He dragged himself to his
knees and hammered with his fist at an upturned face beside him.
Battered, bleeding, and winded, he got to his feet and shook off
the hands that reached for him. Dodging past, he lurched along the
wharf like a drunken man. The Italian had gathered himself to his
knees. When Jeff came opposite him he dived like a football tackle
and threw his arms around the moving legs. The newspaper man
crashed heavily down to unconsciousness.
When Farnum opened his eyes upon a world strangely hazy he found
himself lying in a row boat, his head bolstered by a man's knees.
"Drink this, mate," ordered a voice that seemed very far away.
The neck of a bottle was thrust between his lips and tilted so
that he could not escape drinking.
"That dope'll hold him for a while, Say, Johnny Dago, put your
back into them oars," he heard indistinctly.
Faintly there came to him the slap of the waves against the side
of the boat. These presently died rhythmically away.
It was daylight when he awakened again. His throbbing head slowly
definitized the vile hole in which he lay as the forecastle of a
ship. Gradually the facts sifted back to him. He recalled the
fight on the wharf and the drink in the boat.
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