AFTER a long while, he did not know how long, but ages and ages, he was listening once more for the echo of that explosion, and thinking all the while: "Scanlon, Scanlon—I've got to get that traitor, Scanlon."
But he wasn't standing up any more. Why, he—he was sopping wet—he was in water, afloat in it like a log and the water was cold. Almighty, but it was cold! He was not alone in the water though. Somebody was alongside—tugging at him—trying to get him out of the water—trying to get him on to a log—no, into some kind of boat. He tried to grip the arm that held him, a strong and muscled arm, and failed; he tried to help himself and could not. He was hurt; the back of his head was beginning to pain him terribly.
"Who . . . who beaned me?" he groaned and a voice, a voice that should have been familiar and yet was not, hissed into his ear a stern command to silence. Danger was still near evidently. And it was still dark. His mind swam away in this darkness off and off until he thought it would never come back at all. When it did come back the sun was shining brightly. That is, it was shining brightly outside but he was somewhere inside.
His first waking sensation was one of heat—heat. Lord! it was hot. This was an agreeable contrast, however, for his last waking sensation had been one of cold
