She guided the boat as nearly
up to it as the mud allowed, and then, catching up her skirts, jumped
into the ooze and waded.
It was Mr. Fogo; but whether dead or alive she could not say.
Down on the mud she knelt, and, turning him gently over, looked
into his face. It was streaked with slime, and powdered with a
yellowish flake, as of sand. His locks were singed most pitifully.
She started up, took him by the shoulders, and tried to drag him up
to the firmer shingle.
Mr. Fogo opened his eyes and shut them again, feebly.
"Not dead! Oh! thank Heaven you are not dead."
With a sob she dropped again beside him, and brushed the flaked
powder from his eye-lashes.
He opened his eyes again.
"Would you mind speaking up? I--I think I am a little deaf."
"I thought you were dead," she cried, in a louder tone.
"No-o, I am not dead. Oh! no; decidedly I am not dead. It--it was
the Tea, I fancy."
He added this apologetically, much as some gentlemen are wont to
plead "the salmon."
Apparently believing the explanation sufficient, he shut his eyes
again, and seemed inclined to go to sleep.
"The Tea?" questioned Tamsin, chafing his hands.
"Or the Honey, perhaps--or the Putty," he answered drowsily.
Then, opening his eyes and sitting up with a start, "Upon my soul, I
don't know which.
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