The mite gave a little gasping cry like a child, and closing its eyes
sank into Stafford's arms with a shudder.
"Is it dead?" asked Maude Falconer, looking not at the dog but at
Stafford, for his face, which had been red with exertion a moment ago,
had become suddenly pale.
"I don't know--no!" he said, absently, all his thoughts centered on the
dog.
He wiped it as dry as he could with his blazer, then turning aside, he
opened his shirt and put the cold morsel in his bosom.
"Poor little beggar, he's like ice!" he said, in a low voice. "He would
never have got to the shore; he's so small. If I'd some brandy! We'll
get some at the ferry. Can you row?"
"No," she said. "Yes; I mean, I'll try."
He held out his hand.
"Mind how you cross. Take off your gloves first, or you'll blister your
hands."
She obeyed, her eyes downcast. They exchanged places and he showed her
how to hold the sculls.
"You'll do very well. You can row as slowly as you like. He's alive; I
can feel him move! Poor little chap! Sorry to trouble you, Miss
Falconer, but the only chance of saving him is to keep him warm.
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