Part 9

“We must proceed very slowly,” said the doctor, as he stood by, thermometer in hand; “I shall begin with a temperature of fifty and increase it very gradually--say, in half an hour or so--to blood heat. All the internal organs are, of course, frozen; the lungs, too, are doubtless full of ice, and the first thing to be done is to relieve them of the water. Not the least remarkable feature, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to us, “is that this body must have been frozen almost before--in my theory, certainly before--it was drowned. But how to account for this? That is the point. It is certainly beyond the range of our scientific experience, nor can we conceive of any natural or chemical force powerful enough to effect such a result. This man, too, is clad in the garb of a tropical, or sub-tropical, region. These are evidently his every-day clothes which he is wearing. He must have been both drowned and frozen almost simultaneously. The drowning and the freezing must have been nearly coincident events--at all events, within an hour or two of each other. I can not see into it. I give it up,” concluded the doctor, with a shake of the head.

“Still,” said Burnham, “have we not something of a parallel in the elephants which, some years ago, were found embedded in the ice to the north of Siberia, just as this man was? The elephant is a tropical animal, and can scarcely be credited with going to the North Pole on a pleasure trip. How do you account for that?”

“Perhaps,” suggested I, “it was a case of the mountain coming to Mahomet in both instances. Perhaps the pole came to them. Suppose that through some unknown natural cause, or some outside cosmical agency, the axis of the earth should change abruptly, as it is probable that it is now doing gradually, and that what were formerly the equatorial regions became the polar, and _vice versâ_, what would naturally follow? In the first place, the oceans and seas would be hurled over the continents in tidal waves miles high. Only mountaineers dwelling in the highest altitudes would escape. That would be the first result. The second would be that the waters upon what were formerly the tropical regions would be frozen. The third would be----what we see before us now in that bath.”

“Very ingenious, certainly,” remarked the doctor, dryly; “but we have got no time for speculation now. Let us attend to business. Our friend here should be pretty thoroughly warmed through by this time. Please lend a hand to get him on the operating-table.”

Accordingly, we removed the body from the bath to the mattress in the studio, the room having been meanwhile closed and its temperature raised to blood heat.

“We must first get the water out of the lungs,” said the doctor, as he reached for what looked something like a stomach-pump, but which, instead of the suction tube, terminated in a diaphragm made of some elastic substance, which he applied to the open mouth of the body, pressing it closely with his left hand, at the same time asking me to compress the nostrils tightly. The flesh was now warm, soft, and yielding. The doctor then drew back the piston of his pump and a stream of water followed through the discharge tube. This was repeated several times, till the lungs were pronounced free from water.

A consultation now followed between the doctor and Burnham.

“The blood in the veins and arteries,” said the doctor, “though it has undergone liquefaction, is probably, to a certain extent, coagulated. Though why,” he continued, musingly, “should such be the case? At any rate, let us see.”

He then took a lancet from his instrument-case and proceeded to make an incision in the median vein of the left arm, when, to his manifest joy, as I could see, a few drops of blood spurted out.

“Yes! it is as I thought,” he exclaimed, joyfully; “the blood has _not_ coagulated. It is a simple case of drowning, and, to all intents and purposes, our friend here is no better and no worse off than if he had been asphyxiated by water only a few hours ago. Mr. Burnham, I congratulate you,” taking that gentleman by the hand and shaking it with the utmost enthusiasm, “upon being instrumental in providing a subject for resuscitation--for resuscitate him I do not doubt that I shall, now that I have direct evidence that the blood has undergone no chemical change--a subject, compared with which a mere, ordinary case of drowning sinks into the most infinitesimal insignificance; for--who can tell?--perhaps this man has lain in this condition for hundreds, aye, for thousands of years; perhaps he belongs to a remote prehistoric age, for ice, the great embalmer, knows neither time nor seasons, and a thousand years are to it but as one hour. Whatever our friend here is, or has been, he will presently be one of us; he will open his mouth and unlock the secrets of the past. He will tell us how he came to be in his present plight. He will add another page to the world’s history.”

