Heyst noticed a cork helmet floating alongside the boat, evidently fallen from the head of the man doubled over the tiller, who displayed a dark, bony poll. An oar, too, had been knocked overboard, probably by the sprawling man, who was still struggling, between the thwarts. By this time Heyst regarded the visitation no longer with surprise, but with the sustained attention demanded by a difficult problem. With one foot poised on the string-piece, and leaning on his raised knee, he was taking in everything. The sprawling man rolled off the thwart, collapsed, and, most unexpectedly, got on his feet. He swayed dizzily, spreading his arms out and uttered faintly a hoarse, dreamy “Hallo!” His upturned face was swollen, red, peeling all over the nose and cheeks. His stare was irrational. Heyst perceived stains of dried blood all over the front of his dirty white coat, and also on one sleeve.
“What's the matter? Are you wounded?”
The other glanced down, reeled—one of his feet was inside a large pith hat—and, recovering himself, let out a dismal, grating sound in the manner of a grim laugh.
“Blood—not mine. Thirst's the matter. Exhausted's the matter. Done up. Drink, man! Give us water!”
Thirst was in the very tone of his words, alternating a broken croak and a faint, throaty rustle which just reached Heyst's ears. The man in the boat raised his hands to be helped up on the jetty, whispering:
“I tried. I am too weak. I tumbled down.”
Wang was coming along the jetty slowly, with intent, straining eyes.
“Run back and bring a crowbar here. There's one lying by the coal-heap,” Heyst shouted to him.
The man standing in the boat sat down on the thwart behind him. A horrible coughing laugh came through his swollen lips.
“Crowbar? What's that for?” he mumbled, and his head dropped on his chest mournfully.