lungs expanded. But stark and staring-eyed he lay; and it seemed to Floyd almost gruesome that this lifeless body should be put through such exercise and caused to assume such mockery of life. And then, gazing at the handsome face and slim, straight form, he felt a thickening in his throat and turned away. Some one was rolling a barrel along the sand toward the crowd.
Floyd had seen enough; chilled and shivering, he ran to his bath-house, a hundred yards up the beach, rubbed himself down, and dressed. When he had put on his shoes, he sat down on the narrow bench of the bath-house. "Why could n't I have got him sooner!" he murmured; "why could n't I!" He added, after a moment, "And to think of his mother—and that girl—how that girl must feel!"
There came a knock on his door. "You there, Halket?"
He recognized the voice as Folsom's, and let the boy in. "Have they given up yet?" he asked.
"No, but pretty nearly," Folsom answered. He leaned against the wall. "You have n't got a comb, have you?" And then, without waiting for a reply, he said, "Is n't it awful! Halket, he was the best fellow I knew."
"Yes," said Floyd. "I liked him."
They went out upon the beach in silence, and stood for a moment looking toward the ominous circle of men. Suddenly it broke, a hat was flung into the air, and there was a cheer. The two boys ran breathlessly forward. A man, hurrying away, rushed up to them with his face all aglow; he seized Floyd's hand.
"He's alive!" he cried. "You've done the most splendid thing!"
Floyd, with his heart pounding, hurried on. As he approached, men rushed to meet him, crowded around him, grasping his hand, congratulating him, with emotion in their voices; he pressed on through them and looked for Stewart, but saw only the shining face of the young doctor, bending over a roll of blankets.
