craft sidewise against the scow, and, stupefied, Scraggy found herself
gazing into the face of another woman who was peering from the launch's
window. It was a small, beautiful face shrouded with golden hair, the
large blue eyes widened with terror. For a brief instant the two women
eyed each other. Just then the drunken man above rose and called
Scraggy's name with an oath. She heard him stumbling about, trying to
find the stairs, muttering invectives against herself and her child.

Scraggy looked down upon the little boy's face, twisted with pain. She
placed her fingers under his chin, closed the tiny jaws, and wrapped the
shawl about the dark head. Without a moment's indecision, she thrust him
through the window-space and said:

"Be ye a good woman, lady, a good woman?"

The owner of the golden head drew back as if afraid.

"Ye wouldn't hurt a little 'un--a sick brat? He--he's been hooked. And
it's his birthday. Take him, 'cause he'll die if ye don't!"

Moved to a sense of pity, the light-haired woman extended two slender
white hands to receive the human bundle, struggling in pain under the
muffling shawl.

"He's a dyin'!" gasped Scraggy. "His pappy's a hatin' him! Give him warm
milk--"

Again the yacht's whistle shrieked hoarsely, drowning her last words. As
the stern of the little boat swung round, Scraggy read, stamped in black
letters upon it: