“It’s no good,” muttered Macey, whose heart was full of remorse; and a terrible feeling of despair came over him. “It’s of no use, but I will try and try till I drop. Oh, if I could only bring him to, I’d never say an unkind word to him again!”
He threw himself into his task, working Distin’s thin arms up and down with all his might, listening intently the while for some faint suggestion of breathing, but all in vain; the arms he held were cold and dank, and the face upon which he looked down, seeing it in reverse, was horribly ghastly and grotesque.
“I don’t like him,” continued Macey, to himself, as he toiled away; “I never did like him, and I never shall, but I think I’d sooner it was me lying here than him. And me the cause of it all.”
“Poor old Distie!” he went on. “I suppose he couldn’t help his temper. It was his nature, and he came from a foreign country. How could I be such a fool? Nearly drowned us all.”
He bent over Distin at every pressure of the arms, close to the poor fellow’s side; and, as he hung over him, the great tears gathered in his eyes, and, in a choking voice, he muttered aloud:—
“I didn’t mean it, old chap. It was only to give you a ducking for being so disagreeable; indeed, indeed, I wish it had been me.”
“Oh, I say,” cried a voice at his ear; “don’t take on like that, old fellow. We’ll bring him round yet. Vane’s getting all right fast.”
“I can’t help it, Gil, old chap,” said Macey, in a husky whisper; “it is so horrible to see him like this.”
“But I tell you we shall bring him round. You’re tired, and out of heart. Let me take another turn.”
“No, I’m not tired yet,” said Macey, recovering himself, and speaking more steadily. “I’ll keep on. You feel his heart again.”