I felt myself catching all the doctor’s enthusiasm, and now hung upon everything that he did with breathless interest.

“The next step,” said the doctor, “is to stimulate the heart’s action and restore the circulation. To do this will require our united efforts. You, Mr. Burnham, will take charge of the battery and apply the electrodes; our friend here”--signifying myself--“will assist in inflating the lungs; I will attend to the circulation. Your battery is ready, is it not, Mr. Burnham?”

The battery, with its auxiliary apparatus for intensifying the current, was brought round and placed on a table close by. Dr. Dunne then made an incision in the breast so as to expose the breast-bone, or sternum, and another in the back, in the region of the third vertebra. To the former of these the negative pole of the battery was applied, and to the latter the positive electrode.

“Where is that phial, I wonder?” interjected the doctor, looking over his medicine-chest, and taking out bottle after bottle; “ah, here it is,” he said, at last, “here is the substance on which I rely to restore the action of the heart and give new life to our friend here. It has only lately been introduced into the pharmacopœia; but since its introduction it has done wonders in cardiac affections. It is distilled from a plant which grows only in East Africa. Its name is _strephanthus_, and its effect is to accelerate the action of the heart. It is now my purpose to inject a portion of this powerful stimulant into the median vein, which I have just opened, in our friend’s arm, whence it will be conveyed to the heart. Meanwhile, you, Mr. Burnham, and our friend here will induce artificial respiration in the lungs, so that the blood may be oxygenated after it has been expelled from the heart by the spasmodic valvular action which the _strephanthus_ will excite in that organ. Now, let us each attend closely to his allotted duty.”

My part consisted in inflating the lungs by means of a tiny bellows, the nozzle of which had been introduced into the larynx, till such time as the breathing should become automatic and the rise and fall of the lungs regular. At a given signal from the doctor, Burnham turned on the current, the electrodes having been previously placed in position, and, at the same instant, the chest expanded. I plied my bellows as the breast rose, and a second afterward it collapsed, the discharged air rushing back through the larynx with a whistling sound. Three seconds afterward the chest rose automatically again, and again I assisted its rise by inflating the lungs as before. This was kept up for some dozen or more respirations, occupying in all about two minutes.

Meantime, the doctor was intently engaged with a syringe and graduating glass at the left arm of the body. So absorbed was he in his occupation that he seemed oblivious to everything else. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, with an exclamation which startled us.

“We have won!” he shouted; “see! the blood is circulating.”

I looked down at the arm, and, sure enough, blood was spurting in a thin jet from the lower extremity of the vein which the doctor had severed. In my excitement I had withdrawn the bellows from the mouth, but there was no further use for artificial respiration, as the chest was now rising and falling automatically and in regular cadence. The doctor now tied up the severed vein, sewed up the incision in the arm, and, after dressing the patient--for such he must now be called--in a suit of Burnham’s underwear, we lifted him into the bureau-bed that had been prepared at the side of the studio next the fire.

“There is nothing more to be done,” said the doctor, simply; “he will wake by and by of his own accord, and will then need some nourishment. Soup and stimulants will be the proper thing to administer at first.”

Burnham went out and returned presently with a tray containing the desired refreshments. We now waited anxiously for the awakening, which must sooner or later come. The breathing, which had hitherto been labored and stertorous, was becoming easier, the color was returning to the cheeks, and the occasional twitching of the muscles showed that our strange patient was on the point of awaking. At length he turned on his side, opened his eyes, stared fixedly at us, and then uttered an exclamation in some foreign tongue. Burnham got up, wheeled a table to the side of the bed, set the tray of refreshments upon it, and motioned him to help himself, at the same time pouring out a glass of wine. Here Dr. Dunne interposed.

