That was too much for him. He wanted to ask what it meant—why it was Peter Pegg who had been holding up his head, and not the Doctor—but he could not form the words for the deep, heavy sleepiness which came over him; and then all was darkness once more, mental and real.
Long enough after, Archie Maine found himself thinking again, and wondering where he was and why it was so dark; but he could make out nothing, till he gradually began to feel about him, slowly, cautiously, as if in dread of something about to happen, for the sensation was horrible of being nowhere and in danger of falling should he move. Then there was a sudden feeling of consciousness, for he touched a hot hand, and a familiar voice said:
“’Wake, sir? Like a drink?”
“Yes. That you, Pete?”
“Me it is, sir. Lie still, and I will give you a cocoa-nut-shellful of water, and—and— Oh my! Oh my! Oh Lor’! I can’t help it!”
And Archie lay thinking clearly enough now, and wondering why it was that the big fellow who had spoken crouched close by him quivering, and the hand that had grasped his roughly was shaking violently, as he lay there blubbering and sobbing with all his might.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Archie, in the midst of his wonder.
“Oh, it’s only me, sir,” cried the lad in a choking voice. “I couldn’t help it. It would ha’ been just the same if I’d been on parade. It would come. It’s been ready to bust out all this time. I thought you was going to die, sir—I thought you was going to die!”
“Die, Pete! No! What for?”
“Don’t you know, sir?”