“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?”