“No,” he said, smiling; “after a fast of so many thousand years I certainly must prescribe hot water as an initiative. It is absolutely necessary for the stomach to begin with.”

The hot water was brought, and our patient, evidently comprehending that he was under medical treatment, shifted his position in bed so as to recline upon his elbow, took the tumbler which was handed him, and, after eying it critically, raised it to his lips and tasted the contents. A shade of surprise and faint protest passed across his features as he elevated his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and swallowed the potion.

“Now let him attack the viands if he wants to,” said the doctor, as our guest’s eye roved somewhat greedily, I thought, over the table. Burnham pushed the tray a little nearer, no second invitation being necessary, and the bowl of soup that had been brought, together with a couple of glasses of old Madeira, speedily disappeared. This duty having been performed, our guest became voluble. He gesticulated and spoke, and, to judge by the inflexions of his voice and the character of his gestures, he was, I should say, appealing to us for an explanation of his presence there and of the strange objects which met his gaze. It need scarcely be said that we could not understand one word of what he was saying, though the voice was clear and mellow and the syllables of his words as distinct and sonorous as ancient Greek, though they bore no other resemblance to that language.

“Suppose we bring him pen and ink and see if he can write,” suggested Burnham, and the idea struck us as a peculiarly happy one.

Pen, ink, and paper were accordingly set upon the table. Our patient eyed the articles curiously for a moment or two, took up the pen, and examined the steel nib with an expression of critical approval, then took up a sheet of paper, examined its texture, and smiled, at the same time spreading it out before him. It was evident that he comprehended what was required of him, for he dipped the pen into the ink and wrote a few words upon the paper, guiding the pen, however, from right to left, according to Oriental usage. The characters partook more of the Chaldaic, or ancient Sanscrit, than any other type. As it was, none of us could make them out. Our guest watched our efforts at deciphering with an amused smile, but when one of our daily papers was handed him by Burnham, this quickly changed to an expression of rapt attention and intense interest. He did not, however, handle the sheet like a savage, but like one who knew the object of it, examining the words and letters with the closest attention, evidently to see whether he could gain any clew to their meaning. After a minute or two he gave up the task, and then, tapping his forehead with a tired expression, smiled at us, lay back on his pillow, and was soon fast asleep.

“He will be all right by evening,” remarked the doctor; “and then,” turning to Burnham, “what will you do with him? Introduce him to the Academy of Sciences, I suppose?”

“Not just yet,” returned Burnham; “I have no objection to some inkling of our wonderful prize getting out--our friend here,” alluding to me, “will, no doubt, attend to that--but I certainly shall not bring him before the public in any way, nor even introduce him to our scientific men, till I have educated him to some little knowledge of our language. There will, I think, be no difficulty about that. He is evidently a man of superior intelligence, and I shall go right to work in the same way as if he was any ordinary foreigner cast upon our shores with no knowledge of our language and I myself equally ignorant of his. It is merely giving names of objects, he learning my name for the object, I his. In that manner we shall speedily arrive at a solution of the all-absorbing question who this remarkable being is whom we have rescued from the jaws of death, and who, to all intents and purposes, has been dead for--who can tell?--how many ages past.”

The events I have here detailed occurred on the ninth of August last. Since that time, my friend Burnham has been enthusiastically engaged in carrying out the project which he mapped out on the day of the resuscitation of his remarkable patient and guest. His tailor was called in, and, when Mr. Kourban Balanok, as the stranger calls himself, left Burnham’s studio three days after, he did so as a nineteenth-century gentleman, and is now installed in Burnham’s house as one of the family. People may have noticed the young, handsome, and distinguished stranger to be seen occasionally walking arm-in-arm with Burnham on Kearny or Market Street, but none would guess that he had lain in the North Polar ice in the neighborhood of ten thousand years. Such is the case, however, and, as he is fast acquiring an intimate knowledge of the English language, we may confidently look forward to the appearance, in the near future, of a detailed account of the economy of the prehistoric world, and of the vast cataclysm which swamped it and left Mr. Kourban Balanok embedded in the ice.

