“You said that you would trust in me.”
“Yes—I did—and I will try—so hard. There, I am trying—you see how I am trying. Stand by me, Jack, and help me. Tell me what to do—do you hear! Tell me what to do!”
“I will,” cried Scales. “Give me your hand. Stand up—like a man. Now, grasp it firmly. Firmly, man; a good grip.—That’s better. Now, listen! What are you to do?”
“Yes: tell me quickly. My own strength is gone.”
“I’ll tell you, then,” said the doctor. “Give yourself up to me as if you were a man who could not swim.”
“Don’t talk about the water, Jack. For God’s sake, don’t!”
“I will talk about the water, and you shall listen. Now, then, you must act as if you were helpless and I a strong swimmer. You must trust to me. Recollect, if you struggle and fight against me, you must drown—morally drown: the black waters will close over your spirit, and nothing that I can do will save you. Now, then, drowning man, is it to be trust in the swimmer?—That’s right!” he cried, as Scarlett placed his hands upon his arm—“that’s well. I won’t leave you, James Scarlett, till you are sound and strong as I am now!”
The stricken man made an effort to speak, but the words would not come. He could only gaze wistfully in his friend’s face, his wild eyes looking his gratitude, while they seemed to promise the fidelity of a dog.
“That’s right, old fellow. Now, we pretty well understand each other, only I’ve got to preach at you a little. First of all, I must have full confidence, you know. You must come to me with every symptom and sensation.”
“I will tell you everything,” said Scarlett humbly.