“Who’s that?” he said at last; and there was a start, and a voice—that voice he could not make out—cried:
“Hullo, Master Nic! glad to hear you speak zensible again.”
“Speak—sensible—why shouldn’t I?”
“I d’know, zir. But you have been going it a rum ’un. Feel better?”
“Feel—better. I don’t know. Who is it?”
“Me, sir.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Nic querulously; “but who is it?”
“Pete Burge, sir.”
“Pete—Burge,” said Nic thoughtfully, and he lay very still trying to think; but he could not manage it, for the water in the pool seemed to be bearing him along, and now he was gliding up, and then down again, while his companion kept on talk, talk, talk, in a low murmur, and all was blank once more.
Then a change came, and Nic lay thinking a little more clearly.