LEAVES ON THE RIVER PASIG

By W. O. McGeehan

The Boulong _casco_ lay on the Quiapo Market, which is on the left bank of the Pasig, just below the suspension-bridge. The Chinese junk--tradition says--was modeled after a whimsical emperor’s shoe, consequently the _cascos_ of the Philippines, being really junks without sails, are not very dainty bits of naval architecture. As a rule, they are not accorded the dignity of a name; but this one was known as the “Boulong casco,” because it was owned and manned by members of one family. Santiago Boulong was steersman, his three sons were polemen, and Simplicia, the daughter, was _el capitan_--her father said, affectionately. Their permanent home was a little _nipa_-thatch shelter at the stern of the vessel.

The men had gone ashore shortly after the mooring--the father on business, the sons on pleasure bent--and Simplicia, much to her disgust, was left on board. She was a Tagalo girl, of the light-complexioned type, pretty even when judged by our standards, of which fact she was aware.

“The river, the river,” she said to herself, petulantly, “always the river. I was born on the river, and I have been going up and down the river all my life. When we come to Manila I may go ashore for a few hours only, and then the river again--and the lake. And Ramon is a fool!”

It was a clear, warm night, and the rippling water of the Pasig glistened in the moonlight, so that she could see the leaves rush by in clusters. Ramon had said: “Think of me when you see the leaves on the river--the bright green leaves from the dear lake country. It seems sad to think that they must float down past the city where the water is fouled, and then out--far out--to be lost on the big salt sea.” But Ramon was always saying queer things that she could not understand.

The murmur of drowsy voices came from the crowded huts of the market-place. Oh, how long till morning! She wanted to buy some bits of finery there, and then to stroll through the city, especially along the Escolta, where there were stores that exhibited splendors from all countries. She hoped that one of her brothers would hire a _carametta_ the next evening, and take her to the Lunetta, where the wealthy of Manila congregated to enjoy the cool night air and the concert. A band of Americanos played there every evening.

They were wonderful men, these Americano soldiers, much taller than Filipinos or Spaniards, and many of them had blue eyes and hair of the color of gold. The pride of kings was in their stride, and they looked as though they feared nothing.

Farther on down the river at the Alhambra Café, where the Spanish officers once gathered to hear the music of Spain, the orchestra played a new air that delighted her. There was a burst of cheering. The music was “Dixie,” and the demonstration was made by some Tennessee volunteers, who always gave something reminiscent of the old “rebel yell” whenever they heard it. From the Cuartel Infanteria, across the river, the American bugles began to shrill a “tattoo.” Their music was wonderful--everything pertaining to these big, bold men was wonderful, she thought.

Something bumped against a side of the _casco_, and Simplicia hurried over to order away a supposed ladrone. She leaned over the side with such abruptness that the wooden comb slipped from her heavy mass of black hair. It fell a dusky curtain, and brushed the upturned face of a man. He was not a little brown Filipino, but a tall Americano, fair and yellow-haired. He laughed a soft, pleasant laugh. She drew herself backward with a frightened cry, but his eyes held hers. The man was standing in a small canoe, steadying his craft by holding on to the _casco_.

“_Buenas noches_,” he said, smiling. He spoke Spanish, but not like a Spaniard or a Tagalo. Simplicia smiled, faintly. She knew that she should go into the _nipa_ cabin, but this handsome man looked so kind and--Ramon was a fool. And her father and brothers were selfish, and----

So Simplicia returned the salutation, and stood leaning over the bulwark tasting the delirious delight of her first flirtation. The man--he was a college boy until the United States Government gave him a suit of khaki and the right to bear the former designation--thrilled with joy at the delicious novelty of the situation. He was in a city that was at once the tropics and the Orient, and over which hung the glamour of departed mediæval days. For several hundred years guitars had tinkled on that river, and voices had been lifted to laticed windows. The air was laden with ghosts of everything but common sense and scruples.

