a bandage was
removed, cool water laved the part which ached and burned, and a fresh
bandage was fastened on.

"Won't die, will he, sir?" said the voice Nic knew but could not quite
make out.

"Oh no, not now, my lad. He has had a near shave, and been none the
better for knocking about in this storm; but he's young and healthy, and
the fever is not quite so high this morning.--Hold the light nearer,
Jeffs.--Hallo! Look at his eyes; he can hear what we say.--Coming
round, then, my lad?"

"Yes," said Nic feebly, "round and round. The falls will not come on my
head any more, will they?"

_Crash_--_rush_! and Nic groaned, for down came the water again, and the
young man nearly swooned in his agony, while a deathly sensation of
giddiness attacked him.

"Head seems to be all right now," said the third voice.

"Yes, healing nicely; but he ought to have been sent ashore to the
hospital."

"Oh, I don't know. Bit of practice."

The roar and rush ceased, and the terrible sinking sensation passed off
a little.

"Drink this, my lad," said a voice, and Nic felt himself raised;
something nasty was trickled between his lips, and he was lowered down
again, and it was dark, while the burning pain, the giddiness, and the
going round the pool and under the falls went on over and over in a
dreamy, distant way once more. Then there was a long, drowsy space, and
the sound of the falls grew subdued.

At last Nic lay puzzling his weary, confused head as to the meaning of a
strange creaking, and a peculiar rising and falling, and why it was that
he did not feel wet.

Just then from out of the darkness there was a low whistling sound,
which he recognised as part of a tune he had often heard, and it was so
pleasant to hear that he lay quite still listening till it ended, when
he fell asleep, and seemed to wake again directly, with the melody of
the old country ditty being repeated softly close at hand.

"Who's that?" he said at last; and there was a start, and a voice--that
voice he could not make out--cried:

"Hullo, Master Nic! glad to hear you speak zensible again."

"Speak--sensible--why shouldn't I?"

"I d'know, zir. But you have been going it a rum 'un. Feel better?"

"Feel--better. I don't know. Who is it?"

"Me, sir."

"Yes, yes," cried Nic querulously; "but who is it?"

"Pete Burge, sir."

"Pete--Burge," said Nic thoughtfully, and he lay very still trying to
think; but he could not manage it, for the