“I spilt—a lot,” said Rogers. “More down there.”
The power to act came back to Syd with his senses, and he loosened the handkerchief the boatswain wore from about his neck, plunged it into the bucket, and drew it out full of water to hold over Strake’s mouth, and let the water drip down as the poor fellow kept on making spasmodic, choking efforts to swallow.
There was an intense desire on Syd’s part to drink again, but he could think now, and he pointed up the gap toward the hut, where he knew that his brother officers and the boy lay dying.
“Can you carry this up—to them?” whispered Rogers. “I’ll go down and get the rest. There’s quarter of a bucketful below here.”
Syd nodded.
“I’ll try and get it up. Give him some more, and take the rest to my mates.”
Syd looked his assent and tried to get up, but fell down. His second effort was more successful, and he took the bucket, which contained nearly a quart of water, and reeled and staggered up the gap, past the men who lay apparently dead to his right, and then on with his strength returning, and with an intense desire to kneel down and drink the precious fluid to the last drop.
It was a hard fight, but he conquered, and staggered on to where the opening into the hut gaped before him, ruddy in the last rays of the setting sun.
Were the inmates dead, and was he bringing that which would have saved them, too late?
He tottered in and he shuddered as he gazed at their wildly distorted faces. Dallas lay gazing up, and Roylance was on the left, perfectly motionless, but Pan was lying on his back, rolling his head slowly from side to side.