We noticed something strange about him at once.

The indecisiveness, or feebleness, of his movements was more pronounced.

His walk was actually tottery as he came down the port side of the cabin.

At the break of the poop he reeled, raised one hand to his eyes with the familiar brushing gesture, and fell down the steps--still on his feet--to the main deck, across which he staggered, falling and flinging out his arms for support.
He regained his balance by the steerage companion-way and stood there dizzily for a space, when he suddenly crumpled up and collapsed, his legs bending under him as he sank to the deck.
"One of his attacks," I whispered to Maud.
She nodded her head; and I could see sympathy warm in eyes.
We went up to him, but he seemed unconscious, breathing spasmodically.
She took charge of him, lifting his head to keep the blood out of it and despatching me to the cabin for a pillow.

I also brought blankets, and we made him comfortable.