A bugle across the river caused the man to recollect that he was under certain restraint. “I must go,” he said, but he did not release his hold on the _casco_.

Simplicia’s eyes were big and bright in the moonlight. He stretched out one arm and drew her face toward him. She tore herself away, and stood breathing hurriedly through parted lips.

“_Mañana por la noche_,” said the soldier. He plied the paddle vigorously, and the canoe glided away. But he looked back, longingly, for Simplicia’s lips were very soft and warm.

She stood gazing after him till the canoe vanished into the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria. The unseen bugle softly wailed “taps,” the call that bids the soldier rest. It is also sounded over graves.

* * * * *

The sun beat down fiercely on the Pasig. Canoes toiled up and skimmed down the river. Lumbering _cascos_, their crews naked to their waists, were poled painfully along. The Quiapo Market was astir with a babble of tongues, the barking of dogs, and the incessant challenge of hundreds of game-cocks. The little brown people bought, sold, and bargained with the full strength of their lungs.

Simplicia, as purser of the _casco_, was in the market purchasing provisions, but she spent most of her time near the stall of a Chinese vender of fabrics. After much haggling, she became the possessor of a dainty bodice of silk and piña cloth.

Most of the girls who visited the market-place seemed to be drawn to that spot, for there Simplicia met a friend who had left the lake country a little later than herself.

“Ramon will come down the river to-night,” said the friend, breathlessly, delighted to carry a message of that sort. “He has written something that he thinks they may print in _La Libertad_. Isn’t that wonderful? You must feel so proud of him. For a man to be able to write at all is wonderful--but for the papers!”

Apparently there were no words in the Tagalo dialect strong enough to express the girl’s admiration. Simplicia tossed her head, loosening the hair, a frequent happening. She caught the heavy tresses quickly, and almost forgot for an instant everything but the last time they had fallen.

“Are you not pleased?” asked the other girl, in astonishment. She was dark, and not pretty from any point of view.

“Oh, yes,” drawled Simplicia, “but Ramon is very tedious sometimes, and the lake country is very dreary. We will go into the city this afternoon and see the Americanos.”

They saw many Americanos--State volunteers clad in blue shirts and khaki trousers. The city was full of them. They occupied all the barracks formerly the quarters of the Spanish soldiers, and they crowded the drinking-resorts. Along the Calle Real they came upon companies drilling, and on the Lunetta they saw an entire regiment on dress-parade.

Simplicia, though she scanned every soldier’s face, did not see the stranger of the previous night, nor did she see a face that seemed nearly as handsome.

“They say,” mused the other girl, “that the men of Aguinaldo will drive these Americanos out of Manila if they do not go of their own accord soon.”

Simplicia laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the troops. The men were in battalion front, standing at “present,” and the sun glistened on a thousand bayonets.

“But there are only a few Americanos and there are many thousands of Filipinos,” said the girl.

“The Americanos will take what they want and nothing can stop them,” announced Simplicia, decisively. “Let us go to our _cascos_.”

* * * * *

The twilight gathered on the river. In the north the sky was lit by continuous flashes of lightning. Myriads of stars were overhead, and the Southern Cross was viceroy of the heavens, for the moon had not yet come into her kingdom. The water noisily gurgled by, and Simplicia waited. Which would come first, the tedious Filipino school-master lover or the stranger? Would the Americano come again?

She watched every canoe that passed, but they were all going up or down. The moon appeared and clearly revealed the river’s surface. Simplicia fixed her eyes on the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria. Something emerged from it and glided rapidly through the stream. It was a canoe, and it was being paddled with strong, sure strokes toward her. Her heart beat tumultuously, and she almost cried out in her delight.

He came, and, fastening his canoe, swung himself aboard the _casco_. Her arms were about his neck in an instant, and her beautiful tresses escaped the comb again.