Not content with merely rubbing them down with the spirit, Jacques presently varied his external application of some brandy, a remedy with him for most complaints to which flesh is heir, by administering to each boy in turn a few drops internally of the spirit, forcing it dexterously between their lips as soon as respiration was restored and they began to breathe with some regularity; Bob, however, progressing much more rapidly than Dick, whose pulse obstinately remained feeble and barely perceptible, while the author of all the mischief was nearly all right.
Bob opened his eyes almost as soon as he tasted the brandy.
“Where am I?” he stammered out, gazing round the little fo’c’s’le of the lugger in wonder. “Where am I?”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Jim Craddock.
“Ah, le petit bon homme vit encore!” cried Antoine, hearing the voice and bending over from his seat on the after-thwart, being anxious as to the condition of the patients to whom Jacques was ministering. “Donnez lui encore d’eau de vie, mon ami!”
Jacques thereupon repeated the dose of brandy to Bob, who closed his eyes again and leant back, the spirit and the sound of the strange language, with the queer surroundings that had met his gaze on looking round the fo’c’s’le of the lugger, making him believe he was still in a dream.
“Where am I?” he presently repeated, rousing up again. “Where am I?”