And so's that," he said, as he scooped out the last few drops of water with the tin pannikin, and finished off by sopping the remaining moisture with a piece of coarse flannel stuff which he wrung out over the side.
Bob and I did not speak, but tugged at our oars, as absurd-looking a crew as was ever seen upon the Devon coast, while we kept looking pityingly at poor Bigley.
Poor fellow! He had placed his arms one on either side, resting upon the gunwale, and appeared to be hard set to keep his head up from his chest.

Then he had one or two violent fits of coughing, and ended by sitting back in the bottom of the boat with a weary sigh and closing his eyes.
"Look, sir, look!" I cried in agony, for I thought Bigley must be dying.
"Well, I am looking at him, boy.

He's coming round.

I can't do anything for him here, can I?
Pull hard, you young swabs, both of you, and let's get aboard.

I don't know what folks want to have boys for." We rowed hard, bending well to our oars, and after a few minutes I ventured to speak again, for Bigley looked terribly ill.
"Do you think he's getting better, sir ?" I said.
"Better, boy?
Yes," he said, not unkindly, for I suppose my anxiety about his son moved him.