As the ammonia poured out, a rush of fresh air came in.
The detective drew it into his system with a joyful gratitude, such as he had seldom felt in all his adventurous life.
Only for a second did he stand there, however. Chick was lying on the floor, and though, in that position, he had not been affected so strongly by the poison as he would have been if standing up straight, it had rendered him entirely unconscious.
Taking up his assistant in his strong arms, Nick lifted him so that his head rested on the stone ledge, where he got the full benefit of the cool night air from the salty waters.
“This is all right so far as it goes!” muttered the detective. “But I don’t want to swim. I’d have to hold Chick up in the water, too. He is all in for the present.”
He stared out into the gloom, but nothing could he make out except the dim sky line of the rushes and the banks of heavy clouds which obscured the stars over in the east.
It was a desolate scene.
So far as he could discern, there were no boats in the neighborhood, and for a moment he heard no sound of voices.
Then he caught the sharp accents of Patsy, commanding Pet Carlin to keep still. This was followed by a growling oath that might have been the utterance either of Larry Dugan or Foxey Irwin.
“Patsy has all he can attend to,” decided Nick. “He’s waiting for me to come out. I’ll have to bring him around to this side. There is nothing else for it, although some of those blackguards are liable to jump him if he settles down to row.”