At the touch of the match, the gas burst into light and burned with a
steady flame. Ardan immediately bent anxiously over the prostrate bodies
of his friends. They lay on each other like inert masses, M'Nicholl
stretched across Barbican.
Ardan first lifted up the Captain, laid him on the sofa, opened his
clenched hands, rubbed them, and slapped the palms vigorously. Then he
went all over the body carefully, kneading it, rubbing it, and gently
patting it. In such intelligent efforts to restore suspended
circulation, he seemed perfectly at home, and after a few minutes his
patience was rewarded by seeing the Captain's pallid face gradually
recover its natural color, and by feeling his heart gradually beat with
a firm pulsation.
At last M'Nicholl opened his eyes, stared at Ardan for an instant,
pressed his hand, looked around searchingly and anxiously, and at last
whispered in a faint voice:
"How's Barbican?"
"Barbican is all right, Captain," answered Ardan quietly, but still
speaking French. "I'll attend to him in a jiffy. He had to wait for his
turn. I began with you because you were the top man. We'll see in a
minute what we can do for dear old Barby (_ce cher Barbican_)!"
In less than thirty seconds more, the Captain not only was able to sit
up himself, but he even insisted on helping Ardan to lift Barbican,
and deposit him gently on the sofa.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37