The men lay on their oars.
“Have you a madman on board your ship?” inquired the gatekeeper of the hospital, whose wrath at the unceremonious treatment he had received had not yet cooled down.
“No,” answered Rokens, laying his arms on the bulwarks, and looking down at his questioner with a sly leer; “no, we ha’n’t, but you’ve got a madman aboord that boat.”
“Who’s that?” inquired the warder, who did not at first understand the sarcasm.
“Why, yourself, to be sure,” replied Rokens, “an’ the sooner you takes yourself off, an’ comes to an anchor in a loo-natick asylum, the better for all parties consarned.”
“No, but I’m in earnest, my man—”
“As far as that goes,” interrupted the imperturbable Rokens, “so am I.”
“The man,” continued the gatekeeper, “has run out of the hospital with a smashed head, I calc’late, stark starin’ mad, and gone off the end o’ the w’arf into the water—”
“You don’t mean it!” shouted Rokens, starting with affected surprise. “Now you are a fine fellow, ain’t you, to be talkin’ here an’ wastin’ time while a poor feller-mortal is bein’ drownded, or has gone and swummed off to sea—p’r’aps without chart, compass, or rudder! Hallo, lads! tumble up there! Man overboard! tumble up, tumble up!”
In less than three minutes half-a-dozen men sprang up the hatchway, hauled up the gig which swung astern, tumbled into it, and began to pull wildly about the harbour in search of the drowning man. The shouts and commotion roused the crews of the nearest vessels, and ere long quite a fleet of boats joined in the search.