Meanwhile, Joe remained silent and rigid, as if half insensible; and Gwyn’s brain was active, though his tongue was silent, battling as he was with the question what to do.
“Oh, if those gulls would only keep away!” he groaned to himself, for at least a dozen came softly swooping about them, and one so close that the boy felt the waft of the air set in motion by its wings.
Then the throbbing and fluttering at his heart grew less painful, and the power to speak returned.
With a strong endeavour to be calm and easy, he forced himself to treat the position jauntily.
“There you are, old chap,” he cried; “friend in need’s a friend indeed. I could hold you on like that for a month—five minutes,” he added to himself. Then aloud once more. “Feel better?”
There was no reply.
“Do you hear, stupid—feel better?”
A low sigh—almost a groan—was the only answer, and Gwyn’s teeth grated together.
“Here, you, Joe,” he said firmly. “I know you can hear what I say, so listen. You don’t want for us both to go down, I know, so you’ve got to throw off the horrible feeling that’s come over you, and do what I say. I’m going to hold you up like this for five minutes to get your wind, and then you’ve got to start and go up round by round. You can’t fall because I shall follow you, keeping like this, and holding you on till you’re better. You can hear all that, you know.”
Joe bent his head, and a peculiar quivering, catching sigh escaped his lips.