“Fool yourself! His time’s up.”
“What’ll you bet?”
“A shilling.”
“Done with you.”
Daintree and a boatman were working on and on and on with the white arms that had dried already in the wind and sun. Neither said a word; the next minute must settle it one way or the other.
“Ah!” exclaimed the last speaker.
“What was it?” faltered Claire.
“His eyelids trembled.”
“It was the death-shiver.”
“They’re trembling still!”
“They aren’t!”
“They are; hand over that shilling.”
“He is alive!” said Daintree, looking up. “Has nobody run for brandy?”
Nobody had.
And it was wanted now for two people.
Claire Harding had swooned away.
Daintree had his hands full with the pair of them, but in a little they were both conscious, and able to drive away with him in a hired chaise. They drove to the hotel, forgetting the risk. On the way Tom stretched forth a feeble hand.
“How many more times are you going to save my life?” he asked.
“You saved mine too,” said Claire sadly.
“It is the happiest day of my own,” replied Daintree, without noticing her tone.—“Non cuivis homini—what other bridegroom would have had such luck?”
“Or pluck!” cried Tom.
