This figure framed in the sea was Boyd Madras. The boat was signalled, it
drew near, and two men dragged the body in, as a shark darted forward,
just too late, to seize it. The boat drew alongside the 'Fulvia'. I stood
at the gangway to receive this castaway. I felt his wrist and heart. As I
did so I chanced to glance up at the passengers, who were looking at this
painful scene from the upper deck. There, leaning over the railing, stood
Mrs. Falchion, her eyes fixed with a shocking wonder at the drooping,
weird figure. Her lips parted, but at first they made no sound. Then, she
suddenly drew herself up with a shudder. "Horrible! horrible!" she said,
and turned away.
I had Boyd Madras taken to an empty cabin next to mine, which I used for
operations, and there Hungerford and myself worked to resuscitate him. We
allowed no one to come near. I had not much hope of bringing life back,
but still we worked with a kind of desperation, for it seemed to
Hungerford and myself that somehow we were responsible to humanity for
him. His heart had been weak, but there had been no organic trouble: only
some functional disorder, which open-air life and freedom from anxiety
might have overcome.
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