"Get up," he said quietly.
Craig blinked up at him from out of puffed eyes. "Go to the devil! Fine specimen to order me about."
"Will you get up peacefully? These men have work to do."
Craig was blind to his danger. "What's that to me? Go away, all of you, to the devil, for all I care. I'll get up when I get damn good and ready. Not before."
Warrington picked up the hose.
"Sahib!" cried the Lascar in protest.
"Be still!" ordered Warrington. "Craig, for the last time, will you get up?"
"No!"
Warrington turned the key, and a deluge of cold salt-water struck Craig full in the chest. He tried to sit up, but was knocked flat. Then he rolled over on the deck, choking and sputtering. He crawled on his hands and knees until he reached the chair-rail, which he clutched desperately, drawing himself up. The pitiless stream never swerved. It smacked against the flat of his back like the impact of a hand.
"For God's sake stop it!" cried Craig, half strangled.