Steadying
himself on Ricardo's shoulder, he drew a long breath, raised his
dripping head, and produced a smile of ghastly amiability, which was
lost upon the thoughtful Heyst. Behind his back the sun, touching the
water, was like a disc of iron cooled to a dull red glow, ready to start
rolling round the circular steel plate of the sea, which, under the
darkening sky, looked more solid than the high ridge of Samburan; more
solid than the point, whose long outlined slope melted into its own
unfathomable shadow blurring the dim sheen on the bay. The forceful
stream from the pipe broke like shattered glass on the boat's gunwale.
Its loud, fitful, and persistent splashing revealed the depths of the
world's silence.
"Great notion, to lead the water out here," pronounced Ricardo
appreciatively.
Water was life. He felt now as if he could run a mile, scale a ten-foot
wall, sing a song. Only a few minutes ago he was next door to a corpse,
done up, unable to stand, to lift a hand; unable to groan. A drop of
water had done that miracle.
"Didn't you feel life itself running and soaking into you, sir?" he
asked his principal, with deferential but forced vivacity.
Without a word, Mr. Jones stepped off the thwart and sat down in the
stern-sheets.
"Isn't that man of yours bleeding to death in the bows under there?"
inquired Heyst.
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