“Oh no, not now, my lad. He has had a near shave, and been none the better for knocking about in this storm; but he’s young and healthy, and the fever is not quite so high this morning.—Hold the light nearer, Jeffs.—Hallo! Look at his eyes; he can hear what we say.—Coming round, then, my lad?”
“Yes,” said Nic feebly, “round and round. The falls will not come on my head any more, will they?”
Crash—rush! and Nic groaned, for down came the water again, and the young man nearly swooned in his agony, while a deathly sensation of giddiness attacked him.
“Head seems to be all right now,” said the third voice.
“Yes, healing nicely; but he ought to have been sent ashore to the hospital.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bit of practice.”
The roar and rush ceased, and the terrible sinking sensation passed off a little.
“Drink this, my lad,” said a voice, and Nic felt himself raised; something nasty was trickled between his lips, and he was lowered down again, and it was dark, while the burning pain, the giddiness, and the going round the pool and under the falls went on over and over in a dreamy, distant way once more. Then there was a long, drowsy space, and the sound of the falls grew subdued.
At last Nic lay puzzling his weary, confused head as to the meaning of a strange creaking, and a peculiar rising and falling, and why it was that he did not feel wet.
Just then from out of the darkness there was a low whistling sound, which he recognised as part of a tune he had often heard, and it was so pleasant to hear that he lay quite still listening till it ended, when he fell asleep, and seemed to wake again directly, with the melody of the old country ditty being repeated softly close at hand.