by where the yacht was moored.
“Who saved me?”
“That gent in Captain Glyddyr’s boat, my son. Got a howd on you with the boat-hook, and, my word, he’s given you a fine scrape. Torn the flannel, too.”
“Thank you, thank you. I can manage now.”