“Haul it in, boys,” said the skipper impatiently; and two of the men clambered over the side and, stooping down, raised it from the water.
In the midst of a puddle, which he brought with him, Private Smith was laid on the deck, and, waving his arms about, fought wildly for his breath.
“Fetch one of them empties,” said the skipper quickly, as he pointed to some barrels ranged along the side.
The men rolled one over, and then aided the skipper in placing the long fair form of their visitor across it, and to trundle it lustily up and down the deck, his legs forming convenient handles for the energetic operators.
“He’s coming round,” said the mate, checking them; “he’s speaking. How do you feel, my poor fellow?”
He put his ear down, but the action was unnecessary. Private Smith felt bad, and, in the plainest English he could think of at the moment, said so distinctly.
“He’s swearing,” said the mate. “He ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“Yes,” said the skipper austerely; “and him so near death too. How did you get in the water?”
“Went for a—swim,” panted Smith surlily.
“Swim?” echoed the skipper. “Why, we’re ten miles from land!”