Pulling out his pocket-knife (he had wanted an excuse to get out and open that knife), with the careful method in which he did everything, he passed the blade round the neck, and then, gently tapping it, was able to wrench out the cork with the thick rim, then he silently held the open bottle to Dennis.
Dennis looked at it with wolfish longing for a moment, yet had the strength left to refuse the offer by a shake of his head. Then the doctor, pouring some on his hand, laved his brow and throat and wrists with the fluid, and, half-turning aside, held the bottle to his blackened lips and feigned to drink, all the while letting the contents run down his beard.
He longed, as he knew Dennis was doing, to let it run down his throat, yet he had sufficient strength of will to resist this deadly desire, his object being to tempt his comrade past all human endurance, and his ruse was successful, for at last, with a howl, awful to listen to, Dennis snatched the half-emptied bottle from his mouth, and put it to his own lips, doing exactly what the doctor had not done, drinking furiously.
It gurgled down his baked throat like nectar, for it was old and mellowed stuff, and slaked for a moment the intolerable thirst, while it seemed to invigorate his system, and he had relinquished for the time his purpose, forgotten it, in fact, nor till the bottle was drained did he take it from his lips, and then with a cry more human, he flung the empty bottle at the two black fins.
An instant and the water was convulsed as the monster turned and made a lightning-like snap at the bottle, while both men laughed feebly as they heard the crash of breaking glass, then Dennis croaked huskily and drowsily,—
