red-hot, each burning breath cut me like a knife.

I could not count how many times this happened, but I prayed loudly
for the man to die (he had been confirmed, so he had a legal right to
pray) and after a long time I began to have hopes that he would, for
he discovered a way of drawing his face down under the boiling water
and ceasing to breathe. Whenever he did this, a cold, smarting rain
drove through the water on his face and forced him to breathe, but he
managed to sink deeper and deeper, till at last he felt the throb of
the great world on its axle going round, and saw the stars below him,
and knew he was nearly free.

"More oxygen!" said a tiny, dry voice far off in infinite space, "more
oxygen!"

I grew light and rose to the surface; the stars went out.

"More oxygen!" said the voice again, louder now and close to me. I
fought to sink back again but it was useless; I burst up to the
surface and breathed the sweet, icy air against my will.

"Now the mustard again, over the heart," said the voice, "and try the
brandy."

Something ran like fire through my veins, I opened my eyes, stared
into a black, bearded face and said distinctly:

"You nearly lost that man. He heard the thing going round."

Then I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I was very weak and tired when I woke, but quite composed. That
feeling of gentleness and conscious pathos that floods the weak and
empty and lately racked body was mine, and I looked pensively at the
white, blue-veined hand that lay so lax on the counterpane. What a
siege it had been for the poor devil that owned that hand! For I
realised that I had been very, very ill indeed.

As I studied the hand it was lifted gently from the counterpane by
another and clasped lightly but firmly at the wrist. The arm above
this hand was clad in striped blue and white gingham; a full white
apron fell just at the limit of my sidewise vision. I was far too
weak to raise my eyes, but it occurred to me that this must be my
landlady, for I recognised the footboard of my bed. And yet it was not
at all like my room. The arm-chair was gone, the books were gone, the
student lamp was gone, although it was my sitting-room. Then why was
the bed there? I frowned impatiently and then the white apron lowered
itself, a white collar appeared, and above it a face which was
perfectly familiar to me, though I could not attach any name to it.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Jerrolds? a drink, perhaps?"