Everything was against them. They had no hot flannels or water-bottles to apply to the subject’s feet, no blankets in which to wrap him, nothing but sunshine, as Macey began. After doubling up a couple of wet jackets into a cushion and putting them under Distin’s back, he placed himself kneeling behind the poor fellow’s head, seized his arms, pressed them hard against his sides, and then drew them out to their full stretch, so as to try and produce respiration by alternately compressing and expanding the chest.
He kept on till he grew so tired that his motions grew slow; and then he gave place to Gilmore, who carried on the process eagerly, while Macey went to see how Vane progressed, finding him able to speak now in a whisper.
“How is Distin?” he whispered.
“Bad,” said Macey, laconically.
“Not dead!” cried Vane, frantically.
“Not yet,” was the reply; “but I wouldn’t give much for the poor fellow’s chance. Oh, Vane, old chap, do come round, and help. You are so clever, and know such lots of things. I shall never be happy again if he dies.”
For answer to this appeal Vane sat up, but turned so giddy that he lay back again.
“I’ll come and try as soon as I can,” he said, feebly. “All the strength has gone out of me.”
“Let me help you,” cried Macey; and he drew Vane into a sitting position, but had to leave him and relieve Gilmore, whose arms were failing fast.
Macey took his place, and began with renewed vigour at what seemed to be a perfectly hopeless task, while Gilmore went to Vane.