"I seen a bloke at the bath-house that was in the water half an hour and they brought him round," said Turkey, panting at the oars.
"Keep the arm going, Toot. Never mind if you're tired."
"Are we near the beach?" asked Toot. He was the youngest of the trio, not much more than a child, in fact, and even the slum child, precocious in many kinds of knowledge, does not peep without tremors behind the veil of the mystery of mysteries. No one answered his query. An answer was not necessary, for over his shoulder the white line of the surf could be seen. When they got near the Whistler jumped to Turkey's side, seized the right oar and gave the added impetus of his lithe young arms to the headway of the boat. The water hardly rippled the glorious ribbon of moonlight behind them and wind and tide were set toward shore. Under these favoring circumstances the dory was carried high and dry upon the sands.
"Lift him out," cried the Whistler. Shagarach's body was laid upon the beach, dripping and disheveled. "You run up to the refectory, Toot, and tell the cop there to bring some whisky. Turn him over, Turkey, and let the water run out. Now slap his cheeks. Slap them hard."
"He's breathing."
"How did he tumble in, I wonder? Gee, didn't he come down flopping?"
"P'raps he was loaded."
"Lucky he didn't hit on them rocks there."
"He would if the tide was dead low."
Neither the Whistler nor Turkey had checked their vigorous efforts to resuscitate the limp body. Even the catching of their boat on a high-crested wave did not seduce them from their work.